An Anthology of Belgian Symbolist Poets
Donald Flanell Friedman Editor
PETER LANG
An Anthology of Belgian Symbolist Poets
Belgian Francophone Library
Donald Flanell Friedman General Editor Vol. 15
PETER LANG
New York y Washington, D.C./Baltimore y Bern Frankfurt am Main y Berlin y Brussels y Vienna y Oxford
An Anthology of Belgian Symbolist Poets
EDITED AND TRANSLATED BY
Donald Flanell Friedman
PETER LANG
New York y Washington, D.C./Baltimore y Bern Frankfurt am Main y Berlin y Brussels y Vienna y Oxford
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA An anthology of Belgian symbolist poets / edited by Donald Flanell Friedman. p. cm. — (Belgian francophone library ; v. 15) Includes bibliographical references. 1. Belgian poetry (French)—20th century. 2. Belgian poetry (French)—19th century. 3. Symbolism (Literary movement)—Belgium. I. Friedman, Donald Flanell. II. Series. PQ3843 .A55 2003 841’.80915—dc21 2002011036 ISBN 0-8204-5594-6 ISSN 1074-6757
DIE DEUTSCHE BIBLIOTHEK-CIP-EINHEITSAUFNAHME Friedman, Donald Flanell: An anthology of Belgian symbolist poets / edited and translated by Donald Flannell Friedman. −New York; Washington, D.C./Baltimore; Bern; Frankfurt am Main; Berlin; Brussels; Vienna; Oxford: Lang. (Belgian Francophone library; Vol. 15) ISBN 0-8204-5594-6
The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council of Library Resources.
© 2003 Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York 275 Seventh Avenue, 28th Floor, New York, NY 10001 www.peterlangusa.com All rights reserved. Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm, xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited. Printed in Germany
For my mother and father
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NOTE TO THE RE-EDITION
It is with pleasure that I again offer this selection of Belgian Symbolist poetry, first published in the Garland World Literature in Translation series in 1992. I remain struck by the visionary immediacy of the Belgian verse achieved in a remarkable efflorescence a century ago. The pleasure is heightened by the fact that the poems will appear in the Belgian Francophone Library. My resounding thanks to the many authors in Europe and the U.S. who have made this a vibrant series. At the Belgian Ministry of Culture, I would like to express gratitude to Marc Quaghebeur with whom I conceived the series, and appreciation to Jean-Luc Outers, who has unfailingly nurtured and supported the series since its inception. They have made this a fruitful collaborative venture. This Anthology of Belgian Symbolist Poets was originally inspired by the work of Anna Balakian, whom I am proud to claim as mentor. The example of this great scholar remains luminous. She combined intellectual penetration, absolute openness to the essence of poetry, and the ability to live life with intense commitment. I would like to express appreciation to the Spanish poet, Francesc Miguel Franch, who generously shared his expertise and poetic insight during the translation process. I am fortunate to enjoy the friendship of scholars of the Belgian fin de siècle, Jane Block, Adrienne Fontainas, Steven Goddard, and Patrick Laude. I am grateful for their profound work and warm rapport. My path has been lit by the creation of Paul Williams and by Elza Willems’ understanding and sustaining friendship. With gratitude, I honor the memory of scholar, Luc Fontainas, who, with characteristic kindness, introduced me to poets included in this anthology. I would like to express warm appreciation to Dr. Madeleine Jacobs for her radiant wisdom and guidance.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets
The encouragement of my mother and father, their sensitivity to all manifestations of beauty, made this work possible. Friederike Zeitlhofer is ever an inspiring and joyous presence, a source of hope in my world. Donald Flanell Friedman Winthrop University February, 2002
CONTENTS Belgian Symbolism: A Poetry of Place and Displacement
1
I. GEORGES RODENBACH Commentary
6
“The indolent mists of autumn . . .” “Le brouillard indolent de l’automne . . .”
8 9
“Deceased are the patrician mansions . . .” “Très défuntes sont les maisons . . .”
8 9
“The ancient church hovers . . .” “La vieille église rêve . . .”
12 13
“My city, beloved sister . . .” “O ville, toi ma soeur . . .”
14 15
“The chamber, sad and weary . . .” “La chambre triste et lasse . . .”
14 15
“Silence: it is the voice which trails . . .” “Silence: c’est la voix qui se traîne . . .”
16 17
“At first, the aquarium seems not to be alive . . .” “L’aquarium d’abord ne semble pas vivant . . .”
16 17
“The long line of streetlamps . . .” “Les réverbères en enfilade . . .”
18 19
“The Night is alone, like a beggar . . .” “La Nuit est seule, comme un pauvre . . .”
20 21
“Sweet is the room . . .” “la chambre, un doux port relégué. . .”
22 23
“During those hours of sad evening . . .” “Aux heures de soir morne . . .”
22 23
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “At evening, they appear . . .” “Aux vitres de notre âme . . .”
24 25
“Water, for the sufferer . . .” “L’Eau, pour qui souffre . . .”
26 27
“O snow, the sweet sound . . .” “O neige, toi la douce endormeuse . . .”
