The content is however universal enough, I think, for a reader of any spiritual
persuasion
to respond in their own manner, within their own belief system.
Mallarme - Poems
Greetings, in pale libation and madness,
Don't think to some hope of magic corridors I offer
My empty cup, where a monster of gold suffers!
Your apparition cannot satisfy me:
Since I myself entombed you in porphyry.
The rite decrees our hands must quench the torch
Against the iron mass of your tomb's porch:
None at this simple ceremony should forget,
Those chosen to sing the absence of the poet,
That this monument encloses him entire.
Were it not that his art's glory, full of fire
Till the dark communal moment all of ash,
Returns as proud evening's glow lights the glass,
To the fires of the pure mortal sun!
Marvellous, total, solitary, so that one
Trembles to breathe with man's false pride.
This haggard crowd! 'We are', it cries,
'Our future ghosts, their sad opacity. '
But with walls blazoned, mourning, empty,
I've scorned the lucid horror of a tear,
When, deaf to the sacred verse he does not fear,
One of those passers-by, mute, blind, proud,
Transmutes himself, a guest in his vague shroud,
Into the virgin hero of posthumous waiting.
A vast void carried through the fog's drifting,
By the angry wind of words he did not say,
Nothing, to this Man abolished yesterday:
'What is Earth, O you, memories of horizons? '
Shrieks the dream: and, a voice whose clarity lessens,
Space, has for its toy this cry: 'I do not know! '
The Master, with eye profound, as he goes,
Pacified the restless miracle of Eden,
Who alone woke, in his voice's final frisson,
The mystery of a name for the Lily and the Rose.
Is there anything of this destiny left, or no?
O, all of you, forget your darkened faith.
Glorious, eternal genius has no shade.
I, moved by your desire, wish to see
for Him who vanished yesterday, in the Ideal
Work that for us the garden of this star creates,
As a solemn agitation in the air, that stays
Honouring this quiet disaster, a stir
Of words, a drunken red, calyx, clear,
That, rain and diamonds, the crystal gaze
Fixed on these flowers of which none fade,
Isolates in the hour and the light of day!
That's all that's left already of our true play,
Where the pure poet's gesture, humble, vast
Must deny the dream, the enemy of his trust:
So that on the morning of his exalted stay,
When ancient death is for him as for Gautier,
The un-opening of sacred eyes, the being-still,
The solid tomb may rise, ornament this hill,
The sepulchre where lies the power to blight,
And miserly silence and the massive night.
The Tomb of Edgar Allan Poe
Such as eternity at last transforms into Himself,
The Poet rouses with two-edged naked sword,
His century terrified at having ignored
Death triumphant in so strange a voice!
They, like a spasm of the Hydra, hearing the angel
Once grant a purer sense to the words of the tribe,
Loudly proclaimed it a magic potion, imbibed
From some tidal brew black, and dishonourable.
If our imagination can carve no bas-relief
From hostile soil and cloud, O grief,
With which to deck Poe's dazzling sepulchre,
Let your granite at least mark a boundary forever,
Calm block fallen here from some dark disaster,
To dark flights of Blasphemy scattered through the future.
The Tomb of Charles Baudelaire
The buried shrine shows at its sewer-mouth's
Sepulchral slobber of mud and rubies
Some abominable statue of Anubis,
The muzzle lit like a ferocious snout
Or as when a dubious wick twists in the new gas,
Wiping out, as we know, the insults suffered
Haggardly lighting an immortal pubis,
Whose flight roosts according to the lamp
What votive leaves, dried in cities without evening
Could bless, as she can, vainly sitting
Against the marble of Baudelaire
Shudderingly absent from the veil that clothes her
She, his Shade, a protective poisonous air
Always to be breathed, although we die of her.
Tomb (Of Verlaine)
Anniversary - January 1897
The black rock enraged that the north wind rolls it on
Will not halt itself, even under pious hands, still
Testing its resemblance to human ill,
As if to bless some fatal cast of bronze.
Here nearly always if the ring-dove coos
This immaterial grief with many a fold of cloud
Crushes the ripe star of tomorrows, whose crowd
Will be silvered by its scintillations. Who
Following the solitary leap
External once of our vagabond - seeks
Verlaine? He's hidden in the grass, Verlaine
Only to catch, naively, not drying with his breath
And without his lip drinking there, at peace again,
A shallow stream that's slandered, and named Death.
Prose
Hyperbole! From my memory
Triumphantly can't you
Rise today, like sorcery
From an iron-bound book or two:
Since, through science, I inscribe
The hymn of hearts so spiritual
In my patient work, inside
Atlas, herbal, ritual.
We walked set our face
(We were two, I maintain)
Toward the many charms of place,
Compared them, Sister, to yours again.
The reign of authority's troubled
If, without reason, we say
Of this south that our double
Thoughtlessness has in play
That its site, bed of a hundred irises,
(They know if it truly existed),
Bears no name the golden breath
Of the trumpet of summer cited.
Yes, on an isle the air charges
With sight and not with visions
Every flower showed itself larger
Without entering our discussions.
Such flowers, immense, that every one
Usually had as adornment
A clear contour, a lacuna done
To separate it from the garden.
Glories of long-held desire, Ideas
Were all exalted in me, to see
The Iris family appear
Rising to this new duty,
But the sister sensible and fond
Carried her look no further
Than a smile, and as if to understand
I continue my ancient labour.
Oh! Let the contentious spirit know
At this hour when we are silent
The stalks of multiple lilies grow
Far too tall for our reason
And not as the riverbank weeps
When its tedious game tells lies
Claiming abundance should reach
Into my first surprise
On hearing the whole sky and the map
Behind my steps, without end, bear witness
By the ebbing wave itself that
This country never existed.
