No More Learning

Poetry in
Translation
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Stephane Mallarme

Selected Poems

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Translated by A. S. Kline (C) Copyright 2004-2009 All Rights Reserved

This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.

Contents

A Toast
Futile Petition
A Negress
Distress
Summer Sadness
The Clown Chastised
The Poem's Gift
L'Apres-midi d'un Faune
Funeral Libation (At Gautier's Tomb)
The Tomb of Edgar Allan Poe
The Tomb of Charles Baudelaire
Tomb (Of Verlaine)
Prose
A Fan
Another Fan
Album Leaf
Note
Little Air
Sonnet: 'Quand l'ombre menaca. . . '
Sonnet: 'Le vierge, le vivace. . . '
Sonnet: 'Victorieusement fui le suicide. . . '
Sonnet: 'Ses purs ongles tres haut. . . '
Sonnet: 'Pour votre chere morte, son ami. . . '
To The Sole Concern
All Summarised The Soul. . .
What Silk. . .
To Introduce Myself. . .
Crushed by. . . .
My Books. . .
Sigh
Homage
. . . Mysticis umbraculis
Fan
O so dear
Sonnet
Autumn Plaint
Sea Breeze
Index of First Lines
A Toast

Nothing, this foam, virgin verse

Depicting the chalice alone:

Far off a band of Sirens drown

Many of them head first.

We sail, O my various

Friends, I already at the stern,

You at the lavish prow that churns

The lightning's and the winters' flood:

A sweet intoxication urges me

Despite pitching, tossing, fearlessly

To offer this toast while standing

Solitude, reef, and starry veil

To whatever's worthy of knowing

The white anxiety of our sail.

Futile Petition

Princess! In jealousy of a Hebe's fate

Rising over this cup at your lips' kisses,

I spend my fires with the slender rank of prelate

And won't even figure naked on Sevres dishes.

Since I'm not your pampered poodle,

Pastille, rouge or sentimental game

And know your shuttered glance at me too well,

Blonde whose hairdressers have goldsmiths' names!

Name me. . . you whose laughters strawberry-crammed

Are mingling with a flock of docile lambs

Everywhere grazing vows bleating joy the while,

Name me. . . so that Love winged with a fan

Paints me there, lulling the fold, flute in hand,

Princess, name me the shepherd of your smiles.


A Negress

Possessed by some demon now a negress

Would taste a girl-child saddened by strange fruits

Forbidden ones too under the ragged dress,

This glutton's ready to try a trick or two:

To her belly she twins two fortunate tits

And, so high that no hand knows how to seize her,

Thrusts the dark shock of her booted legs

Just like a tongue unskilled in pleasure.

Facing the timorous nakedness of the gazelle

That trembles, on her back like an elephant gone wild,

Waiting upside down, she keenly admires herself,

Laughing with her bared teeth at the child:

And, between her legs where the victim's couched,

Raising the black flesh split beneath its mane,

Advances the palate of that alien mouth

Pale, rosy as a shell from the Spanish Main.


Distress

I don't come to conquer your flesh tonight, O beast

In whom are the sins of the race, nor to stir

In your foul tresses a mournful tempest

Beneath the fatal boredom my kisses pour:

A heavy sleep without those dreams that creep

Under curtains alien to remorse, I ask of your bed,

Sleep you can savour after your dark deceits,

You who know more of Nothingness than the dead.

For Vice, gnawing this inborn nobleness of mine

Marked me, like you, with its sterility,

But shroud-haunted, pale, destroyed, I flee

While that heart no tooth of any crime

Can wound lives in your breast of stone,

Frightened of dying while I sleep alone.

Summer Sadness

The sun, on the sand, O sleeping wrestler,

Warms a languid bath in the gold of your hair,

Melting the incense on your hostile features,

Mixing an amorous liquid with the tears.

The immutable calm of this white burning,

O my fearful kisses, makes you say, sadly,

'Will we ever be one mummified winding,

Under the ancient sands and palms so happy? '

But your tresses are a tepid river,

Where the soul that haunts us drowns, without a shiver

And finds the Nothingness you cannot know!

I'll taste the unguent of your eyelids' shore,

To see if it can grant to the heart, at your blow,

The insensibility of stones and the azure.


The Clown Chastised

Eyes, lakes of my simple passion to be reborn

Other than as the actor who gestures with his hand

As with a pen, and evokes the foul soot of the lamps,

Here's a window in the walls of cloth I've torn.

With legs and arms a limpid treacherous swimmer

With endless leaps, disowning the sickness

Hamlet! It's as if I began to build in the ocean depths

A thousand tombs: to vanish still virgin there.

Mirthful gold of a cymbal beaten with fists,

The sun all at once strikes the pure nakedness

That breathed itself out of my coolness of nacre,

Rancid night of the skin, when you swept over me,

Not knowing, ungrateful one, that it was, this make-up,

My whole anointing, drowned in ice-water perfidy.

The Poem's Gift

I bring you the child of an Idumean night!

Black, with pale naked bleeding wings, Light

Through the glass, burnished with gold and spice,

Through panes, still dismal, alas, and cold as ice,

Hurled itself, daybreak, against the angelic lamp.

Palm-leaves! And when it showed this relic, damp,

To that father attempting an inimical smile,

The solitude shuddered, azure, sterile.

