- Hedningen
- May 4, 2013
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Enough sideburns to last a lifetime.
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Gonna foreign this joint up a bit. Let's start with the prototypical French Decadent - I've always loved Au Lecteur for the insinuation of collaboration by the reader.
Baudelaire in Le Fleur du Mal posted:
Au Lecteur
La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
Nos péchés sont tętus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.
Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.
C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, ŕ travers des ténčbres qui puent.
Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.
Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.
Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.
Mais parmi les chacals, les panthčres, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,
II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;
C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
II ręve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frčre!
Translation 'To The Reader', William Aggeler posted:
To the Reader
Folly, error, sin, avarice
Occupy our minds and labor our bodies,
And we feed our pleasant remorse
As beggars nourish their vermin.
Our sins are obstinate, our repentance is faint;
We exact a high price for our confessions,
And we gaily return to the miry path,
Believing that base tears wash away all our stains.
On the pillow of evil Satan, Trismegist,
Incessantly lulls our enchanted minds,
And the noble metal of our will
Is wholly vaporized by this wise alchemist.
The Devil holds the strings which move us!
In repugnant things we discover charms;
Every day we descend a step further toward Hell,
Without horror, through gloom that stinks.
Like a penniless rake who with kisses and bites
Tortures the breast of an old prostitute,
We steal as we pass by a clandestine pleasure
That we squeeze very hard like a dried up orange.
Serried, swarming, like a million maggots,
A legion of Demons carouses in our brains,
And when we breathe, Death, that unseen river,
Descends into our lungs with muffled wails.
If rape, poison, daggers, arson
Have not yet embroidered with their pleasing designs
The banal canvas of our pitiable lives,
It is because our souls have not enough boldness.
But among the jackals, the panthers, the bitch hounds,
The apes, the scorpions, the vultures, the serpents,
The yelping, howling, growling, crawling monsters,
In the filthy menagerie of our vices,
There is one more ugly, more wicked, more filthy!
Although he makes neither great gestures nor great cries,
He would willingly make of the earth a shambles
And, in a yawn, swallow the world;
He is Ennui! — His eye watery as though with tears,
He dreams of scaffolds as he smokes his hookah pipe.
You know him reader, that refined monster,
— Hypocritish reader, — my fellow, — my brother!
And now, from Old Norse poetry, here's some stuff from Kórmaks Saga.
Kórmaks Saga posted:
Nú varđ mér í mínu,
menreiđ, jötuns leiđi,
réttumk ristin, snótar
rammaást fyr skömmu.
Ţeir munu fćtr ađ fári
fald-Gerđar mér verđa,
alls ekki veit eg ella,
oftar en nú, svarra.
The Saga of Kormak posted:
At the door of my soul she is standing,
So sweet in the gleam of her garment:
Her footfall awakens a fury,
A fierceness of love that I knew not,
Those feet of a wench in her wimple,
Their weird is my sorrow and troubling,
- Or naught may my knowledge avail me -
Both now and for aye to endure.
Kórmaks Saga posted:
Brunnu beggja kinna
björt ljós á mig drósar,
oss hlćgir ţađ eigi,
eldhúss of viđ felldan
en til ökkla svanna
ítrvaxins gat eg líta,
ţrá munat oss um ćvi
eldast, hjá ţreskeldi.
Brámáni skein brúna
brims und ljósum himni
Hristar hörvi glćstrar
haukfránn á mig lauka.
En sá geisli sýslir
síđan gullhrings Fríđar
hvarma tungls og hringa
Hlínar óţurft mína.
Hófat lind, né eg leyndi,
líđs, hyrjar ţví stríđi,
bands man eg beiđi-Rindi,
baugsćm af mér augu
ţá er húnknarrar hjarra
happţćgi Bil krapta
helsisćm á hálsi
Hagbarđs á mig starđi.
Eitt lýti kvađst Áta
eldbekks á mér ţykkja
Eir of aftanskćrur
allhvít og ţó lítlđ.
Haukmćrar kvađ hári
Hlín velborin mínu,
ţađ skyldi eg kyn kvenna
kenna, sveipt í enni.
Svört augu ber eg Sága,
snyrtigrund, til fundar,
ţyki eg erma Ilmi
allfölr, og lá sölva.
Ţó hefi eg mér hjá meyjum,
mengrund, komiđ stundum,
hrings viđ Hörn ađ manga
hagr sem drengr hinn fagri.
The Saga of Kormak posted:
There breaks on me, burning upon me,
A blaze from the cheeks of a maiden,
- I laugh not to look on the vision -
In the light of the hall by the doorway.
So sweet and so slender I deem her,
Though I spy bug a glimpse of an ankle
By the threshold: and through me there flashes
A thrill that shall age never more.
The moon of her brow, it is beaming
'Neath the bright-litten heaven of her forehead:
So she gleams in her white robe, and gazes
With a glance that is keen as the falcon's.
But the star that is shining upon me
What spell shall it work by its witchcraft?
Ah, that moon of her brow shall be mighty
With mischief to her - and to me?
She's a ring-bedight oak of the ale-cup,
And her eyes never left me unhaunted.
The strife in my heart I could hide not,
For I hold myself bound in her bondage.
O gay in her necklet, and gainer
In the game that wins hearts on her chessboard, -
When she looked at me long from the doorway
Where the likeness of Hagbard is carved
One flaw in my features she noted
- With the flame of the wave she was gleaming
All white in the wane of the twilight -
And that one was no hideous blemish.
So highborn, so haughty a lady
- I should have such a dame to befriend me:
But she trows me uncouth for a trifle,
For a tuft in the hair on my brow!
Yes, black are the eyes that I bring ye,
O brave in your jewels, and dainty.
But a draggle-tail, dirty-foot slattern
Would dub me ill-favoured and sallow.
Nay, many a maiden has loved me,
Thou may of the glittering armlet:
For I've tricks of the tongue to beguile them
And turn them from handsomer lads.
Finally, here's one of my favourite Swedish poems, by Edith Södergran.
Kärlek posted:
Min själ var en ljusblĺ dräkt av himlens färg;
jag lämnade den pĺ en klippa vid havet
och naken kom jag till dig och liknade en kvinna.
Och som en kvinna satt jag vid ditt bord
och drack en skĺl med vin och andades in doften av nĺgra rosor.
Du fann att jag var vacker och liknade nĺgot du sett i drömmen,
jag glömde allt, jag glömde min barndom och mitt hemland,
jag visste endast att dina smekningar höllo mig fĺngen.
Och du tog leende en spegel och bad mig se mig själv.
Jag sĺg att mina skuldror voro gjorda av stoft och smulade sig sönder,
jag sĺg att min skönhet var sjuk och hade ingen vilja än - försvinna.
O, hĺll mig sluten i dina armar sĺ fast att jag ingenting behöver.
Love posted:
My soul was a light blue dress the colour of the sky;
I left it on a rock by the sea
and naked I came to you, and resembling a woman.
And like a woman I sat at your table
and drank a toast with wine and inhaled the scent of some roses.
You found me beautiful, like something you saw in a dream,
I forgot everything, I forgot my childhood and my homeland,
I only knew that your caresses held me captive.
And smiling you held up a mirror and bade me to see myself.
I saw that my shoulders were made of dust and crumbled away,
I saw that my beauty was sick and wished only to – disappear.
Oh, hold me tight in your arms so close that I need nothing
My translation is kinda crappy, but you get the idea.
One of these days, I'll start a thread on Scandinavian lit in the Book Barn.
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Nov 19, 2013 21:59