The child so taught by the paths,
Resigns her ecstasy
Says the word: Anastasius!
Born for scrolls of eternity,
Before a tomb can laugh
Beneath any sky, her ancestor,
At bearing that name: Pulcheria!
Hidden by the too-high lily-flower.
A Fan
(Of Mademoiselle Mallarme's)
With nothing of language but
A beating in the sky
From so precious a place yet
Future verse will rise.
A low wing the messenger
This fan if it is the one
The same by which behind you there
Some mirror has shone
Limpidly (where will fall
pursued grain by grain
a little invisible dust, all
that can give me pain)
So may it always bless
Your hands free of idleness.
Another Fan
(Of Mademoiselle Mallarme's)
O dreamer, that I may dive
In pure pathless joy, understand,
How by subtle deceits connive
To keep my wing in your hand.
A coolness of twilight takes
Its way to you at each beat
Whose imprisoned flutter makes
The horizon gently retreat.
Vertigo! How space quivers
Like an enormous kiss
That, wild to be born for no one, can neither
Burst out or be soothed like this.
Do you feel the fierce paradise
Like stifled laughter that slips
To the unanimous crease's depths
From the corner of your lips?
The sceptre of shores of rose
Stagnant on golden nights,
Is this white closed flight that shows
Against your bracelet's fiery light.
Album Leaf
All at once, as if in play,
Mademoiselle, she who moots
A wish to hear how it sounds today
The wood of my several flutes
It seems to me that this foray
Tried out here in a country place
Was better when I put them away
To look more closely at your face
Yes this vain whistling I suppress
In so far as I can create
Given my fingers pure distress
It lacks the means to imitate
Your very natural and clear
Childlike laughter that charms the air.
(Note: Written to Mademoiselle Roumanille whom Mallarme knew as a child. )
Note
Not meaningless flurries like
Those that frequent the street
Subject to black hats in flight;
But a dancer shown complete
A whirlwind of muslin or
A furious scattering of spray
Raised by her knee, she for
Whom we live, to blow away
All, beyond her, mundane
Witty, drunken, motionless,
With her tutu, and refrain
From other mark of distress,
Unless a light-hearted draught of air
From her dress fans Whistler there.
Little Air
I
Any solitude
Without a swan or quai
Mirrors its disuse
In the gaze I abdicate
Far from that pride's excess
Too high to enfold
In which many a sky paints itself
With the twilight's gold
But languorously flows beside
Like white linen laid aside
Such fleeting birds as dive
Exultantly at my side
Into the wave made you
Your exultation nude.
II
Unconquerably there must
As my hope hurls itself free
Burst on high and be lost
In silence and in fury
A voice alien to the wood
Or followed by no echo,
The bird one never could
Hear again in this life below.
The wild musician,
The one that in doubt expires
As to whether from his breast or mine
Has spurted the sob more dire
Torn apart may it complete
Find rest on some path beneath!
Sonnet: 'Quand l'ombre menaca. . . '
When the shadow with fatal law menaced me
A certain old dream, sick desire of my spine,
Beneath funereal ceilings afflicted by dying
Folded its indubitable wing there within me.
Luxury, O ebony hall, where to tempt a king
Famous garlands are writhing in death,
You are only pride, shadows' lying breath
For the eyes of a recluse dazed by believing.
Yes, I know that Earth in the depths of this night,
Casts a strange mystery with vast brilliant light
Beneath hideous centuries that darken it the less.
Space, like itself, whether denied or expanded
Revolves in this boredom, vile flames as witness
That a festive star's genius has been enkindled.
Sonnet: 'Le vierge, le vivace. . . '
The virginal, living and lovely day
Will it fracture for us with a wild wing-blow
This solid lost lake whose frost's haunted below
By the glacier, transparent with flights not made?
A swan from time past remembers it's he
Magnificent yet struggling hopelessly
Through not having sung a liveable country
From the radiant boredom of winter's sterility.
His neck will shake off this whitest agony
Space inflicts on a bird that denies it wholly,
But not earth's horror that entraps his feathers.
Phantom assigned to this place by his brilliance,
The Swan in his exile is rendered motionless,
Swathed uselessly by his cold dream of defiance.
Sonnet: 'Victorieusement fui le suicide. . . '
Victoriously the grand suicide fled
Foaming blood, brand of glory, gold, tempest!
O laughter if only to royally invest
My absent tomb purple, down there, is spread.
What! Not even a fragment of all that brightness
Remains, it is midnight, in the shade that fetes us,
Except, from the head, there's a treasure, presumptuous,
That pours without light its spoiled languidness,
Yours, always such a delight! Yours, yes,
Retaining alone of the vanished sky, this
Trace of childish triumph as you spread each tress,
Gleaming as you show it against the pillows,
Like the helmet of war of a child-empress
From which, to denote you, would pour down roses.
Sonnet: 'Ses purs ongles tres haut. . . '
Her pure nails on high dedicating their onyx,
Anguish, at midnight, supports, a lamp-holder,
Many a twilight dream burnt by the Phoenix
That won't be gathered in some ashes' amphora
On a table, in the empty room: here is no ptyx,
Abolished bauble of sonorous uselessness,
(Since the Master's gone to draw tears from the Styx
With that sole object, vanity of Nothingness).
But near the casement wide to the north,
A gold is dying, in accord with the decor
Perhaps, those unicorns dashing fire at a nixie,
She who, naked and dead in the mirror, yet
In the oblivion enclosed by the frame, is fixed
As soon by scintillations as the septet.
