Tonight the
moon will fall upon
the strand, a heavy pearl.
And over me will play the mad
mad moonlight.
The ruby
wave will shatter
at my feet, and scatter all the stars.
From my palms two doves
will have been born;
they'll rise
-- two silver birds --,
be filled -- two cups -- with moonlight,
sprinkle moonlight on my shoulders,
on my hair.
The sea is
molten gold.
I'll launch my dream to sail
upon a ca&idieresis;que. I'll tread a diamond
into gravel, glistening.
The
encircling light will seem to pierce
my heart, a heavy pearl.
And I shall laugh. And then I'll weep... And there,
there's the moonlight!
hg
Detested by
both men and gods,
like nobles who have bitterly decayed,
the Verlaines wither; wealth remains
to them, of rich and silvery rhyme.
With "Les Chatiments" the Hugos are intoxicated
by their terrible Olympian revenge.
But I shall write a sorrowful
ballade to the forgotten poets.
Though the
Poes have lived in misery,
and though the Baudelaires have suffered living deaths,
they ve all been granted Immortality.
Yet no-one now remembers,
and the deepest darkness has completely buried,
every poetaster who produced limp poetry.
But I make as an offering this reverent
ballade to the forgotten poets.
The world's
disdain is heaped on them,
but they pass by, unyielding, pallid,
sacrifices to the tragic fraud that
out there somewhere Glory waits for them,
that wise and merry virgin.
But knowing that they re all due for oblivion,
I weep nostalgically this sorrowful
ballade to the forgotten poets.
And off in
some far future epoch:
"What forgotten poet" I should like it to be asked
"has written such a beggarly
ballade to the forgotten poets?"
hg
Make your
pain into a harp.
Become a nightingale,
become a flower.
When bitter years arrive,
make your pain into a harp
and sing the one song.
Don't bind
your wound
but with the branches of the rose.
I give you wanton myrrh
- for balm - and opium.
Don't bind your wound,
your purple blood.
Tell the
gods to "let me die!"
but hold on to the glass.
Buck against your days when
there's a festival for you.
Tell the gods to "let me die!"
but say it with a laugh.
Make your
pain into a harp.
Refresh your lips
at the lips of your wound.
One dawn, one evening,
make your pain into a harp
and laugh, and die.
hg
My verses,
children of my blood.
They speak, but I supply the words
like fragments of my heart,
I offer them like tears from my eyes.
They go with
bitter smiles
when I recount so much of life.
I girdle them with sun and day and sun
for when I'm overtaken by the night.
They fix the
limits of the sky and earth.
And yet my sons still wonder what is missing
always bored, worn down,
the only mother they have known is Grief.
I pour out
the laughter of the sweetest tune,
the aimless passion of the flute;
to them I am an unsuspecting king
who's lost his people's love.
They waste
away, they fade away, yet
never cease their quiet lamentation.
Pass by, Mortal, with averted gaze;
Lethe, carry me in your boat to bathe.
hg
In the garden the chrysanthemums were dying
like desires when you came. Calmly
you laughed, like little white flowers.
Silent, I made a sweetest song
out of the darkness deep within me
and the petals sing it up above you.