26 27
II.EMILE VERHAEREN Commentary
32
The Corpse La Morte
34 35
The Revolt La Révolte
36 37
The Blade Le Glaive
38 39
The Ill Les Malades
40 41
The Rain La Pluie
44 45
Infinitely Infiniment
48 49
Fatal Flower Fleur Fatale
48 49
To Die Mourir
50 51
London Londres
52 53
Madman’s Song Chanson de Fou
52 53
Tenebrae Ténèbres
56 57
Vesperal Un Soir
56 57
The Rock Le Roc
58 59
The Abandoned Port Le Port Déchu
62 63
Contents
xi
I I I . M AU R I C E M A ET E R LI N C K Commentary
68
Hot House Serre Chaude
70 71
Nocturnal Orison Oraison Nocturne
70 71
Foliage of the Heart Feuillage du Coeur
72 73
Soul Ame
74 75
Prayer Oraison
76 77
Reflections Reflets
78 79
Diving Bell Cloche à Plongeur
80
Round of Tedium Ronde d’Ennui
82 83
Touches Attouchements
84 85
Bell-Glasses Cloches De Verre
88 89
Weary Hunts Chasses Lasses
90 91
Gazes Regards
90 91
Amen Amen
94 95
Hospital Hôpital
94 95
Hothouse of Boredom Serre d’Ennui
98 99
Afternoon Après-midi
98 99
81
Soul of Night Ame de Nuit
100 101
“And if he were ever to return” “Et s’il revenait un jour”
100 101
xii
an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “They killed three sweet little girls” “Ils ont tué trois petites filles”
102 103
“You have lit the lamps” “Vous avez allumé les lampes”
104 105
Canticle of the Virgin Cantique de la Vierge
104 105
“I have searched thirty years” “J’ai cherché trente ans, mes soeurs”
106 107
I V. T H E Y O U N G B E L G I A N S Commentary
110
M AX WA L L E R It’s Raining Il Pleut
112 113
Love-Hotel Amour-Hôtel
112 113
A L B E RT G I RAU D Red Mass Messe Rouge
118 119
Waltz of Chopin Valse de Chopin
118 119
Initiation Initiation
120 121
The Missal Le Missel
120 121
VA L È R E G I L L E The Slumbers of Gold Les Sommeils D’Or
126 127
Legend Légende
126 127
Contents
xiii
I WA N G I L K I N Litanies and Prayer Litanies et Prière
132 133
Prayer Prière
136 137
Psychology Psychologie
138 139
GEORGES KHNOPFF A Evening—Life: Serenity Soir—La Vie: Sérénité
142 143
J E A N D E LV I L L E Magica Magica
146 147
The Holy Book Le Livre Sacré
150 151
Lunar Park Parc Lunaire
150 151
The Horror of the Rain L’Horreur de la Pluie
152 153
The Marmorean Slumbers Les Sommeils de Marbre
152 153
GEORGES MARLOW At Evening I Du Soir
158 159
FERNAND SEVERIN She, Who Will Come A Celle qui Viendra
162 163
xiv
an anthology of belgian symbolist poets GREGOIRE LE ROY Wretchedness Misère
166 167
The Fiancée of Shadows La Fiancée de l’Ombre
166 167
Dimmed Christmases Les Noëls Éteints
168 169
A L B E RT M O C K E L Carmen Carmen
172 173
To the Destroyer A La Faucheuse
172 173
Intoxication Enivrement
174 175
The Prey La Proie
176 177
MARCEL WYSEUR The Spinners Les Fileuses
180 181
The Chapel in the Dunes La Chapelle dans Les Dunes
180 181
A N D R É F O N TA I NAS Jealousy Jalousie
186 187
The Virgins Look at Themselves in the Mirrors Les Vierges se Mirent dans les Miroirs
186 187
The Estuaries of Shadows VI Les Estuaires de l’Ombre VI
188 189
The Estuaries of Shadows VIII Les Estuaires de l’Ombre VIII
190 191
Your Eyes Tes Yeux
190 191
Contents
xv
V. M A X E L S K A M P Commentary
194
In Memorium In Memoriam
196 197
Song of the Rue Saint-Paul no. 7 La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul no. 7
200 201
Blue Night Nuit Bleue
202 203
Silks Soieries
206 207
The Islands Les Iles
208 209
Salome Salome
210 211
V I . C H A R L ES VA N L E R B E RG H E Commentary
216
“Gaze into our depths . . .” “Regarde au fond de nous . . .”
218 219
“Place your pale diadem . . .” “Mets sur mon front . . .”
218 219
“My resonant angels came . . .” “D’entre les roses de l’aurore . . .”
220 221
“Do you still remember . . .” “Le sais-tu encore, O ma Licorne?”
222 223
“But one night Venus came . . .” “Or, Venus, une nuit . . .”
222 223
“Close now, magic ring . . .” “Ferme-toi, cercle enchanté. . .”
226 227
“The wave is shivering . . .” “L’onde tremble . . .”
230 231
“The radiant fruit of gold shimmers . . .” “Il luit dans l’ombre, le beau fruit . . .”
230 231
xvi
an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “Be absolved by my decree . . .” “Sois absous par ma bouche . . .”
232 233
“Dove! Dove! Enchanted Dove . . .” “Colombe! Colombe! Colombe enchantée . . .”
234 235
“But how to understand and how to name you . . .” “Mais comment vous comprendre . . .”
234 235
“I crossed the ardent forest . . .” “J’ai traversé l’ardent buisson . . .”
236 237
“O God, who could be there . . .” “O Dieu qui donc est là. . .”
240 241
“Through the happiness of twilight . . .” “Ce soir, à travers le bonheur . . .”
240 241
“Along the pale waters . . .” “Au long des eaux pâles . . .”
242 243
“I say, teach me who you are, Azrael . . .” “Apprends-moi, dis-je, qui tu es . . .”
244 245
“O death, dust of stars . . .” “O mort, poussière d’étoiles . . .”
244 245
ILLUSTRATIONS cover: Fernand Khnopff. A Gesture of Offering, 1900, drypoint, Spenser Museum of Art, Lawrence, Kansas. Fernand Khnopff. An Abandoned City. 1904. Royal Museum, Brussels. (photograph courtesy Speltdoorn, Brussels). Fernand Khnopff. At Bruges. A Church Portal. 1904. Royal Museum, Brussels. (photograph courtesy Speltdoorn, Brussels). Fernand Khnopff. Secret-Reflection. 1902. The Groeninge Museum, Bruges. (photograph courtesy Speltdoorn, Brussels). Jean Delville. Expectation, 1903. pencil and charcoal on paper, The Museum of Modern Art, New York, photo The Museum of Modern Art.