(Note: The septet may indicate the constellation of Ursa Major in the north. )
Sonnet: 'Pour votre chere morte, son ami. . . '
(For your dear departed wife, his friend) 2 November 1877
- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers
You moan, O solitary captive of the threshold,
That this double tomb which our pride should hold's
Cluttered, alas, only with absent weight of flowers.
Unheard Midnight counts out his empty number,
Wakefulness urges you never to close an eye,
Before in the ancient armchair's embrace my
Shade is illuminated by the dying embers.
Who wishes to receive visitations often,
Mustn't load with too many flowers the stone
My finger raises with a dead power's boredom.
A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright,
To exist again, it's enough if I borrow from
Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night. '
To The Sole Concern
To the sole task of voyaging
Beyond an India dark and splendid
- Goes time's messenger, this greeting,
Cape that your stern has doubled
As on some low yard plunging
Along with the vessel riding
Skimmed in constant frolicking
A bird bringing fresh tidings
That without the helm flickering
Shrieked in pure monotones
An utterly useless bearing
Night, despair, and precious stones
Reflected by its singing so
To the smile of pale Vasco.
All Summarised The Soul. . .
All summarised, the soul,
When slowly we breathe it out
In several rings of smoke
By other rings wiped out
Bears witness to some cigar
Burning skilfully while
The ash is separated far
From its bright kiss of fire
Should the choir of romantic art
Fly so towards your lips
Exclude from it if you start
The real because it's cheap
Meaning too precise is sure
To void your dreamy literature.
What Silk. . .
What silk of time's sweet balm
Where the Chimera tires himself
Is worth the coils and natural cloud
You tend before the mirror's calm?
The blanks of meditating flags
Stand high along our avenue:
But I've your naked tresses too
To bury there my contented eyes.
No! The mouth cannot be sure
Of tasting anything in its bite
Unless your princely lover cares
In that mighty brush of hair
To breathe out, like a diamond,
The cry of Glory stifled there.
To Introduce Myself. . .
To introduce myself to your story
It's as the frightened hero
If he touched with naked toe
A blade of territory
Prejudicial to glaciers I
Know of no sin's naivety
Whose loud laugh of victory
You won't have then denied
Say if I'm not filled with joyousness
Thunder and rubies to the hubs no less
To see in the air this fire is piercing
With royal kingdoms far scattering,
The wheel, crimson, as if in dying,
Of my chariot's single evening.
Crushed by. . . .
Crushed by the overwhelming cloud
Depth of basalt and lavas
By even the enslaved echoes
Of a trumpet without power
What sepulchral shipwreck (you
Know it, slobbering there, foam)
Among hulks the supreme one
Flattened the naked mast too
Or that which, furious mistake
Of some noble ill-fate
All the vain abyss spread wide
In the so-white hair's trailing
Would have drowned miser-like
The childish flank of some Siren.
My Books. . .
My books closed again on Paphos' name,
It delights me to choose with solitary genius
A ruin, by foam-flecks in thousands blessed
Beneath hyacinth, far off, in days of fame.
Let the cold flow with its silence of scythes,
I'll not ululate here in a 'no' that's empty
If this frolic so white near the ground denies
To each site the honour of false scenery.
My hunger regaled by no fruits here I see
Finds equal taste in their learned deficiency:
Let one burst with human fragrance and flesh!
While my love pokes the fire, foot on cold iron
I brood for a long time perhaps with distress
On the other's seared breast of an ancient Amazon.
Sigh
My soul, towards your brow where O calm sister,
An autumn dreams, blotched by reddish smudges,
And towards the errant sky of your angelic eye
Climbs: as in a melancholy garden the true sigh
Of a white jet of water towards the Azure!
- To the Azure that October stirred, pale, pure,
That in the vast pools mirrors infinite languor,
And over dead water, where the leaves wander
The wind, in russet throes, dig their cold furrow,
Allows a long ray of yellow light to flow.
Homage
Each Dawn however numb
To raise a fist obscure
Against trumpets of azure
Sounded by her, the dumb,
Has the shepherd with his gourd
Joined to a rod struck harshly
Along the path to be
Till the vast stream's outpoured
Already thus solitary
You live O Puvis
De Chavannes
never alone
Lead our age to quench its thirst
From the shroud-less nymph, the one
Whom your glory will rehearse
. . . Mysticis umbraculis
She slept: her finger trembled, amethyst-less
And naked, under her nightdress:
After a deep sigh, ceased, cambric raised to her waist.
And her belly seemed of snow on which might rest,
If a ray of light re-gilded the forest,
A bright goldfinch's mossy nest.
Fan
(Of Mery Laurent)
Frigid roses to last
Identically will interrupt
With a calyx, white, abrupt,
Your breath become frost
But freed by my fluttering
By shock profound, the sheaf
Of frigidity melts to relief
Of laughter's rapturous flowering.
In carving out the sky
Like a fine fan you ply
Outdoing that phial's glass
Without loss or violation
Unable to hold fast
Mery's sweet emanation.
O so dear
O so dear from far and near and white all
So deliciously you, Mery, that I dream
Of what impossibly flows, of some rare balm
Over some flower-vase of darkened crystal.
Do you know it, yes! For me, for years, here,
Forever, your dazzling smile prolongs
The one rose with its perfect summer gone
Into times past, yet then on into the future.
My heart that sometimes at night tries to confer,
Or name you most tender with whatever last word
Rejoices in that which whispers none but sister -
Were it not, such short tresses so great a treasure,
That you teach me a sweetness, quite other,
Soft through the kiss murmured only in your hair.
