The HyperTexts
Paul Verlaine: Modern English Translations by Michael R. Burch
Paul-Marie Verlaine (1844-1896) was a French poet and a prominent figure in
the Symbolist and Decadent poetry movements, along with Charles Baudelaire and
Stéphane Mallarmé. Verlaine has been called "one of the most purely lyrical of
French poets." At age 14 the precocious Verlaine sent his first extant poem "La
Mort" to Victor Hugo. Verlaine married 16-year-old Mathilde Mauté de
Fleurville in 1870. The following year he began a famous/infamous love affair with the boy poet
Arthur Rimbaud. Their passionate affair, the subject of various
sensational books
and films, ended in 1873 when a drunken Verlaine shot Rimbaud, injuring his
wrist, and spent eighteen months in prison. In
1894 Verlaine's peers elected him France's "Prince of Poets."
Please note that I call my translations "loose translations" and
"interpretations" because they are not literal word-for-word
translations. I begin with my
personal interpretation of a poem and translate accordingly. To critics who
object to variations from the original texts, my response is that there are
often substantial disagreements among even the most accomplished translators.
Variations begin with the readings because different
people get different things from different poems. And a strict word-for-word
translation will seldom, if ever, result in poetry. In my opinion translation is
much closer to an art than a perfect science and I side with Rabindranath
Tagore, who said he needed some leeway in order to produce poetry in another
language when he translated his own poems into English.—MRB
Il pleure dans mon coeur (“It rains in my heart”)
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It rains in my heart
As it rains on the town;
Heavy languor and dark
Drenches my heart.
Oh, the sweet-sounding rain
Cleansing pavements and roofs!
For my listless heart's pain
The pure song of the rain!
Still it rains without reason
In my overcast heart.
Can it be there's no treason?
That this grief's without reason?
As my heart floods with pain,
Lacking hatred, or love,
I've no way to explain
Such bewildering pain!
Published by Better Than Starbucks
Original French text:
Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville.
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénêtre mon coeur ?
O bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un coeur qui s’ennuie,
O le chant de la pluie !
Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s’écoeure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison ?
Ce deuil est sans raison.
C’est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi,
Sans amour et sans haine,
Mon coeur a tant de peine.
Spleen
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The roses were so very red;
The ivy, impossibly black.
Dear, with a mere a turn of your head,
My despair’s flooded back!
The sky was too gentle, too blue;
The sea, far too windswept and green.
Yet I always imagined—or knew—
I’d again feel your spleen.
Now I'm tired of the glossy waxed holly,
Of the shimmering boxwood too,
Of the meadowland’s endless folly,
When all things, alas, lead to you!
Original French text:
Les roses étaient toutes rouges
Et les lierres étaient tout noirs.
Chère, pour peu que tu te bouges,
Renaissent tous mes désespoirs.
Le ciel était trop bleu, trop tendre,
La mer trop verte et l’air trop doux.
Je crains toujours,—ce qu’est d’attendre!—
Quelque fuite atroce de vous.
Du houx à la feuille vernie
Et du luisant buis je suis las,
Et de la campagne infinie
Et de tout, fors de vous, hélas!
Arthur Rimbaud translations by Michael R. Burch
Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud was a precocious talent who began writing
French and Latin poetry as a boy, and was a published poet by age fifteen.
Rimbaud became both famous and notorious for his transgressive, sometimes
iniquitous, themes; for his gypsy-like restlessness and seeming insistence on
being a vagabond; and for his volatile relationship with another talented French
poet, Paul Verlaine, which ended with Verlaine shooting Rimbaud in the wrist
during a drunken rage and spending time in prison. Rimbaud was also notable for
his pioneering symbolism and surrealism; for his influence on modern poetry and
literature; and for giving it all up at age 21 to become a soldier, a deserter,
a gunrunner and, according to some accounts, a slave trader!
Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ...
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ...
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.
Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The impassive river carried me downstream
as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats,
then nailed them, naked, to their former posts,
while I observed all idly, in a dream.
What did I care about the slaughtered crew,
the Flemish barley or the English freight?
The river had taught me how to navigate,
but otherwise? It seemed so much “ado.”
Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good!
Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble!
Oh, rack of splendid enchantments!