10 11 79
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BELGIAN SYMBOLISM: A POETR Y OF PLACE AND DISPLACEMENT
Belgian Symbolism participates in the essence of the international movement, which originated in France and swept Europe at the turn of the century. In its broadest definition, Symbolism is a style and a mystique unconcerned with mimetic representation of objects and events in their historical reality, but with evocation and distillation of mood. The thrust of the movement was to suggest, in indirect discourse, the secrets of interiority, thereby creating an enduring zone of aesthetic experience distanced from the mundane concerns and materialism of society. The elusive and evanescent, the disappearance of the lyric self, masked by the personae of myth and legend, such is the general aura of Symbolism. Within this aura, Belgian Symbolism has its own particular nuance and characteristics which encompass the highly varied and individualistic creation of many young writers—beginning in the 1880’s, with prolongations lasting through the 1920’s—who found artistic renewal in giving expression to the mysterious and uncharted depths of interiority. In the January, 1894 Le Reveil, Victor Remouchamps wrote of the “Interior World”: “We have everything within us. The mind is an ocean of sensations, a universe of visions; but it is necessary to know how to explore it . . .”1 Paradoxically, the key to this exploration was vouchsafed the Belgian Symbolists by means of highly concrete imagery, culled from the exterior world, which became a transparent screen and mirror allowing access to inner states. Emile Verhaeren summarized the essential modality and distinction of Belgian Symbolism in an 1887 article in L’Art Moderne: “One begins with things seen, heard, felt, tasted in order to give rise to evocation. . . .”2 Concrete imagery may dilate, expand in meaning to encompass abstract states of mind. In his well-known response to an inquiry by Jules Huret, Mallarmé had distinguished two types of symbolic usage, either to gradually evoke an object in order to demonstrate a mood or, conversely, to start with an object and, through deciphering, disengage a mood from it.3 The second usage
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets
typifies Belgian poetry of the turn of the century, in which exterior landscape serves as the designation of the interior; the lineaments of the known may suggest the artist’s hidden response to it; subjective deformation of a familiar environment may transform it into an inner and private realm of poetic experience. Belgian Symbolism is a poetry of strangeness and hallucination, precisely because of being rooted, much more so than the Symbolism of France, in a sense of place. Whereas the French Symbolist coterie evoked endless artificial dreamscapes, somnolent, enchanted gardens inhabited by swans, princesses, and such (these are also present in Belgian Symbolism, but to a lesser extent), the strongest of the Belgian poets sought the dreamlike aspects of their own northern environment in order to demonstrate the subtle, ambiguous influence of atmosphere upon those who absorb it. Spatial paradigms for the inner world are recurrent throughout Belgian Symbolism and often take the form of actual cities, no longer sites of community, but the poet’s private realm of introspection. Bruges and Ghent, canal cities of mirroring water, are Georges Rodenbach’s spaces of poetry and delving. A black and labyrinthine London serves Emile Verhaeren as a concretization of spiritual dejection and madness, as do wintry planes and villages of Flanders. The port of Antwerp is the pivot of Max Elskamp’s poetry. The polyglot life of the port is conducive to dreams of distant islands outside of time. The port of Antwerp is Elskamp’s entranceway to many other spaces, often to spaces within spaces, as in a play of Chinese boxes. In number 7 of the Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul, the poet’s native street leads him to a harbor brothel and, within the brothel, to two engravings, Vesuvius and the suspended Brooklyn Bridge, emblems of the fire and waiting which are the modalities of the place. In “Salome,” the space of a theater loge and, beyond, the performance of ballerinas, merges with a fantasy of Herod’s fortress. A length of silk in “Soieries” gainsays entrance into a Persian garden, a world of miniature illumination, evoked in tiny, mincing lines. Spatial paradigms are used to suggest moods of disjunction, isolation, and suffocating disharmony in the poetry of Maurice Maeterlinck. Hothouses, bell-glasses, diving bells, spaces of protection and imprisonment, are models of interiority. Brief notations of aspects of asylums, hospital wards, canal cities enter into uncanny conjunctions in Maeterlinck’s world of confusion, a private theater in which nothing is in its place, “rien n’y est à sa place.” Charles Van Lerberghe, who wrote La Chanson d’Eve from a pastoral retreat in the Ardennes, evokes a series of Edens, distinct spaces, which reflect the moods of the poet-figure, Eve, who enters a state of symbiosis with the world she is the first to perceive, transforming it in her image. This marked primacy of place and the centrality of spatial paradigms for the inner world in Belgian Symbolism may be attributed to feelings of nascent national pride. In 1880, Belgium was a fifty-year-old nation state and, by 1885, Symbolism was the first widespread, multi-national literary movement in which Belgians played an active role. Though sharing a common language with France and a common impetus to deny the contingencies of the mundane world in their art, the Belgian writers could mitigate the force of French cultural imperialism and establish a Belgian presence in the literary world, distinct from their neighbor’s, through cultivation of image
Belgian Symbolism: A Poetry of Place and Displacement
3
repertoires of places, objects, and Flemish or Walloon experiences, by entering into accord with their own geography and rendering it oneiric. As a style, Symbolism has largely become associated with hermeticism, abstraction, purposeful obfuscation which denies entrance into the poem to all but the initiated. Yet, this is not the case with Belgian Symbolism. With its emphasis of concrete imagery and extraction of mood from the visible world, the language of Belgian Symbolism is lucid. Simple language allows the reader to enter the sphere of the suggestive and equivocal. Rodenbach’s poems are often structured around a central conceit, reinforced by many subsidiary metaphors. The accumulation of sensory impressions, comparisons, and uncanny personifications, rather than difficult syntactical distortions, contribute to an atmosphere of uncertainty. In Maeterlinck’s verse, individual lines are usually simple and direct, often pronouncements of vision; it is the untoward juxtapositions of objects and uncertain links between the lines which suffuse Maeterlinck’s poetry with ambiguity. Verhaeren and Elskamp practice extreme syntactical distortion in their verse, but their innovations in grammar and structure are made in the direction of simplification. Verhaeren’s truncated, tortured lines, obsessive repetitions, and unfamiliar use of adverbs perfectly convey halting thought and inner torment. Such calculations as ellipses, absent articles, and extremely short lines of 5–7 syllables endow Elskamp’s verse with a deceptively naive quality and emphasize individual moments of vision, which together form a panorama of mood. In La Chanson d’Eve, Lerberghe orchestrates a fluid, malleable language of variable meter and often muted or absent end rhymes intended to convey the unspoiled vision of the first being. There is a concordance between the long and respected tradition of Flemish painting, at once mystical in orientation and based upon close observation of the world, and the visual and visionary qualities of language preponderate in Belgian Symbolism. The fifteenth century St. Ursula reliquary of Hans Memling, dream-like, yet precise in detail, serves as a metaphor in Rodenbach’s Bruges-la-Morte. Verhaeren was also interested in the visual arts, an astute critic who wrote both about the Flemish past and contemporary Idealist painters. Verhaeren’s first collection of poetry, Les Flamandes, was inspired by sixteenth century genre painting. Gregoire Le Roy and Jean Delville were symbolist poets and painters, in quest in both media of the enigmatic which lurks beneath appearance. As a visionary poetry, Belgian Symbolism influenced many artists of the turn of the century, chief among them Fernand Khnopff and William Degouve de Nunques, who derived much of their inspiration from contemporary literature. They are not, however, simply illustrators, but sought in their work to portray objects in a manner which suggests the mystery and ambiguity, rather than the definitude of the world. Uncommonly compressed or expanded formats, idiosyncratic use of color, emphasis of stasis and suspended animation are among the techniques used by Belgian painters of the turn of the century to depict images congruent with the modality of symbolist poetry. In this literature of northern voice, at once more oriented toward the proximate world than French Symbolism, yet also surrounded with a frisson of unreality, there is an idiosyncratic repertoire of figures. The figures of Greek myth are