(Note: Dated 1895. This being one of the series of poems written for Mery Laurent, a friend also of Manet and others. )
Sonnet
(Mery, sans trop d'aurore. . . )
Mery,
Without dawn too grossly now inflaming
The rose, that splendid, natural and weary
Sheds even her heavy veil of perfumes to hear
Beneath the flesh the diamond weeping,
Yes, without those dewy crises! And gently,
Unbroken when the sky fills with storm,
Jealous to add who knows what spaces
To simple day the day so true in feeling,
Does it not seem, Mery, that each year,
Where spontaneous grace relights your brow,
Suffices, in so many aspects and for me,
Like a lone fan with which a room's surprised,
To refresh with as little pain as is needed here
All our inborn and unvarying friendship.
Autumn Plaint
Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or you green Venus? - I have always loved solitude. How many long days I have passed alone with my cat. By alone I mean without a material being, and my cat is a mystic companion, a spirit. I can say then that I have passed long days alone with my cat and alone with one of the last authors of the Roman decadence; for since the white creature is no more I have loved, uniquely and strangely, everything summed up in the word: fall. So, in the year, my favourite season is the last slow part of summer that just precedes autumn, and, in the day, the hour when I walk is when the sun hesitates before vanishing, with rays of yellow bronze over the grey walls, and rays of red copper over the tiles. Literature, also, from which my spirit asks voluptuousness, that will be the agonised poetry of Rome's last moments, so long as it does not breathe a breath of the reinvigorated stance of the Barbarians or stammer in childish Latin like Christian prose. I was reading then one of those dear poems (whose flakes of rouge have more charm for me than young flesh), and dipping a hand into the pure animal fur, when a street organ sounded languishingly and sadly under my window. It was playing in the great alley of poplars whose leaves, even in spring, seem mournful to me since Maria passed by them, on her last journey, lying among candles. The instrument of sadnesses, yes, certainly: the piano flashes, the violin gives off light from its torn fibres, but the street organ in memory's half-light made me dream despairingly. Now it murmured a delightfully common song that filled the faubourgs with joy, an old, banal tune: why did its words pierce my soul and make me cry, like any romantic ballad? I savoured it slowly and did not throw a coin through the window for fear of troubling my spirit and discovering that not only the instrument was playing.
Sea Breeze
The flesh is sad, alas! - and I've read all the books.
Let's go! Far off. Let's go! I sense
That the birds, intoxicated, fly
Deep into unknown spume and sky!
Nothing - not even old gardens mirrored by eyes -
Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea,
O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,
On the void of paper, that whiteness defends,
No, not even the young woman feeding her child.
I shall go! Steamer, straining at your ropes
Lift your anchor towards an exotic rawness!
A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope
Still believes in the last goodbye of handkerchiefs!
And perhaps the masts, inviting lightning,
Are those the gale bends over shipwrecks,
Lost, without masts, without masts, no fertile islands. . .
But, oh my heart, listen to the sailors' chant!
Index of First Lines
Nothing, this foam, virgin verse
Princess! To be jealous of a Hebe's fate
Possessed by some demon now a negress
I don't come to conquer your flesh tonight, O beast
The sun, on the sand, O sleeping wrestler,
Eyes, lakes of my simple passion to be reborn
I bring you the child of an Idumean night!
These nymphs, I would perpetuate them.
To you, gone emblem of our happiness!
Such as eternity at last transforms into Himself,
The buried shrine shows at its sewer-mouth's
The black rock enraged that the north wind rolls it on
Hyperbole! From my memory
With nothing of language but
O dreamer, that I may dive
All at once, as if in play,
Not meaningless flurries like
Any solitude
When the shadow with fatal law menaced me
The virginal, living and lovely day
Victoriously the grand suicide fled
Her pure nails on high dedicating their onyx,
- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers
To the sole task of voyaging
All summarised, the soul,
What silk of time's sweet balm
To introduce myself to your story
Crushed by the overwhelming cloud
My books closed again on Paphos' name,
My soul, towards your brow where O calm sister,
Each Dawn however numb
She slept: her finger trembled, amethyst-less
Frigid roses to last
O so dear from far and near and white all
Mery,
Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or you
The flesh is sad, alas! - and I've read all the books.
Poetry in
Translation
HOME NEWS ABOUT LINKS CONTACT SEARCH
Stephane Mallarme
Un coup de des jamais n'abolira le hasard
(A throw of the dice will never abolish chance)
The game is done!
'The game is done! '
Gustave Dore (1832 - 1910), The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Coleridge
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Translated by A. S. Kline (C) Copyright 2007 All Rights Reserved
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Contents
Translator's Introduction
Mallarme's Preface of 1897
The French Text
The French Text - Compressed, and Punctuated
The English Translation
The English Translation - Compressed, and Punctuated
Translator's Introduction
The French text displayed here is as close as I could achieve to that printed in the edition of July 1914, which produced a definitive version superseding the original publication of 1897. The English 'translation' is offered as an equivalent text to, or interpretation of, the original. The compressed and punctuated translation is offered as an aid to grasping the poem as a whole, in a swift reading.
