Poems Under Saturn

Poèmes saturniens

Paul Verlaine, Karl Kirchwey

• Éditeur: Princeton University Press
• Année: 2011
• ISBN:
  9781400838202
• Sujet: Littérature
• Sous-sujet: Poésie européenne

The first complete English edition of Verlaine's important first book of poems Poems Under Saturn is the first complete English translation of the collection that announced Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) as a poet of promise and originality, one who would come to be regarded as one of the greatest of nineteenth-century writers. This new translation, by respected contemporary poet Karl Kirchwey, faithfully renders the collection's heady mix of classical learning and earthy sensuality in poems whose rhythm and rhyme represent one of the supreme accomplishments of French verse. Restoring frequently anthologized poems to the context in which they originally appeared, Poems Under Saturn testifies to the blazing talents for which Verlaine is celebrated.The poems display precocious virtuosity, mingling the attractions of the flesh with the longings of the spirit. Greek and Hindu myth give way to intimate erotic meditations and wickedly satirical society portraits, mythological landscapes alternate with gritty narratives of mid-nineteenth century Paris, visions of happiness yield to nightmarish glimpses of deep alienation, and real and imaginary characters—including Achilles, Valmiki, Charlemagne, and Spain's baleful King Philip II—all figure as the subject matter of a supremely ambitious young poet. Poems Under Saturn presents the extraordinary devotion and intense musicality of an artist for whom poetry remained the one true passion.

Autres poèmes / Other Poems

Initium

Les violons mêlaient leur rire au chant des flûtes,

Et le bal tournoyait quand je la vis passer

Avec ses cheveux blonds jouant sur les volutes

De son oreille où mon Désir comme un baiser

S’élançait et voulait lui parler sans oser.

Cependant elle allait, et la mazurque lente

La portait dans son rythme indolent comme un vers,

—Rime mélodieuse, image étincelante,—

Et son âme d’enfant rayonnait à travers

La sensuelle ampleur de ses yeux gris et verts.

Et depuis, ma Pensée—immobile—contemple

Sa Splendeur évoquée, en adoration,

Et, dans son Souvenir, ainsi que dans un temple,

Mon Amour entre, plein de superstition.

Et je crois que voici venir la Passion.

Initium

With the song of the flutes the violins mingled their laughter,

And the dance spun around me when I saw her pass,

Her blonde hair playing on the whorl of her ear

Where my Desire darted like a kiss

And wanted to speak to her but did not dare this.

Yet it seemed that the slow mazurka, in her going,

Carried her in its languid rhythm like a verse,

—Rhyme melodious, image dazzling—

and her child’s soul was

shining through the sensual fullness of her gray-green eyes.

And ever since, my Thought gazes—immobile—

At her recalled Splendor, in adoration,

And into the Memory of it, as if into a temple,

My Love enters, full of superstition.

And I believe that it is coming, Passion.

Çavitrî (Mahabharata)

Pour sauver son époux, Çavitri fit le vœu

De se tenir trois jours entiers, trois nuits entières,

Debout, sans remuer jambes, buste ou paupières:

Rigide, ainsi que dit Vyaça, comme un pieu.

Ni, Çurya, tes rais cruels, ni la langueur

Que Tchandra vient épandre à minuit sur les cimes

Ne firent défaillir, dans leurs efforts sublimes,

La pensée et la chair de la femme au grand coeur.

—Que nous cerne l’Oubli, noir et morne assassin,

Ou que l’Envie aux traits amers nous ait pour cibles,

Ainsi que Çavitri faisons-nous impassibles,

Mais, comme elle, dans l’âme ayons un haut dessein.

Savitri (Mahabharata)

To save her husband, Savitri promised

To stand upright for three whole nights, three whole days,

Her legs, her chest, even her eyelids motionless:

Stiff, according to Vyasa, as a post.

Neither, Surya, your cruel rays, nor the languor

That Chandra spreads at midnight on the peaks

Could by their sublime effort once make weak

This woman great-hearted in flesh and idea.

—Let Oblivion surround us, black and gloomy assassin,

Or let bitter Longing make us its target,

Like Savitri let us be impassive, yet

Like her, in our soul let us bear a great design.

Sub Urbe

Les petits ifs du cimetière

Frémissent au vent hiémal,

Dans la glaciale lumière.

Avec des bruits sourds qui font mal,

Les croix de bois des tombes neuves

Vibrent sur un ton anormal.

Silencieux comme les fleuves,

Mais gros de pleurs comme eux de flots,

Les fils, les mères et les veuves,

Par les détours du triste enclos,

S’écoulent,—lente théorie,—

Au rythme heurté des sanglots.

Le sol sous les pieds glisse et crie,

Là-haut de grands nuages tors

S’échevèlent avec furie.

Pénétrant comme le remords,

Tombe un froid lourd qui vous écoeure,

Et qui doit filtrer chez les morts,

Chez les pauvres morts, à toute heure

Seuls, et sans cesse grelottants,

—Qu’on les oublie ou qu’on les pleure!—

Sub Urbe

The cemetery’s small yews

Tremble in the glacial light,

In the wintry breeze.

With muffled sounds that hurt,

On the new graves wooden crosses

Irregularly vibrate.

Silently as rivers,

But swollen with tears like a flood,

The sons, the widows and mothers,

Along the curves of the sad

Enclosure—in a slow cortège—disperse,

To the rhythm of sobs interrupted.

The earth beneath their feet slips and cries,

While huge twisted clouds overhead

Wildly dishevel themselves.

Piercing as remorse, a heavy cold

Descends that sickens you,

And that must seep down to the dead,

To the poor dead who

Are always alone and shivering

Endlessly—Whether we forget them o...