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets
largely absent from Belgian poetry, although the presence of Narcissus is implied, but unnamed in Rodenbach’s city of reflection. Instead, Rodenbach’s world is haunted by Ophelia, suggestive of drowning entrance into an amniotic state of undifferentiated dream. Ophelia is also present in Verhaeren’s work, but as a figure of madness, the “corpse of reason,” which trails across the Thames toward the engulfing abyss. Madmen are recurrent in Verhaeren’s Les Campagnes Hallucinées, analogues of the poet, engaged in subjective deformation of the world which they perceive. Convalescents and invalids are present in the poetry of Rodenbach, Verhaeren and Maeterlinck. In Rodenbach’s verse, the invalid is a being of silence and introspection, cloistered from the tumult of the world. In Verhaeren’s poetry, there are the “skeptical ill,” tormented by disbelief. Maeterlinck presents the feverish invalid, weak, helpless, and lost in hallucination. The nun, engaged in lacemaking or the singing of canticles, is a prevalent figure in Rodenbach’s poetry, suggesting the pure and sacrosanct nature of artistic creation. Conversely, the nun in Maeterlinck’s world is associated with hospitals, sickbeds, and premonitions of death. In general, Catholicism as a source of decor and imagery is more markedly present in Belgian than French Symbolism. Albert Giraud’s Pierrot becomes a priest and offers his heart as the eucharist. Iwan Gilkin adapts the litany and rosary forms to convey decadent erotic experiences. Litanies and orisons, hypnotic in their repetitions, are also forms favored by Maeterlinck in the Serres Chaudes. Max Elskamp’s “In Memoriam,” from Sous les Tentes de l’Exode, is similarly a litany of dejection. Decaying, dank churches and all they contain become sources of imagery in the verse of Rodenbach and Verhaeren, who use fallen religious edifices as metaphors for spiritual malaise and the general ruination of a world in entropy. Except in the Chanson d’Eve, the pagan, liberated climate of Mallarmé’s artist-faun seems excluded from the imaginary universe of Belgian Symbolism, where even the gleaming, joyous isles of Lerberghe’s Eden alternate with crepuscular spaces of death and disincarnation. From the distance of a century, a great part of the fascination of Symbolist literature is its morbidity and thanatopsis, its emphasis of the nebulous rather than the fulsome and solidly permanent, silence rather than speech, and states of immobility and suspense rather than motion. Within the general matrix of this poetry of detachment from the mundane, the Belgian Symbolists have created their own worlds suffused with mystery. With their hallucinated fusions of the exterior and the interior, literary fulcrums between the seen and unseen, the Belgians of the turn of the century evoked lasting zones and magnets of the poetic imagination, realms of Hypnos, the arbiter of dream. Notes 1. Victor Remouchamps. “Le Monde Intérieur” in Le Reveil. (Janvier, 1894), p.25. 2. Emile Verhaeren. “Le Symbolisme” in L’Art Moderne. (Avril, 1887), p.p. 115–118. 3. Stéphane Mallarmé. “Résponses à des Enquêtes.” Oeuvres Complètes. (Paris: Gallimard, 1945), p. 869.
1
Georges Rodenbach
Selections from: The Reign of Silence Le Règne du Silence (1891) The Enclosed Lives Les Vies Encloses (1896) The Mirror of the Native Sky Le Miroir du ciel natal (1898)
Georges Rodenbach (1855–1898) Commentary
A pivotal figure in Belgian letters, Georges Rodenbach was among the first to adapt French Symbolist poetics of inwardness and indeterminacy to a theme firmly rooted in experience of his native Flanders. Born in Tournai and raised in Ghent, Rodenbach explored in his writing “villes mortes,” “dead cities,” medieval Flemish canal cities in lingering decline. Ghent and especially Bruges were Rodenbach’s sacred places, the mythicized cities of his soul and imagination. Rodenbach filtered the actual geographical cities through his subjective mood, transforming them into a literary world of solitude. Rodenbach’s poetry is claustral and hushed; the Flemish city which is his obsessive theme is a private, interior realm, a wavering Other World of symbolic lifelessness. Rodenbach’s dead city is nebulous, a place where “all is a shade of grey, cloaked in the color of fog.” The city is drained of life-force by means of imagery of “estompe,” the blurring and fading of the visible, and “attente,” suspended animation. Severed from the commercial activity of the medieval past and without a future, the literary Bruges is a lingering ghost, a city of memory and dream. The nuanced moods concretized by Rodenbach’s canal city are of two types, expressive of conflicting attitudes toward solitude. In its inertia, the city may suggest a landscape of transfixed pain, in which the fearful loneliness of the city’s observer is mirrored in the tomb-like abandonment of the surroundings. Conversely, the somnolent city may suggest a paradisal condition of Schopenhaurian will-lessness, repose and release from striving, a floating disassociation from the concerns of living. By turns evocative of the void or of meditative stillness, Rodenbach’s Bruges is a shifting constellation of symbolic constructions: the monastic city of silence; the city of distortion, in which inanimate objects are endowed with uncanny sentience; the city of decay and spiritual malaise. Encompassingly, Bruges is the site of Orphic descent into the hidden recesses of interiority, signaled by the omnipresence of watery depths, the seductively beckoning world of the canal. Still water, retaining reflected images of the past, is Rodenbach’s paradigm for the unconscious and memory. The motionless water of Bruges is also lethal, attenuating the definitude of the world it reflects and rendering it posthumous. For Rodenbach, the mirage of the canal city was the quintessential space of poetry, zone of the suggestive which lures us to realization before dissolving into the mystery which is its essential nature. Although he died at the age of forty-three, Georges Rodenbach has a prominent place in the history of international Symbolism. His collections of poetry, Le
Georges Rodenbach
7
Règne du Silence (1891), Les Vies encloses (1896), Le Miroir du ciel natal (1898), as well as his widely read novel, Bruges-la-Morte (1892), established the dead city as a prominent and recurrent literary motif. Rodenbach’s Bruges also inspired many visual artists, foremost among them the Belgian, Fernand Khnopff (1858–1921). Khnopff ’s imaginative reconstructions of Bruges emphasize the reflected space of the canal, moods of ineffable quietude, but also the fearful paralysis of suspended animation. Depicted with pastel and pencil in faded, twilit hues, Khnopff ’s Bruges, like Rodenbach’s, is evanescent and diaphanous, a space of tenuous suggestion and hovering mirage. The Poetry of Georges Rodenbach: Oeuvres, 2 vols. (Genève: Slatkine Reprints, 1978). Oeuvres, 2 vols. (Paris: Mercure de France, 1923). See also the following reedition of Rodenbach’s experiment in sustained symbolist prose: Christian Berg, ed. Bruges-la-Morte (Bruxelles: Labor, 1986).
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “The indolent mist of autumn . . .” from “The Miror of the Native Sky The indolent mist of autumn at last dispersed . . . It hovers between the towers, like the incense full of dreams, Which will linger in the naves after the most solemn Mass; And it sleeps like cloth spread on the dejected, grey ramparts. It comes unfolded, then folds back on itself, like a wing, In imperceptible motion, yet incessant, in the fog; All is shaded to a blur and turns slightly divine, As beneath the pallid brushing, all is vague and lost in dreams. All is a shade of grey, cloaked in the color of fog: The sky with its ancient pinions, the water and the poplars, Old friends, reconciled, so easily, with the haze of the past autumn, Like all things which will soon be nothing but the faintest memory. The victorious mist, against the pale depth of air, Has diluted even the accustomed towers, Whose grey thoughts are now gone forever, Like some vague dream, or a geometry of vapor.