Mallarme's Preface of 1897
'I would prefer that this Note was not read, or, skimmed, was forgotten; it tells the knowledgeable reader little that is beyond his or her penetration: but may confuse the uninitiated, prior to their looking at the first words of the Poem, since the ensuing words, laid out as they are, lead on to the last, with no novelty except the spacing of the text. The 'blanks' indeed take on importance, at first glance; the versification demands them, as a surrounding silence, to the extent that a fragment, lyrical or of a few beats, occupies, in its midst, a third of the space of paper: I do not transgress the measure, only disperse it. The paper intervenes each time as an image, of itself, ends or begins once more, accepting a succession of others, and, since, as ever, it does nothing, of regular sonorous lines or verse - rather prismatic subdivisions of the Idea, the instant they appear, and as long as they last, in some precise intellectual performance, that is in variable positions, nearer to or further from the implicit guiding thread, because of the verisimilitude the text imposes. The literary value, if I am allowed to say so, of this print-less distance which mentally separates groups of words or words themselves, is to periodically accelerate or slow the movement, the scansion, the sequence even, given one's simultaneous sight of the page: the latter taken as unity, as elsewhere the Verse is or perfect line. Imagination flowers and vanishes, swiftly, following the flow of the writing, round the fragmentary stations of a capitalised phrase introduced by and extended from the title. Everything takes place, in sections, by supposition; narrative is avoided. In addition this use of the bare thought with its retreats, prolongations, and flights, by reason of its very design, for anyone wishing to read it aloud, results in a score. The variation in printed characters between the dominant motif, a secondary one and those adjacent, marks its importance for oral utterance and the scale, mid-way, at top or bottom of the page will show how the intonation rises or falls. (Only certain very bold instructions of mine, encroachments etc. forming the counterpoint to this prosody, a work which lacks precedent, have been left in a primitive state: not because I agree with being timid in my attempts; but because it is not for me, save by a special pagination or volume of my own, in a Periodical so courageous, gracious and accommodating as it shows itself to be to real freedom, to act too contrary to custom. I will have shown, in the Poem below, more than a sketch, a 'state' which yet does not entirely break with tradition; will have furthered its presentation in many ways too, without offending anyone; sufficing to open a few eyes (This applies to the 1897 printing specifically: translator's note). Today, without presuming anything about what will emerge from this in future, nothing, or almost a new art, let us readily accept that the tentative participates, with the unforeseen, in the pursuit, specific and dear to our time, of free verse and the prose poem. Their meeting takes place under an influence, alien I know, that of Music heard in concert; one finds there several techniques that seem to me to belong to Literature, I reclaim them. The genre, which is becoming one, like the symphony, little by little, alongside personal poetry, leaves intact the older verse; for which I maintain my worship, and to which I attribute the empire of passion and dreams, though this may be the preferred means (as follows) of dealing with subjects of pure and complex imagination or intellect: which there is no remaining justification for excluding from Poetry - the unique source. '
The French Text
Un Coup de Des - Page 1
Un Coup de Des - Page 2
Un Coup de Des - Page 3
Un Coup de Des - Page 4
Un Coup de Des - Page 5
Un Coup de Des - Page 6
Un Coup de Des - Page 7
Un Coup de Des - Page 8
Un Coup de Des - Page 9
Un Coup de Des - Page 10
Un Coup de Des - Page 11
The French Text - Compressed, and Punctuated
UN COUP DE DES JAMAIS, QUAND BIEN MEME LANCE DANS DES CIRCONSTANCES ETERNELLES DU FOND D'UN NAUFRAGE, Soit que l'Abime blanchi, etale, furieux sous une inclinaison planche desesperement d'aile, la sienne, par avance retombee d'un mal a dresser le vol et couvrant les jaillissements, coupant au ras les bonds tres a l'interieur resume l'ombre enfouie dans la profondeur, par cette voile alternative jusqu'adapter sa beante profondeur entant que la coque d'un batiment penche de l'un ou l'autre bord
LE MAITRE, hors d'anciens calculs, ou la manoeuvre avec l'age oubliee surgi jadis, il empoignait la barre inferant de cette configuration a ses pieds de l'horizon unanime, que se prepare s'agite et mele au poing qui l'etreindrait, comme on menace un destin et les vents, l'unique Nombre, qui ne peut pas etre un autre Esprit, pour le jeter dans la tempete en reployer la division et passer fier; hesite, cadavre par le bras ecarte du secret qu'il detient plutot que de jouer, en maniaque: chenu la partie au nom des flots, un envahit le chef, coule en barbe, soumise naufrage, cela direct de l'homme sans nef, n'importe ou vaine
ancestralement a n'ouvrir pas la main crispee par dela l'inutile tete, legs en la disparition, a quelqu'un ambigu, l'ulterieur demon immemorial, ayant de contrees nulles induit le vieillard vers cette conjonction supreme avec la probabilite, celui son ombre puerile caressee et polie et rendue et lavee assouplie par la vague, et soustraite aux durs os perdus entre les ais ne d'un ebat, la mer par l'aieul tentant ou l'aieul contre la mer, une chance oiseuse, Fiancailles dont le voile d'illusion rejailli leur hantise, ainsi que le fantome d'un geste chancellera, s'affalera, folie N'ABOLIRA
COMME SI Une insinuation simple au silence, enroulee avec ironie, ou le mystere precipite, hurle, dans quelque proche tourbillon d'hilarite et d'horreur, voltige autour du gouffre sans le joncher ni fuir et en berce le vierge indice COMME SI
plume solitaire eperdue, sauf que la rencontre ou l'effleure une toque de minuit et immobilise au velours chiffonne par un esclaffement sonore, cette blancheur rigide, derisoire en opposition au ciel, trop pour ne pas marquer exigument quiconque prince amer de l'ecueil, s'en coiffe comme de l'heroique, irresistible mais contenu par sa petite raison, virile en foudre
soucieux expiatoire et pubere muet rire que SI La lucide et seigneuriale aigrette de vertige au front invisible scintille, puis ombrage, une stature mignonne tenebreuse, debout en sa torsion de sirene, le temps de souffleter, par d'impatientes squames ultimes, bifurquees, un roc faux manoir tout de suite evapore en brumes qui imposa une borne a l'infini
