Robert Desnos – Never anyone but you

Never anyone but you, despite the stars and the loneliness
Despite nightfall’s mutilated trees
Never anyone but you will continue on the path that’s mine
The further you go, the longer your shadow grows
Never anyone but you will salute the sea at dawn
when, weary of wandering, out from the dark forests
and the nettle thickets and I’ll walk towards the foam
Never anyone but you will lay her hand on my brow and on my eyes
Never anyone but you, and I reject lies and infidelity
This anchored ship, you can sever its mooring
Never anyone but you
The caged eagle slowly gnaws at the corroded copper bars
What an escape!
It’s Sunday, signalled by the song of nightingales in the tender green woods,
the boredom of little girls in the presence of a cage where a canary flits around,
while in the lonely street,
the sun slowly cast its thin lines across the warm pavement.
We will cross other lines,
Never, never anyone but you,
And me alone, alone, alone like the withered ivy in suburban gardens, like glass alone,
And you, never anyone but you.

Robert Desnos

translation by John Lyons


Jamais d’autre que toi

Jamais d’autre que toi en dépit des étoiles et des solitudes
En dépit des mutilations d’arbre à la tombée de la nuit
Jamais d’autre que toi ne poursuivra son chemin qui est le mien
Plus tu t’éloignes et plus ton ombre s’agrandit
Jamais d’autre que toi ne saluera la mer à l’aube quand fatigué d’errer moi sorti des forêts ténébreuses et des buissons d’orties je marcherai vers l’écume
Jamais d’autre que toi ne posera sa main sur mon front et mes yeux
Jamais d’autre que toi et je nie le mensonge et l’infidélité
Ce navire à l’ancre tu peux couper sa corde
Jamais d’autre que toi
L’aigle prisonnier dans une cage ronge lentement les barreaux de cuivre vert-de-grisés
Quelle évasion !
C’est le dimanche marqué par le chant des rossignols dans les bois
vert tendre l’ennui des petites filles en présence d’une cage où s’agite un serin, tandis que dans la rue solitaire le soleil lentement déplace sa ligne mince sur le trottoir chaud
Nous passerons d’autres lignes
Jamais jamais d’autre que toi
Et moi seul seul seul comme le lierre fané des jardins de banlieue seul comme le verre
Et toi jamais d’autre que toi.

The Cracked Bell – Charles Baudelaire

The bitter sweetness of winter nights,
listening, by the flickering, fuming fire,
to the slow distant rise of the sound of bells
ringing out through the mist.

Happy the bell with its tough throat which,
undiminished and alert, despite its age,
faithfully sends forth a religious cry,
like an old soldier keeping watch in his tent.

As for me, my soul is cracked, and when,
in its misfortunes, it wishes to swamp
the cold night air with its songs,
quite often its enfeebled voice

sounds more like the dull death rattle
of a wounded man forgotten next to a pool of blood,
under a huge pile of corpses and who dies,
without moving, after a tremendous struggle. 

Charles Baudelaire

translation by John Lyons


La Cloche fêlée

II est amer et doux, pendant les nuits d’hiver,
D’écouter, près du feu qui palpite et qui fume,
Les souvenirs lointains lentement s’élever
Au bruit des carillons qui chantent dans la brume.

Bienheureuse la cloche au gosier vigoureux
Qui, malgré sa vieillesse, alerte et bien portante,
Jette fidèlement son cri religieux,
Ainsi qu’un vieux soldat qui veille sous la tente!

Moi, mon âme est fêlée, et lorsqu’en ses ennuis
Elle veut de ses chants peupler l’air froid des nuits,
II arrive souvent que sa voix affaiblie

Semble le râle épais d’un blessé qu’on oublie
Au bord d’un lac de sang, sous un grand tas de morts
Et qui meurt, sans bouger, dans d’immenses efforts.

Charles Baudelaire

Blaise Cendrars – Laughter

I laugh
I laugh
You laugh
We laugh
Nothing else matters
Except this laughter that we love
You have to know how to be silly and happy

Blaise Cendrars

Translation by John Lyons


Rire

Je ris
Je ris
Tu ris
Nous rions
Plus rien ne compte
Sauf ce rire que nous aimons
Il faut savoir être bête et content


BlaiseCendrarsThe French poet, Blaise Cendrars (1887-1961), lost his right arm during the Battle of the Somme in 1915. An important member of the Montparnasse community of writers and artists, Cendrars was an inspirational influence on many American writers, including John Dos Passos and Henry Miller.