“Deceased are the patrician mansions . . .” from The Reign of Silence Deceased are the patrician mansions, And eternally enfolded in silence, Lost in the frozen quarters of ancient cities, Where the pinions, caught in a motionless night, Mourn their lost treasures in diaphanous evenings, Which descend upon them from the fading sunlight; Thus, to adorn the tears of these ancient dwellings, Which are like the dismal tombs of vanished things, At the quarter hour, the carillon bell languidly strews, Its heavy flowers of iron upon the void of the streets.
Georges Rodenbach “Le brouillard indolet de l’automne . . .” from Le Miroir du Ciel Natal Le brouillard indolent de l’automne est épars . . . Il flotte entre les tours comme l’encens qui rêve Et s’attarde après la grand’messe dans les nefs; Et il dort comme du linge sur les remparts. Il se déplie et se replie. Et c’est une aile Aux mouvements imperceptibles et sans fin; Tout s’estompe; tout prend un air un peu divin; Et, sous ces frôlements pâles, tout se nivelle. Tout est gris, tout revêt la couleur de la brume: Le ciel, les vieux pignons, les eaux, les peupliers, Que la brume aisément a réconciliés Comme tout ce qui est déjà presque posthume. Brouillard vainqueur qui, sur le fond pâle de l’air, A même délayé les tours accoutumées Dont l’élancement gris s’efface et n’a plus l’air Qu’un songe de géométrie et de fumées.
“Très défuntes sont les maisons . . .” from Le Régne du Silence Très défuntes sont les maisons patriciennes Et très dorénavant closes dans du silence Parmi des quartiers froids, en des villes anciennes, Où les pignons, pris d’une inerte somnolence, Ne voient plus rien de grand, dans le soir diaphane, Qui descende sur eux du soleil qui se fane; Et, pour fleurir le deuil de ces vieilles demeures Qui sont les tombeaux noirs des choses disparues, Seul le carillon lent sème tous les quarts d’heures Ses lourdes fleurs de fer dans le vide des rues!
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Fernand Khnopff. An Abandoned City. 1904.
Fernand Khnopff. At Bruges. A church portal.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “The ancient church hovers . . .” from The Mirror of the Native Sky The ancient church hovers in a dream of vast silence, Surrounded by a dead city and all of its sadness; One senses its failing presence, like that of an invalid, And all is made somber by the shadow of the tower. A twilight of half-mourning pervades all of the naves; Outside, the piercing, repeated lament of swallows is heard. Only those blue windows retain their former pride, As Mary grows pale in her old lacework. How all is aged and all grown poor. The high pillars Seem tree-trunks in a dim forest, bereft of their branches. A distant hint, the vague odor of a wound is sensed; Could a crucifix, somewhere, have begun to drip its blood? Ah! to inhale that sickly smell of ancient church, Insipid, yet sensual and inducing reeling faintness: Fragrant lilies, Christmas mangers with faded straw, Hesitant incense, that dies in the grey shadows; Golden wine evaporated from the flagon; waxen Candles, whose torment atones our sins; All mingled with many other scents: stale altar-cloths And wedding veils, garlanded with orange-flowers. And the ever present and enduring human smell Of the throng met here, of whom God alone knows the count, Copious tears of repentance and sweats of shame, The slow odor of the centuries, trailing forever . . . Odor of death, as well, for everything is dying! This church is far too old and the city far too quiet; There is nothing but tombstones in the naves and the choirs, And who can tell how many coffins have passed these portals! Yes, everything is dead and dies ceaselessly here: Incense in the nothingness, today in the long ago; The faces in the ancient portraits perish as well; And all who enter must dream of those bones, displayed in glass . . .
Georges Rodenbach “La vieille église rêve . . .” from Le Miroir du Ciel Natal La vieille église rêve en un vaste silence; La ville morte, avec sa tristesse, est autour; On en sent, comme d’un malade, la présence, Et tout est assombri par l’ombre de la tour. Il règne dans les nefs un jour de demi-deuil; On entend, au dehors, pleurer les hirondelles; Seuls les vitraux d’azur gardent un peu d’orgueil; Et la Vierge pâlit dans ses vieilles dentelles. Tout est âgé, tout s’appauvrit; les hauts piliers Semblent les troncs, veufs de rameaux, d’une futaie; On sent une lointaine et vague odeur de plaie; Est-ce qu’un crucifix se mettrait à saigner? Ah! cette maladive odeur de vieille église, Fade, mais sensuelle, et qui fait qu’on défaille: Lys, crèches de Noël dont se fane la paille, Encens irrésolu qui meurt dans l’ombre grise; Vin d’or évaporé des burettes, bougies Dont la souffrance aura racheté nos péchés; Et tant d’odeurs encor: les nappes défraîchies Et les voiles de noce aux bouquets d’orangers. Et vous aussi, votre immortelle odeur humaine, Foule venue ici dont Dieu seul sait le compte: Larmes du repentir et sueur de la honte, Odeur des siècles—lourde, et qui toujours se traîne . . . Odeur de mort aussi, car tout ici se meurt! Cette église est trop vieille et la ville est trop morte; Ce ne sont que tombeaux dans les nefs et le choeur, Et combien de cercueils en ont franchi les portes! Oui! tout est mort! Oui! tout se meurt sans cesse ici: L’encens dans le néant, aujourd’hui dans naguères; Les visages des vieux tableaux meurent aussi; Et chacun pense aux ossements des reliquaires . . .
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “My city, beloved sister . . .” from The Reign of Silence My city, beloved sister, whom I resemble, City of decline, the prey of doleful bells, We both no longer know the venturesome vessels, Swelling, like breasts, their sails in the sun, Like breasts, swelling with passion for the sea. We are both the grieving city, which sleeps fitfully And dreams of the ships, Once anchored in its bitter harbor, Where in days of old, The proud ships mirrored their shining sides of gold; Gone now, the sounds and reflections . . . The reeds, With their sword-blades, seem to hold the water prisoner, Those vacant waters, those widowed waters, where only the wind Still circulates, whisperingly, to wrap them in a shroud . . . Both of us, we are the sadness of a harbor: You, my sorrowful sister, city, who has nothing But silence and regret for those former masts; And I, for whom life is nothing but a cold canal.
“The chamber, sad and weary . . .” from The Enclosed Lives The chamber, sad and weary, has at last grown resigned, And abandons itself to the evening, which slyly steals in: The chamber seems larger and also seems more nude; The shadows have woven the threads of their web In the corners of the ceiling, the first to grow dark. It fades all the fabrics, deepening their color; In the mirror, turned pale, the reflections come undone, Like an Ophelia in tears as she sinks; And the pleats of the draperies resemble old pathways, The deepest to be found, along old roads and lands. The evening grows old, frightened of the lights, And crowds around the candles and dim lamps, most hated, Which already plan to make the Shadow bleed. Everything withers in the growing darkness; A bouquet was smiling there, but now drowns,
Georges Rodenbach “O ville, toi ma soeur . . .” from Le Règne du Silence O ville, toi ma soeur à qui je suis pareil, Ville déchue, en proie aux cloches, tous les deux Nous ne connaissons plus les vaisseaux hasardeux Tendant comme des seins leurs voiles au soleil, Comme des seins gonflés par l’amour de la mer. Nous sommes tous les deux la ville en deuil qui dort Et n’a plus de vaisseaux parmi son port amer, Les vaisseaux qui jadis y miraient leurs flancs d’or; Plus de bruits, de reflets . . . Les glaives des roseaux Ont un air de tenir prisonnières les eaux, Les eaux vides, les eaux veuves, où le vent seul Circule comme pour les étendre en linceul . . . Nous sommes tous les deux la tristesse d’un port: Toi, ville! toi ma soeur douloureuse qui n’as Que du silence et le regret des anciens mâts; Moi, dont la vie aussi n’est qu’un grand canal mort!