C'ETAIT LE NOMBRE, issu stellaire, EXISTAT-IL autrement qu'hallucination eparse, d'agonie; COMMENCAT-IL ET CESSAT-IL, sourdant que nie, et clos, quand apparu enfin, par quelque profusion repandue en rarete; SE CHIFFRAT-IL evidence de la somme, pour peu qu'une; ILLUMINAT-IL, CE SERAIT, pire non davantage ni moins indifferemment mais autant, LE HASARD Choit la plume, rythmique suspens du sinistre, s'ensevelir aux ecumes originelles nagueres, d'ou sursauta son delire jusqu'a une cime fletrie par la neutralite identique du gouffre
RIEN de la memorable crise ou se fut l'evenement accompli, en vue de tout resultat nul humain, N'AURA EU LIEU, une elevation ordinaire verse l'absence QUE LE LIEU inferieur clapotis quelconque, comme pour disperser l'acte vide abruptement, qui sinon par son mensonge eut fonde la perdition, dans ces parages du vague, en quoi toute realite se dissout
EXCEPTE a l'altitude PEUT-ETRE, aussi loin qu'un endroit fusionne avec au-dela, hors l'interet quant a lui signale, en general, selon telle obliquite, par telle declivite de feux, vers ce doit etre le Septentrion aussi Nord UNE CONSTELLATION froide d'oubli et de desuetude, pas tant qu'elle n'enumere, sur quelque surface vacante et superieure, le heurt successif, sideralement, d'un compte total en formation, veillant, doutant, roulant, brillant et meditant avant de s'arreter a quelque point dernier qui le sacre Toute pensee emet un Coup de Des.
The English Translation
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The English Translation - Compressed, and Punctuated
ATHROW OF THE DICE NEVER, EVEN WHEN TRULY CAST IN THE ETERNAL CIRCUMSTANCE OF A SHIPWRECK'S DEPTH, Can be only the Abyss raging, whitened, stalled beneath the desperately sloping incline of its own wing, through an advance falling back from ill to take flight, and veiling the gushers, restraining the surges, gathered far within the shadow buried deep by that alternative sail, almost matching its yawning depth to the wingspan, like a hull of a vessel rocked from side to side
THE MASTER, beyond former calculations, where the lost manoeuvre with the age rose implying that formerly he grasped the helm of this conflagration of the concerted horizon at his feet, that readies itself; moves; and merges with the blow that grips it, as one threatens fate and the winds, the unique Number, which cannot be another Spirit, to hurl it into the storm, relinquish the cleaving there, and pass proudly; hesitates, a corpse pushed back by the arm from the secret, rather than taking sides, a hoary madman, on behalf of the waves: one overwhelms the head, flows through the submissive beard, straight shipwreck that, of the man without a vessel, empty no matter where
ancestrally never to open the fist clenched beyond the helpless head, a legacy, in vanishing, to someone ambiguous, the immemorial ulterior demon having, from non-existent regions, led the old man towards this ultimate meeting with probability, this his childlike shade caressed and smoothed and rendered supple by the wave, and shielded from hard bone lost between the planks born of a frolic, the sea through the old man or the old man against the sea, making a vain attempt, an Engagement whose dread the veil of illusion rejected, as the phantom of a gesture will tremble, collapse, madness, WILL NEVER ABOLISH
AS IF A simple insinuation into silence, entwined with irony, or the mystery hurled, howled, in some close swirl of mirth and terror, whirls round the abyss without scattering or dispersing and cradles the virgin index there AS IF
a solitary plume overwhelmed, untouched, that a cap of midnight grazes, or encounters, and fixes, in crumpled velvet with a sombre burst of laughter, that rigid whiteness, derisory, in opposition to the heavens, too much so not to signal closely any bitter prince of the reef, heroically adorned with it, indomitable, but contained by his petty reason, virile in lightning
anxious expiatory and pubescent dumb laughter that IF the lucid and lordly crest of vertigo on the invisible brow sparkles, then shades, a slim dark tallness, upright in its siren coiling, at the moment of striking, through impatient ultimate scales, bifurcated, a rock a deceptive manor suddenly evaporating in fog that imposed limits on the infinite
IT WAS THE NUMBER, stellar outcome, WERE IT TO HAVE EXISTED other than as a fragmented, agonised hallucination; WERE IT TO HAVE BEGUN AND ENDED, a surging that denied, and closed, when visible at last, by some profusion spreading in sparseness; WERE IT TO HAVE AMOUNTED to the fact of the total, though as little as one; WERE IT TO HAVE LIGHTED, IT WOULD BE, worse no more nor less indifferently but as much, CHANCE Falls the plume, rhythmic suspense of the disaster, to bury itself in the original foam, from which its delirium formerly leapt to the summit faded by the same neutrality of abyss
NOTHING of the memorable crisis where the event matured, accomplished in sight of all non-existent human outcomes, WILL HAVE TAKEN PLACE a commonplace elevation pours out absence BUT THE PLACE some lapping below, as if to scatter the empty act abruptly, that otherwise by its falsity would have plumbed perdition, in this region of vagueness, in which all reality dissolves
EXCEPT at the altitude PERHAPS, as far as a place fuses with, beyond, outside the interest signalled regarding it, in general, in accord with such obliquity, through such declination of fire, towards what must be the Wain also North A CONSTELLATION cold with neglect and desuetude, not so much though that it fails to enumerate, on some vacant and superior surface, the consecutive clash, sidereally, of a final account in formation, attending, doubting, rolling, shining and meditating before stopping at some last point that crowns it All Thought expresses a Throw of the Dice
Poetry in
Translation
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Stephane Mallarme
Fragments - Anatole's Tomb
Die Toteninsel / The Isle of the Dead
'Die Toteninsel / The Isle of the Dead'
Arnold Bocklin (1827-1901), Wikimedia Commons
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Translated by A. S. Kline (C) Copyright 2009 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Introduction
Mallarme's second child, Anatole, born July 1871, became seriously ill when he was seven years old. He suffered from rheumatic fever complicated by an enlarged heart, and died in October 1879, aged eight. Mallarme left a series of fragments for a four-part poetic memorial, a 'tomb'. He was emotionally and artistically unable to forge a finished work from them. This translation or rather adaptation contains many of the two hundred or so fragments, in some cases fragments of the fragments, excluding things I found too partial or obscure to resonate. I have not followed original spacing exactly, except where it genuinely appears to add impact to the verse. Despite being fragments the pieces communicate some part of the loss suffered, and the thoughts engendered, by the child's death, and therefore any child's death, any such tragedy. Mallarme's spiritual position is taken to be atheistic, and therefore religious assumptions should not be made in interpreting these fragments.