Huzzah for the virginal!
Huzzah for the immaculate work!
For the marvelous body!
It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end.
This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the last trumpet’s silenced,
when we return to our former discord.
May we, so deserving of these agonies,
may we now recreate ourselves
after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise—
that promise, that madness!
Elegance, senescence, violence!
They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows—the tree of good and evil—
to deport despotic respectability
so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love.
It began with hellish disgust but ended
—because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately—
in a panicked riot of perfumes.
Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins,
loathsome temporal faces and objects—
all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil!
Although it began with loutish boorishness,
behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame.
My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed!
My little lost eve of drunkenness!
Praise for the mask you provided us!
Method, we affirm you!
Let us never forget that yesterday
you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages.
We have faith in your poison.
We give you our lives completely, every day.
Behold, the assassin's hour!
L'Eternité (“ Eternity”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.
Implacable Sentinel,
murmuring the soul’s confessions
of night’s barrenness
and days ablaze.
Inhuman votary!
Free of human impulses
and penitence,
you flee accordingly.
Since the beginning of time
you have stood alone,
amid shimmering embers,
exuding voicelessly:
“There is no hope,
no logical orientation,
no future revelation of patient science,
only the inhuman torture.”
Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.
L'Eternité
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Eternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
Ame sentinelle,
Murmurons l'aveu
De la nuit si nulle
Et du jour en feu.
Des humains suffrages,
Des communs élans
Là tu te dégages
Et voles selon.
Puisque de vous seules,
Braises de satin,
Le Devoir s'exhale
Sans qu'on dise : enfin.
Là pas d'espérance,
Nul orietur.
Science avec patience,
Le supplice est sûr.
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Eternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
Les Illuminations II: Enfance (“Childhood”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
II.
The little girl lies dead, behind the rosebushes. – The young mother,
deceased, descends the steps. – The cousin’s carriage squeaks through sand. –
The little brother (he’s in India!) lies facing the sunset in a meadow of
carnations. – The old ones are buried upright in ramparts overgrown with
wallflowers.
Swarms of golden leaves surround the General’s house. They’re in the south. –
Follow the red road to arrive at the empty inn. The chateau’s for sale; its
shutters flap. – The priest’s taken the key to the church. – The keepers’
cottages are tenantless, the fences so high only rustling treetops are visible.
Oh well, there’s nothing much to be seen, besides.
The meadows rise to hamlets without roosters, without anvils. The sluice gate
is raised, the waters rise. O the wilderness’s crosses and windmills, its
islands and millstones!
Magic flowers buzzed. Embankments cradled him. Creatures of fabulous elegance
encircled him. Clouds accumulating over open seas unleashed an eternity of warm
tears.
IV.
I am the saint praying on the portico, watching docile beasts graze down to
Palestine’s sea.
I am the scholar in the dark armchair as whipping branches and rain hurl
themselves at the library’s shutters.
I am the pedestrian on the path through stunted woods; the tinkle of clicking
locks anticipates my steps. For a long time I pause to ponder the sunset’s melancholy
golden demise.
I am the child abandoned on the jetty jutting out toward the high seas, the
small valet whose forehead brushes the sky as he navigates an alley.
The trails are rough, their mounds haired with broom. The air is so still,
so silent!
How distant, the birds and the rills! The end of the world must lie ahead.
Illuminations VIII: Départ (“Departure”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’ve seen enough: the same vision encountered under all skies.
I’ve had enough: the rumors of cities, by night and by day, the same light,
always.
I’ve known enough: life’s tedious decrees, its rumors and visions!
It’s time for departure into new affections, new noises!
Sensation
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On blue summer evenings, I’ll stroll the paths,
Pricked by the wheat, tickled by the grass;
Dreamily, I’ll feel the freshness at my feet,
Breathe the wind, then sigh, complete.
I will not speak, nor think, nor muse at all,
Yet boundless love will surge within my soul.
And I will wander far away, like a gypsy,
As happy with Nature as any woman’s company.
Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :
Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraicheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.
Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,
Et j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, — heureux comme avec une femme.
Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Graceful son of Pan! Around your brow, crowned with flowers and berries, your
eyes, lustrous spheres, revolve. Your cheeks, stained with wine sediments, seem
hollow. Your white fangs gleam. Your lyre-like chest! Chords pour from your
blonde arms! Strong heartbeats resound in the abdomen where the double sex
sleeps! You stalk the night, gently moving first this thigh, then the other,
then the left leg.
Grazioso figlio di Pan! Intorno alla tua fronte coronata di fiori e bacche i
tuoi occhi, sfere preziose, si agitano. Macchiate di fecce brune, le tue guance
si approfondiscono. Le tue zanne stanno brillando. Il tuo petto sembra una
cetra, con tintinnii che risuonano tra le tue braccia bionde. Il tuo cuore batte
in quel ventre dove dorme il doppio sesso. Cammina di notte, muovendo
delicatamente questa coscia, questa seconda coscia e questa gamba sinistra.
Song of the Highest Tower
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.
I’ve endured so long
That I’d even forgotten
The pain and the terror.
I’ve visited heaven,
And yet a morbid thirst
Still darkens my veins.
Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.
Thus the neglected meadow
Given over to oblivion
Flowered, overgrown
With weeds and incense
As hordes of filthy flies
Buzzed nearby.
Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.
Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come winter, we’ll leave in a little pink carriage
With blue cushions. We’ll be comfortable,
snuggled in our nest of crazy kisses.
You’ll close your eyes, preferring not to see, through the darkening glass,
The evening’s shadows leering.
Those snarling monstrosities, that pandemonium
of black demons and black wolves.
Then you’ll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazed spider, will tickle your neck...
And you’ll say to me: "Get it!" as you tilt your head back,
and we’ll take a long time to find the crafty creature,
the way it gets around...
Rêvé Pour l'hiver
L'hiver, nous irons dans un petit wagon rose
Avec des coussins bleus.
Nous serons bien. Un nid de baisers fous repose
Dans chaque coin moelleux.
Tu fermeras l'oeil, pour ne point voir, par la glace,
Grimacer les ombres des soirs,
Ces monstruosités hargneuses, populace
De démons noirs et de loups noirs.
Puis tu te sentiras la joue égratignée…
Un petit baiser, comme une folle araignée,
Te courra par le cou...
Et tu me diras : "Cherche !", en inclinant la tête,
- Et nous prendrons du temps à trouver cette bête
- Qui voyage beaucoup...
Dawn
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I embraced the august dawn.
Nothing stirred the palaces. The water lay dead still. Battalions of shadows
still shrouded the forest paths.
I walked briskly, dreaming the gemlike stones watched as wings soared
soundlessly.
My first adventure, on a path now faintly aglow with glitterings, was a
flower who whispered her name.
I laughed at the silver waterfall teasing me nakedly through pines; then on
her summit, I recognized the goddess.
One by one, I lifted her veils, in that tree-lined lane, waving my arms
across the plain, as I notified the cock.
Back to the city, she fled among the roofs and the steeples; scrambling like
a beggar down the marble quays, I chased her.
Above the road near a laurel thicket, I caught her in gathered veils and felt
her immense body. Dawn and the child collapsed together at the edge of the wood.
When I awoke, it was noon.
The following are links to other translations by Michael R. Burch:
Charles Baudelaire
Paul Verlaine
Arthur Rimbaud
The Seafarer
Wulf and Eadwacer
The Love Song of Shu-Sin: The Earth's Oldest Love Poem?
Sweet Rose of Virtue
How Long the Night
Caedmon's Hymn
Anglo-Saxon Riddles and Kennings
Bede's Death Song
The Wife's Lament
Deor's Lament
Lament for the Makaris
Tegner's Drapa
Whoso List to Hunt
Ancient Greek Epigrams and Epitaphs
Meleager
Sappho
Basho
Oriental Masters/Haiku
Miklós Radnóti
Rainer Maria Rilke
Marina Tsvetaeva
Renée Vivien
Ono no Komachi
Allama Iqbal
Bertolt Brecht
Ber Horvitz
Paul Celan
Primo Levi
Ahmad Faraz
Sandor Marai
Wladyslaw Szlengel
Saul Tchernichovsky
Robert Burns: Original Poems and Translations
The Seventh Romantic: Robert Burns
Free Love Poems by Michael R. Burch
The HyperTexts