“La chambre triste et lasse . . .” from Les Vies Encloses La chambre triste et lasse est enfin résignée Et s’abandonne au soir qui, sournois, s’insinue: La chambre a l’air plus grande, a l’air aussi plus nue; L’ombre a tissé ses fils de toile d’araignée Dans les angles, d’abord plus obscurs, du plafond. Elle fane les étoffes, elle les fonce; Dans le miroir blêmi, les reflets se défont Comme d’une Ophélie en larmes qui s’enfonce; Et les plis des rideaux ressemblent aux ornières Très profondes des vieux chemins d’un vieux pays. Le soir s’amasse, ayant la crainte des lumières, Autour du lustre et des lampes, surtout haïs, Qui méditent déjà de faire saigner l’Ombre. Tout s’élague dans les ténèbres grandissantes; Un bouquet riait là, mais il s’efface et sombre
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Disappeared, and the flowers seem absent in the darkness. The nude bronzes have sad gestures; The thousand portraits of dead grandmothers Grow dark, have faces grown much older, And mourning crepe has covered their blue finery. The chamber is entirely prey to the evening; And it seems that all at once the chamber has grown old.
“Silence: it is the voice that trails . . .” from The Reign of Silence Silence: it is the voice that trails, wearily, Of the lady of my Silence, with very gentle step, Shedding the white lilies of her complexion in the mirror; Barely convalescent, she watches everything in the distance, The trees, a passer-by, the bridges, a stream, Where wander the great clouds of daylight, But who, still too feeble, is suddenly struck With the tedium of living and a feeling of loathing, And more subtle, being ill and half-exhausted, She says: “The noise hurts me; have the windows closed . . .”
“At first, the aquarium seems not to be alive . . .” from The Enclosed Lives At first, the aquarium seems not to be alive, Uninhabited as a mirror in a convent, A twilight, where mists are constantly distilled, Its sleep is so pale that it seems long deceased, And the dark reflections, which come and go, Are only wandering shadows on a deathbed, Or the furtive play of a nightlight on the ceiling. Now and again, however, something strays in the water, Circulates, unfolds itself, or moves obliquely; The water contracts in a luminous shivering, which breaks Into dying spasms of light, found in a diamond; A dark fish undulates; grass, dressed in mourning, stirs;
Georges Rodenbach Et, dans l’obscurité, les fleurs sont comme absentes; Les bronzes nus ont des gestes découragés; Les vieux portraits d’aïeuls, ceux des aïeules feues, S’assombrissent, ont des visages plus âgés, Et du crêpe a couvert leurs fanfreluches bleues. La chambre est tout entière en proie au soir; et c’est Comme si tout à coup la chambre veillissait.
“Silence: c’est la voix qui se traîne . . .” from Le Régne du Silence Silence: c’est la voix qui se traîne, un peu lasse, De la dame de mon Silence, à très doux pas Effeuillant les lis blancs de son teint dans la glace; Convalescent à peine, et qui voit tout là-bas Les arbres, les passants, des ponts, une rivière, Où cheminent de grands nuages de lumière, Mais qui, trop faible encore, est prise tout à coup D’un ennui de la vie et comme d’un dégoût Et,—plus subtile, étant malade,—mi-brisée, Dit: «Le bruit me fait mal; qu’on ferme la croisée . . .»
“L’aquarium d’abord ne semble pas vivant . . .” from Les Vies Encloses L’aquarium d’abord ne semble pas vivant, Inhabité comme un miroir dans un couvent; Crépuscule où toujours se reforme une brume; Il dort si pâlement qu’on le croirait posthume Et que les reflets noirs qui viennent et s’en vont Ne sont qu’ombres sans but sur un lit mortuaire Et jeux furtifs de veilleuse sur le plafond. Pourtant dans l’eau, de temps en temps, quelque chose erre, Circule, se déplie, ou bouge obliquement; Des frissons lumineux crispent cette eau qui mue, —Tels les spasmes de lumière du diamant!— Un poisson sombre ondule, une herbe en deuil remue;
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The soft sand, on the bottom, rises and collapses, As if the Hour in a sandglass were shaken in confusion; And sometimes, flattened against the chill crystal, A flaccid monstrosity approaches its distorted image; Meanwhile, the water suffers, though appearing to sleep, And feels passing through its melancholy lethargy, The thousand shadows, with which it trembles endlessly, And which opens, in its surface, an enlarged wound. But this is the very picture of human sleep, Where, in the water of the mind, believed drained and bare, Submarine dreams are ceaselessly underway, An entire occult life, which is never ending.
“The long line of streetlamps . . .” from The Mirror of the Native Sky The long line of streetlamps Have lit their pensive lights, Daily, as expected, Forming a play of silent shadows, That come and go. Does the City sicken At evening? You would think that it was growing darker; Then wind seems to be lamenting Someone who will never again be cured; A little bell rings The last angelus; The air is resonant, because of the silence; The poplars, holding their leaves still, Are afraid of making noise; And the passers-by muffle their steps in a mist, As if in a chamber, at the bedside . . . The water whispers more softly beneath the arch Of the ancient bridges; It seems to be praying with its sighs, But for what?
Georges Rodenbach Le sable mou du fond s’éboule comme si C’était le sablier bouleversé de l’Heure; Et quelquefois aussi, sur le cristal transi, Un monstre flasque, en trouble imagerie, affleure, Cependant que l’eau souffre, en paraissant dormir, Et sent passer, dans sa morose léthargie, Mille ombres dont elle ne cesse de frémir Qui font de sa surface une plaie élargie! Or n’est-ce pas l’image du sommeil humain Où, dans l’eau du cerveau qu’on croit vidée et nue, Des rêves sous-marins sont sans cesse en chemin, Ah! cette vie occulte, et qui se continue!