The content is however universal enough, I think, for a reader of any spiritual persuasion to respond in their own manner, within their own belief system.
The Fragments
1.
Child emerged from
us both - showing us
our ideal, the way
- for us! A father
mother surviving him
in sad existence
like two extremes -
ill fused in him
that are parted
-hence his death -
cancelling this small
child's 'self'
2.
Ill in
spring time
Dead in autumn
- the sun
3.
Son
re-absorbed
not gone
it is he
- or his brother
I
myself said it
to him
two brothers
4.
- image of I
other than I
taken in
death!
5.
what takes refuge
in me your future
becomes a
purity for life,
which I shall
not touch -
6.
To pray to the dead
(not for them)
- need
for the child here
- his absence
because of the true dead
only a child!
7.
Hands join
towards him not
to be touched -
but who is -
- whom a space
distances -
8.
To resurrect
- to construct
with his
lucidity - this
work - too
vast for me
and thus
depriving me
of life, sacrificing
it if it is
not for the work
- to be him grown,
deprived - and
do it without
fear of toying
with his death -
if I sacrificed
life for him -
if I accepted
this death
as my own
9.
Exemplar
we have known
through you this 'more
than ourselves'
which often escapes
us - and will be
in us - in our
actions, now
child, sowing
the ideal
10.
Father mother
vowing never
another child
- grave that he dug
life ends there
11.
Useless
remedies
abandoned
if nature
wished it not
I would
take myself
for one dead
balms mere
consolations for us
- doubt
then not, their reality!
12.
Child our
immortality
made in fact
of lost human
hopes - son -
entrusted to woman
by a man
no longer young
despairing of finding
the mystery
taking a wife
13.
Ill
since the day when death
installed itself - marked by
malady -
no longer himself already, but
the one we would wish
to see again later
beyond death -
summing up death and
corruption - appearing
so, with his sickness
and pallor
14.
Ill - to be naked
as the child -
appearing to us
- we profit from those
hours, when death
stricken
he lives
still, and
is still ours
title: poetry of
the malady
15.
With the gift of words
I could have made you
yourselfchild of the work
kingmade of you
instead
-no, sadof the son
in us
- made you- of
task
no-
yet he
remember theproves
that he
bad days -was such -
played
mouth closedthat role!
native
speech-
forgotten
it is I who have
aided you since
16.
- Have brought back in
you the child -
youth or sickness
of history learned
forgottenfrom which
nothing
I would not have
suffered - to be
in my turn
studying only that
-death
17.
Then - you would only
have been me
- since I am
here - lonely, sad -
- no, I remember
a childhood -
- yours
twin voices
but without you
I'd not have - known
18.
So it is I,
hands accursed -
who bequeathed you!
- silence
(he forgives)
19.
Oh! Leave. . . us
at this word
- that merges
us both
- unites us
finally -
since who has
spoken it
yours
20.
- All this transformation
once barbarous and
material
external -
now
moral
and within
21.
No brother sister
ever the absent one
shall not be less than
those present -
22.
to feel it burst
in the night
the immense void
produced by what
would be his life
- because he cannot
know -
he is dead
lightning?
23.
Moment when one must
break with the
living memory,
to inter it
- place it in the coffin,
hide it - with
the brutality of
placing it there,
raw contact
to see it no longer
except as idealised -
later, no longer him
living, there - but
the germ of his being
taken back into itself -
the germ allowing
thought for him
- sight of him
vision (ideality
of state) and
speech for him
for in us, pure
him, a refining
- become our
honour, the source
of our finer
feelings -
true re-entry
into the ideal
24.
Death's treacherous
blow - of
which he
evil
knew nothing
- in my turn
to toy with it, the
one thing childhood
knows nothing of
25.
hour of the
empty room
-
until it is
opened
perhaps everything
follows thus
(morally)
26.
You can, with your
weak hands, drag me
into your grave - you
have the right -
- I myself
who follow you, I, I
let myself fall -
- yet if you
wish, together,
let us both make. . .
an alliance
a magnificent bond,
- and the life
remaining in me
I will employ
for. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
27.
You watch me
I cannot tell you
the truth yet
I dare not, too little one,
What has happened to you
-
One day I will tell it
to you
- for as a man
I'd not wish you
not to know
your fate
-
or man
dead child
28.