Paul Éluard – The two of us

The two of us holding hands
We believe everywhere’s home
Under the gentle tree under the black sky
Under every roof on the fringes of fire
On the empty street in broad daylight
In the vague eyes of the crowd
Alongside the foolish and the wise
Among the children and the adults
Nothing mysterious about love
Proof of that ourselves
Lovers feel at home in our home

Paul Éluard

Translation by John Lyons


Nous Deux

Nous deux nous tenant par la main
Nous nous croyons partout chez nous
Sous l’arbre doux sous le ciel noir
Sous tous les toits au coin du feu
Dan la rue vide en plein soleil
Dans les yeux vagues de la foule
Auprès des sages et des fous
Parmi les enfants et les grands
L’amour n’a rien de mystérieux
Nous sommes l’évidence même
Les amoureux se croient chez nous.

Paul Éluard

Paul Éluard – Us no matter where

The bird halts observes an invisible prey
He hunts he provides for his young
The wherewithal to sing fly sleep

To the harsh contact with the dense forest
He prefers the damp fields
Teeming with the day’s last straws

The fine web of life
Gently covers your face
And you hold in this basket
Our means our reasons for living
You’re as wise as you are beautiful
You attract the most beautiful words

We will talk tonight about us and the birds
We won’t listen to the long and sorry history
Of people driven from their homes
By golden-jawed death
Men with less pride than beasts
Who track misfortune everywhere
May they not appear quite naked then
In a haven of clarity such as our own

We take care of each other
Day by day we preserve our life
Like a bird his hatched form
And his pleasure
Among so many birds to come

Paul Éluard (from Le livre ouvert, 1940)

Translation by John Lyons

Jules Supervielle – Boarding party

Jules_Supervielle

Pirates, wild gestures,
Abducted from the Cape Verdes
In the heat of the boarding
A black woman in the sea.

The sunset metamorphoses
The ocean, the earth, the air
A naked black man turns pink
Sliced by an iron sabre.

It’s my eyes that fantasize,
And among chairs and blankets
On the gloomy liner
Only valets circulate.

Jules Supervielle  (1884-1960)

Translation by John Lyons


ABORDAGE

Pirates, gestes sauvages,
Rapt aux îles du Cap-Vert,
Dans le rut de l’abordage
Une négresse à la mer.

Le couchant métamorphose
L’océan, la terre, l’air
Un noir nu se mue en rose
Que tranche un sabre de fer.

Ce sont mes yeux qui transposent,
Et parmi chaises et plaids
Sur le paquebot morose
Seuls circulent des valets.

Robert Desnos – Love is not dead

No, love’s not dead in this heart nor in these eyes nor in this mouth
which was announcing its ongoing funeral.
Listen, I’ve had enough of the picturesque, of colours and charm.
l love love, its tenderness and its cruelty.
My love has but one name, one shape.
Everything passes. Mouths press to this mouth.
My love has but one name, one shape.
And if some day you remember it
O you, my love’s shape and name,
One day on the high seas between America and Europe,
When the sun’s last flourish scintillates upon the undulating
surface of the waves, or maybe one stormy night
beneath a tree in the countryside, or in a fast car,
One spring morning on boulevard Malesherbes,
One rainy day,
At dawn before you go to bed,
Tell yourself that you shouldn’t regret things: Ronsard before me
and Baudelaire sang of the regret of old women and dead women
who despised love’s purest form.
You when you’re dead
You’ll still be a beauty and desirable.
I’ll already be dead, entirely enclosed within your immortal body,
within your stunning image ever present amongst
the perpetual wonders of life and eternity, but if I live
Your voice and its accent, the beam of your eyes
Your scent and the scent of your hair and many other things
will live on inside me,
In me who am neither Ronsard nor Baudelaire,
I who am Robert Desnos and whom, having known and loved you,
Are just as worthy as them.
I who am Robert Desnos, for loving you
And who wants to attach no other reputation
to my memory on the contemptible earth

Robert Desnos

From À la mystérieuse, (1926)

Translation by John Lyons

Portrait of a Woman – Gonzalo Rojas

Gonzalo Rojas

                       Gonzalo Rojas Pizarro (1916–2011)

There will always be the night, woman, to stare you in the face,
alone in your mirror, free from your husband, naked
in the precise and terrible reality of the immense vertigo
that destroys you. You’ll always have your night and your knife,
and the frivolous telephone to hear the single thrust of my farewell.

I swore not to write to you. That’s why I’m calling you in the air
to say nothing to you, as the void says: nothing, nothing,
but the same and always the same thing
that you never hear me, that you never understand me,
although your veins burn from what I’m saying.