“Les réverbères en enfilade . . .” from Le Miroir du Ciel Natal Les réverbères en enfilade Ont allumé leurs pensives veilleuses Quotidiennes, Formant un jeu d’ombres silencieuses Qui vont et viennent . . . La Ville est-elle plus malade Le soir? On dirait qu’il fait plus noir; Le vent a l’air de plaindre Quelqu’un qui ne guérira plus; Une petite cloche tinte Le dernier angélus; L’air est sonore à cause du silence; Les peupliers, dont la cime s’élance, Ont peur de faire trop de bruit; Et les passants embrument leur marche Comme dans une chambre, autour d’un lit . . . L’eau chuchote plus bas sous l’unique arche Des vieux ponts; On dirait qu’elle prie avec des soupirs; Mais à quoi bon?
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Is the City not worsening This evening? The lights of the streetlamps Hold on to a last glimmer of hope; They are like eyes, Votive flames, Illusory flames and eyes. O streetlamps! They take alarm And sense death on the way; There is something human about them, They tremble and seem to grow pale, As if there were tears within their flame! Who will soon die? A swan, forewarned, sings on the black water . . . It must be the City that is dying This evening . . . The streetlamps weep!
“The Night is alone, like a beggar . . .” from The Mirror of the Native Sky The Night is alone, like a beggar. The streetlamps offer Their yellow flame As alms. The night is as quiet as a locked church. The melancholy streetlamps Open their rose flame, Bright bouquets of light, Bouquets under glass, the holy relics That fill the Night with plenary Indulgence.
Georges Rodenbach Sans doute que la Ville empire Ce soir? Les veilleuses des réverbères A peine encore un peu espèrent; Elles sont comme des yeux; Comme des feux dévotieux, Yeux et feux illusoires. O réverbères! Ils s’alarment Et sentent la mort en chemin; Ils ont quelque chose d’humain, Ils tremblent et semblent pâlir Comme si dans leur flamme il y avait des larmes! Qu’est-ce qui va mourir? Un cygne averti chante sur l’eau noire . . . Il se peut que la Ville meure Ce soir . . . Les réverbères pleurent!
“La Nuit est seule, comme un pauvre. . . .” from Le Miroir du Ciel Natal La Nuit est seule, comme un pauvre. Les réverbères offrent Leur flamme jaune Comme une aumône. La nuit se tait comme une église close. Les réverbères mélancoliques Ouvrent leur flamme rose Comme des bouquets de lumière, Des bouquets sous un verre et qui sont des reliques, Par qui la Nuit s’emplit d’Indulgences plénières.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The Night endures pain! The streetlamps, in a chorus, Dart their red and sulphurous flame, Like votive images, And Sacred Hearts, Which the wind bleeds with cold knives. The Night grows inflamed! The streetlamps, in a row, Unfurl their blue flame, Along the outskirts, Like souls, stopping for rest, Souls of the day’s dead, treading the roadways, Who dream of return to their locked houses, As they linger, a long time, at the city gates.
“Sweet is the room . . .” from The Reign of Silence Sweet is the room!—a gentle, secluded harbor, Where, weary of stretching its sails to the wind, My dream has come to rest in the mirror, pale and still. Tired! Without longing for new headways of stars, Departures for islands, my dream is sound asleep In the profound mirror, as if in a silent canal; And why hope for some sudden gust of wind, to drive To high seas, this soul anchored in the looking-glass?
“During those hours of sad evening . . .” from The Enclosed Lives During those hours of sad evening, when you wish you were dead, When the heart is desolate and so weary, the soul, How soothing to approach the mirror and gaze, Calm waters of the mirror, impossible to exhaust, Where you lose yourself, drifting from shore, in retreat . . . Oh! to set out in the cooling water of the mirror, To perish, somewhat, as if in the water of twilight,
Georges Rodenbach La Nuit souffre! Les réverbères en choeur Dardent leur flamme rouge et soufre Comme des ex–voto, Comme des Sacré-Coeur, Que le vent fait saigner avec ses froids couteaux. La Nuit s’exalte! Les réverbères à la file Déploient leur flamme bleue, Dans les banlieues, Comme des âmes qui font halte, Les âmes en chemin des morts de la journée Qui rêvent de rentrer dans leur maison fermée Et s’attardent longtemps aux portes de la ville.
“la chambre, un doux port relégué . . .” from Le Régne du Silence Oui! c’est doux! c’est, la chambre, un doux port relégué Où mon rêve, lassé de tendre au vent ses voiles, Dans le miroir tranquille et pâle s’est cargué. Las! sans plus espérer des sillages d’étoiles Et des départs vers des îles, mon rêve dort Dans le profond miroir, comme en un canal mort; Et faut-il désirer un coup de vent qui chasse En pleine mer cette âme à l’ancre dans la glace?
“Aux heures de soir morne . . .” from Les Vies Encloses Aux heures de soir morne où l’on voudrait mourir, Où l’on se sent le coeur trop seul, l’âme trop lasse, Quel rafraîchissement de se voir dans la glace! Eau calme du miroir impossible à tarir; On y s’oublie; on y dérive; on y recule . . . Oh! s’en aller dans le miroir réfrigérant Périr un peu comme en une eau de crépuscule,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets A stagnant water, aimless, without currents, Where the nude face sinks down, always in place; You pursue, seek yourself, losing yourself forever, In backward movement, in the depths of the looking-glass. You find yourself still, but as if covered over By a vast, endless water, barely transparent, Which allows you to observe, but pale and changed, The face that you will have when ill or very old, The most simplified face, joined in silent marriage, To the face that you will last have, when dead . . . More and more, the evening submerges the image, Forcing it down, like a surviving moon, Weakening it, like the dying sound of a horn, A face in flight and which all the shadows stain, A face, which seems already to have done, Sunken, disappeared in infinity; Oh, this play in the mirror, where you watch your own destruction!
“At evening, they appear . . .” from The Reign of Silence At evening, they appear at the windows of the soul, Those former faces, which have remained in the glass, In spite of time, their remembrance has endured, Faces from the past, so painful to meet again; Brows ceaselessly grown pale; lips with lost bloom; Eyes covered each day with fresh layers of shadows, Which add, in our thought, the finishing touches to their death . . . The face of a mother or a wife, That lived, long ago, on intimate terms with our soul; If you could only revive their flowering, a little, Those faces in the windows, scarcely shaded, To see their features clearly, once more, in our memory! Dead faces, forever on the verge of vanishing, And then, once forgotten, incessantly emerging, Down the stream of the soul, with the distress of an Ophelia, She, with flaxen hair, who is always weeping . . . Ah! where is joy in life to be found, When the panes of the loving soul are a water, Where endlessly surfaces and endlessly drowns, Some gentle, intermittent face, with its halo.
Georges Rodenbach Une eau stagnante, une eau sans but et sans courant Où le visage nu sombre à la même place. On se poursuit soi-même, on se cherche, on se perd Dans le recul, dans la profondeur de la glace; On s’y découvre encor, mais comme recouvert D’une eau vaste et sans fin, à peine transparente, Qui fait que l’on se voit, mais pâle et tout changé, Visage qu’on aura malade ou très âgé, Visage tout simplifié qui s’apparente, Silencieux, avec celui qu’on aura mort . . . Le soir de plus en plus en submerge l’image Et l’enfonce comme une lune qui surnage, Et l’affaiblit comme les sons mourants d’un cor, Visage en fuite et que toute l’ombre macule, Visage qui déjà se semble avoir fini D’aller jusqu’à l’enlizement dans l’infini. O ce jeu du miroir où soi-même on s’annule!