No - not
one of the great
deaths -
- as long as we
ourselves live, he
lives - in us
it is only after we're
dead he will be so
- and the bell that tolls
for the Dead will toll for
him
29.
- And let us speak
of what
we both know
we two
mystery
30.
Oh! Make us
suffer
you who
thought so
little of it - all
that equates to
your life, painful in
shattered
us
while you
glide, free
31.
And you, his sister
you who one day
- (that gulf open
since his death
that follows us
to our own -
when we
your mother and I
have vanished there)
must, one day,
unite us all
three in your thoughts,
your memory. . .
-as in
a single tomb
you who, in
turn, will come
upon this tomb, not
made for you -
32.
Sunset
and wind
now vanished, a
wind of nothing
that breathes
(the emptiness
? modern, there)
33.
Tears, flood
of lucidity, the dead
seen again,
beyond
34.
Death - whispers low
- I am no one -
do not even know myself
(for the dead do not
know they're
dead - nor that they're
dying
- children
at least
- or
heroes - sudden
deaths
for my beauty's
made otherwise
of last
moments -
lucidity, beauty
face - of
what would be
I, without I
for as soon as
(one is,
I am -
dead) I cease
to be -
made then of
premonitions, of
intuitions, ultimate
frissons - I
am not -
yet in the ideal
state
and for those
others, tears,
mourning, all that -
and it's my
shade, ignorance
of myself, that
dresses in mourning
35.
Illness to which
one clings
wanting it
to endure, to possess
him longer
36.
Death - ridiculous enemy
- who cannot impose on the child
the notion that you exist!
37.
No more life for
me
and I sense myself
lying there in the grave
beside you.
38.
Death
only consolation
exists, thoughts - balm
but what is done
is done - we cannot
return to the absolute
contained in death -
- and yet
to show that if,
life once abstracted,
the happiness of being
together, all that - such
consolation in its turn
has its root - its base -
absolute - in what
(if we wish
for example a
dead being to live in
us, thought -
is his being, his
thought in effect)
ever he has of the best
that transpires, through our
love and the care
we take
of being -
(being, being
simply moral and
about thought)
there is in that a
magnificent beyond
that rediscovers its
truth - so much
purer and lovelier than
the absolute rupture
of death - become
little by little as illusory
as absolute ( so we're
allowed to seem
to forget the pain)
- as this illusion
of survival in
us, becomes absolutely
illusory - (there is
unreality in both
cases) has been terrible
and true
39.
Earth - you lack
a single plant
- to what purpose -
- I who
honour you -
flowers,
vain beauty
40.
His eyes
watch me, double
and sufficient
- already taken by
absence and the void
all to unite there?
41.
Man and
absence -
the spiritual
twin with which
he blends when he
dreams, reflects
- absence, alone
after death, once
the pious
interment of the
body, creates
mysteriously - that
agreed fiction
42.
Slow to be sacrifice
earth alters him
all this time
pain eternal
and dumb
43.
What! death
in its vastness - terrible
death
to strike down so
small a being
I say to deathcoward
ah! it is in us
not beyond
44.
He has dug our
grave
in dying
the burial plot
45.
Oh! If the eyes of the dead
had greater power
than those, most beautiful
of the living
if they could draw you in
46.
After-effect
immortality
thanks to
our love
- he prolongs us
beyond
in exchange
we give back
life to him
in deepening
our thought
47.
Earth - gap gaping and
never to be filled
- but by sky
- indifferent earth
grave
not flowers
wreaths, our
joys and our life
48.
No, you are not one of the dead
- you will not be among
the dead, always in us
49.
it becomes a
joy (a bitter
enough thing) for us -
and unjust to him
who rests below, and is
in reality deprived
of all that with which
we associate him.
50.
I -
perhaps -
the ambiguity
that might be!
pain and sweet
joys
of the ghostly
sufferer
51.
Vision
endlessly purified
by my tears
52.
Ah! Adored heart
O my image
beyond of too vast
destinies -
only a child
like you -
I dream
still
all alone -
in the future
53.
Ah! Truly you know
that if I consent
to live - to seem
to forget you -
it is to
nourish my pain
- and so this apparent
forgetfulness
can pour out more
fully in tears, at
some moment
in the midst of this
life, when you
appear to me
54.
Time - it takes
for a body to decompose
in earth - (confounded
little by little
with neutral earth
in vast horizons)
it is then he
let's go of the pure
spirit one
was - which was
bound to him,
organised - which
can take refuge
pure in us,
to reign
in us,
the survivors
absolute purity
on which
time pivots and
re-forms
55.
I sense it in myself
wanting - if not
the life lost,
at least the
equivalent -
the death
- where one is stripped
of body
- in those who remain
56.
- Oh! I
sense you
so strongly - and that you
always feel
well with us,
the parents - but
free, child
eternal, and at once
everywhere -
57.
To close the eyes
I - do not want to
close the eyes -
that will watch
me always
58.
Let us speak of him
again, let us extinguish
- in reality, silence
59.
True mourning in
rooms
- not the cemetery -
to find only
absence -
- in presence
of things
60.
And he
the father -
who constructs
a tomb
- won't his spirit
go seeking the traces of
destruction - and transmute
into pure spirit?
so deeply that
purity emerges from
the corruption!
61.
No - I will not
relinquish
nothingness
a father - I
sense the nothingness
invading me
62.
May my thought
make for him a
more beautiful
purer life.
63.
Wreaths
One feels obliged
to throw into this earth
that opens before
the child - the loveliest
wreaths of flowers -
the loveliest flowery
products, of that
earth - sacrificed
- in order to veil
or pay his toll
for him
64.