Put on the red dress that suits your mouth and your blood,
and burn me with the last cigarette of fear
of the great love, and proceed barefoot on the air that you came on
with the visible wound of your beauty. Woe is she
who cries unceasingly in the storm.

Don’t die on me. I’m going to paint your face in a flash
just as you are: two eyes to see the visible and the invisible,
an archangel nose and an animal mouth, and a smile
that forgives me, and something sacred and ageless that flies out
of your forehead, woman, and it makes me tremble,
because yours is the face of the Spirit.

You come and go, and you worship the sea that sweeps you away
with its foam, and you remain motionless, hearing me call out to you
in the abyss of the night, and you kiss me like a wave.
You were an enigma. You will be an enigma. You will not fly with me.
Here, woman, I leave you your portrait. 

Gonzalo Rojas
(translation by John Lyons)

The great Chilean poet, Gonzalo Rojas, was exiled by the Pinochet dictatorship in 1973.


Retrato de mujer

Siempre estará la noche, mujer, para mirarte cara a cara,
sola en tu espejo, libre de marido, desnuda
en la exacta y terrible realidad del gran vértigo
que te destruye. Siempre vas a tener tu noche y tu cuchillo, y el frívolo teléfono para escuchar mi adiós de un solo tajo.

Te juré no escribirte. Por eso estoy llamándote en el aire
para decirte nada, como dice el vacío: nada, nada,
sino lo mismo y siempre lo mismo de lo mismo
que nunca me oyes, eso que no me entiendes nunca,
aunque las venas te arden de eso que estoy diciendo.

Ponte el vestido rojo que le viene a tu boca y a tu sangre,
y quémame en el último cigarrillo del miedo
al gran amor, y vete descalza por el aire que viniste
con la herida visible de tu belleza. Lástima
de la que llora y llora en la tormenta.

No te me mueras. Voy a pintarte tu rostro en un relámpago
tal como eres: dos ojos para ver lo visible y lo invisible,
una nariz arcángel y una boca animal, y una sonrisa
que me perdona, y algo sagrado y sin edad que vuela de tu frente,
mujer, y me estremece, porque tu rostro es rostro del Espíritu.

Vienes y vas, y adoras al mar que te arrebata con su espuma,
y te quedas inmóvil, oyendo que te llamo en el abismo
de la noche, y me besas lo mismo que una ola.
Enigma fuiste. Enigma serás. No volarás
conmigo. Aquí, mujer, te dejo tu figura. 

Pablo Neruda – Sonnet 44


Neruda

You’ll be aware that I do and don’t love you
since there are two modes to life,
the word is a wing of silence,
and there’s a cold side to fire.

I love you in beginning to love you
to reengage in what is infinite
and so as never to stop loving you:
that’s why I still don’t love you.

I do and don’t love you as though I held
in my hands the keys to happiness
and an uncertain fate of unhappiness.

My love has two lives with which to love you,
that’s why I do love you when I don’t
and why I do love you when I do too.

Pablo Neruda

From One Hundred Love Sonnets

Translation by John Lyons

Sea privilege – Carlos Drummond de Andrade

drummond

          Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-1987)

On this tolerably comfortable terrace,
we drink beer and look out at the sea.
We know that nothing will happen to us.

The building’s solid and so too the world.

We know that every building houses a thousand bodies
toiling away in a thousand identical compartments.
Sometimes some wearily enter the elevator
and come up here to breathe the ocean breeze,
which is a privilege of these buildings.

The world really is made of reinforced concrete.

Surely, if there was a rogue cruiser,
anchored in the bay opposite the city,
life would be uncertain. . . unlikely. . .
But in the calm waters there are only trusty sailors.
How cordial the fleet is!

We can drink our beers with honour.

1940

Carlos Drummond de Andrade
(translation by John Lyons)


Privilégio do Mar

Neste terraço mediocremente confortável,
bebemos cerveja e olhamos o mar.
Sabemos que nada nos acontecerá.

O edifício é sólido e o mundo também.

Sabemos que cada edifício abriga mil corpos
labutando em mil compartimentos iguais.
Às vezes, alguns se inserem fatigados no elevador
e vêm cá em cima respirar a brisa do oceano,
o que é privilégio dos edifícios.

O mundo é mesmo de cimento armado.

Certamente, se houvesse um cruzador louco,

fundeado na baía em frente da cidade,
a vida seria incerta.. . improvável. . .
Mas nas águas tranqüilas só há marinheiros fiéis.
Como a esquadra é cordial!

Podemos beber honradamente nossa cerveja.