O lullaby, with your daughter, and the innocence

Of your cold feet, greet a terrible new being:

A voice where harpsichords and viols linger,

Will you press that breast, with your withered finger,

From which Woman flows in Sibylline whiteness to

Those lips starved by the air's virgin blue?

L'Apres-midi d'un Faune

Eclogue

The Faun

These nymphs, I would perpetuate them.

So bright

Their crimson flesh that hovers there, light

In the air drowsy with dense slumbers.

Did I love a dream?

My doubt, mass of ancient night, ends extreme

In many a subtle branch, that remaining the true

Woods themselves, proves, alas, that I too

Offered myself, alone, as triumph, the false ideal of roses.

Let's see. . . .

or if those women you note

Reflect your fabulous senses' desire!

Faun, illusion escapes from the blue eye,

Cold, like a fount of tears, of the most chaste:

But the other, she, all sighs, contrasts you say

Like a breeze of day warm on your fleece?

No! Through the swoon, heavy and motionless

Stifling with heat the cool morning's struggles

No water, but that which my flute pours, murmurs

To the grove sprinkled with melodies: and the sole breeze

Out of the twin pipes, quick to breathe

Before it scatters the sound in an arid rain,

Is unstirred by any wrinkle of the horizon,

The visible breath, artificial and serene,

Of inspiration returning to heights unseen.


O Sicilian shores of a marshy calm

My vanity plunders vying with the sun,

Silent beneath scintillating flowers, RELATE

'That I was cutting hollow reeds here tamed

By talent: when, on the green gold of distant

Verdure offering its vine to the fountains,

An animal whiteness undulates to rest:

And as a slow prelude in which the pipes exist

This flight of swans, no, of Naiads cower

Or plunge. . . '

Inert, all things burn in the tawny hour

Not seeing by what art there fled away together

Too much of hymen desired by one who seeks there

The natural A: then I'll wake to the primal fever

Erect, alone, beneath the ancient flood, light's power,

Lily! And the one among you all for artlessness.

Other than this sweet nothing shown by their lip, the kiss

That softly gives assurance of treachery,

My breast, virgin of proof, reveals the mystery

Of the bite from some illustrious tooth planted;

Let that go! Such the arcane chose for confidant,

The great twin reed we play under the azure ceiling,

That turning towards itself the cheek's quivering,

Dreams, in a long solo, so we might amuse

The beauties round about by false notes that confuse

Between itself and our credulous singing;

And create as far as love can, modulating,

The vanishing, from the common dream of pure flank

Or back followed by my shuttered glances,

Of a sonorous, empty and monotonous line.


Try then, instrument of flights, O malign

Syrinx by the lake where you await me, to flower again!

I, proud of my murmur, intend to speak at length

Of goddesses: and with idolatrous paintings

Remove again from shadow their waists' bindings:

So that when I've sucked the grapes' brightness

To banish a regret done away with by my pretence,

Laughing, I raise the emptied stem to the summer's sky

And breathing into those luminous skins, then I,

Desiring drunkenness, gaze through them till evening.

O nymphs, let's rise again with many memories.

'My eye, piercing the reeds, speared each immortal

Neck that drowns its burning in the water

With a cry of rage towards the forest sky;

And the splendid bath of hair slipped by

In brightness and shuddering, O jewels!

I rush there: when, at my feet, entwine (bruised

By the languor tasted in their being-two's evil)

Girls sleeping in each other's arms' sole peril:

I seize them without untangling them and run

To this bank of roses wasting in the sun

All perfume, hated by the frivolous shade

Where our frolic should be like a vanished day. '

I adore you, wrath of virgins, O shy

Delight of the nude sacred burden that glides

Away to flee my fiery lip, drinking

The secret terrors of the flesh like quivering

Lightning: from the feet of the heartless one

To the heart of the timid, in a moment abandoned

By innocence wet with wild tears or less sad vapours.

'Happy at conquering these treacherous fears

My crime's to have parted the dishevelled tangle

Of kisses that the gods kept so well mingled:

For I'd scarcely begun to hide an ardent laugh

In one girl's happy depths (holding back

With only a finger, so that her feathery candour

Might be tinted by the passion of her burning sister,

The little one, naive and not even blushing)

Than from my arms, undone by vague dying,

This prey, forever ungrateful, frees itself and is gone,

Not pitying the sob with which I was still drunk. '

No matter! Others will lead me towards happiness

By the horns on my brow knotted with many a tress:

You know, my passion, how ripe and purple already

Every pomegranate bursts, murmuring with the bees:

And our blood, enamoured of what will seize it,

Flows for all the eternal swarm of desire yet.

At the hour when this wood with gold and ashes heaves

A feast's excited among the extinguished leaves:

Etna! It's on your slopes, visited by Venus

Setting in your lava her heels so artless,

When a sad slumber thunders where the flame burns low.

I hold the queen!

O certain punishment. . .

No, but the soul

Void of words, and this heavy body,

Succumb to noon's proud silence slowly:

With no more ado, forgetting blasphemy, I

Must sleep, lying on the thirsty sand, and as I

Love, open my mouth to wine's true constellation!

Farewell to you, both: I go to see the shadow you have become.

Funeral Libation (At Gautier's Tomb)

To you, gone emblem of our happiness!

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.
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

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Un Coup de Des - Page 7

Un Coup de Des - Page 8

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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

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

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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.