“Aux vitres de notre âme . . .” from Le Régne du Silence Aux vitres de notre âme apparaissent le soir Des visages anciens demeurés dans le verre; Leur souvenir, malgré le temps, y persévère, Visages du passé qu’on souffre de revoir: Fronts sans cesse pâlis; lèvres déveloutées; Yeux couverts chaque jour d’ombres surajoutées Et qui dans la mémoire achèvent de mourir . . . Visage d’une mère ou visage de femme Qui jadis ont vécu le plus près de notre âme. Encor si l’on pouvait un peu les refleurir Ces faces, dans le verre, à peine nuancées Et voir distinctement leurs traits dans nos pensées! Faces mortes toujours près de s’évanouir Et sans cesse émergeant,—sitôt qu’on les oublie,Au fil de l’âme, en des détresses d’Ophélie Dont les cheveux de lin ont un air de rouir. Ah! comment essayer d’avoir un peu de joie Quand les vitres de l’âme aimante sont de l’eau Où reparaît sans cesse et sans cesse se noie Un doux visage intermittent dans un halo!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “Water, for the sufferer . . .” from The Reign of Silence Water, for the sufferer, is a sister of charity, Who could satisfy not one human desire, And who hides sweetly, with a bitter smile, Beneath a veil, a robe of darkness; Her love of silence, her loathing of life Are so contagious, that more than one has entered Her chapel of shadows, her pious depths, Where placidly she sings, near the green reeds, Organ of verdant pipes that accompanies her softly. She sings! she says: “The sweet retreat that I will give To those much discouraged . . .” Ah! the gentle fascination of that heavenly voice! For their fever, it offers the coolness of an eternal bed! And many, lured by the benign call, Paralyzed, enter the water as one enters an asylum, And then die, for the water cleanses, enshrouds them In her currents as fresh as fine linen; Then, at last, they have found gentle death. Meanwhile, the evening, all around the body at rest, Will kindle, in the dark water, a bright catafalque of stars.
“O snow, the sweet sound . . .” from The Reign of Silence O snow, the sweet sound, who lulls the night, So gentle, you, the most pensive sister of silence, The immaculate balance in a cloak of indolence, Preserving your pallor throughout the vespers. Sweet! you smother and enfeeble All of the tumult, shapes, uproar; Wavering snow, you seem to vanish, Far, most far away, in the haze of the streets! And you die the death, for which we have prayed, A white end, thoughtful, pious, serene, A pardoned death, which slowly tells
Georges Rodenbach “L’Eau, pour qui souffre . . .” from Le Régne du Silence L’Eau, pour qui souffre, est une soeur de charité Que n’a pu satisfaire aucune joie humaine Et qui se cache, douce et le sourire amère, Sous une guimpe et sous un froc d’obscurité; Son amour du repos, son dégoût de la vie Sont si contagieux que plus d’un l’a suivie Dans la chapelle d’ombre, au fond pieux des eaux, Où, tranquille, elle chante au pied des longs roseaux Dont l’orgue aux verts tuyaux l’accompagne en sourdine. Elle chante! Elle dit: «Les doux abris que j’ai Pour ceux de qui le coeur est trop découragé. . .» Ah! la molle attirance et quelle voix divine! Car, pour leur fièvre, c’est la fraîcheur d’un bon lit! Et beaucoup, aimantés par cet appel propice, Perclus, entrent dans l’Eau comme on entre à l’hospice, Puis meurent. L’Eau les lave et les ensevelit Dans ses courants aussi frais que de fines toiles; Et c’est enfin vraiment pour eux la Bonne Mort. Ce pendant que, le soir, autour du corps qui dort, L’Eau noire allume un grand catafalque d’étoiles.
“O neige, toi la douce endormeuse . . .” from Le Régne du Silence O neige, toi la douce endormeuse des bruits Si douce, toi la soeur pensive du silence, O toi l’immaculée en manteau d’indolence Qui gardes ta pâleur même à travers les nuits. Douce! tu les éteins et tu les atténues Les tulmutes èpars, les contours, les rumeurs; O neige vacillante, on dirait que tu meurs Loin, tout au loin, dans le vague des avenues! Et tu meurs d’une mort comme nous l’invoquons, Une mort blanche et lente et pieuse et sereine, Une mort pardonnée et dont le calme égrène
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets A chaplet of wadding, a rosary of flakes. And the end draws near: beneath its somber veils, The sky has passed away; see how it crumbles in flakes; The sky collapses and my heart, filled with astral light, Becomes a vast cemetery of stars.
Georges Rodenbach Un chapelet de ouate, un rosaire en flocons. Et c’est la fin: le ciel sous de funèbres toiles Est trépassé; voici qu’il croule en flocons lents, Le ciel croule; mon coeur se remplit d’astres blancs Et mon coeur est un grand cimetière d’étoiles!
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ii Selections from: The Evenings (1887) Les Soirs Les Débâcles (1888) The Black Torches (1891) Les Flambeaux Noirs The Hallucinated Countrysides (1893) Les Campagnes Hallucinées The Illusory Villages (1895) Les Villages Illusoires The Cities with Pinions (1909) Les Villes à Pignons
Emile Verhaeren
Emile Verhaeren (1855–1916) Commentary
Emile Verhaeren was a member of the francophone bourgeoisie of Flanders. He was born in the village of Saint-Amand, near Antwerp, and educated at Ghent and the University of Louvain, where he met Max Waller and other founding members of La Jeune Belgique, the first important literary review devoted to new poetry in Belgium. During stays in Paris, Verhaeren entered the circle of Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and the symbolist milieu of Mallarmé. Although widely known as a poet of energy and tumultuous force, Verhaeren’s early period, 1887–1890, is nonetheless steeped in decadent morbidity and reveals the dejection of the symbolist psyche. His Black Trilogy, Les Soirs (1888), Les Débâcles (1889), and Les Flambeaux Noirs (1889–90) explores the spiritual abandonment of a soul lost in the recesses of its own involution. The constant theme of this poetry is madness, the twilight of reason, given both stylistic and imagistic expression. Disjuncted grammar, insistent repetitions and questions, and truncated lines of free verse convey a halting anguish and mental incoherence. Verhaeren’s concrete images are hallucinated, outsized and exaggerated, to convey moods of alienation and tormented obsession. In this manner, London becomes the poet’s private hell, an inextricable labyrinth of decay, “full of dismantled ships” and “splintered masts” “splayed against a sky of crucifixion.” The broken boats of the dockyards and the livid light convey a state of psychic disintegration and opaque solitude. “Vesperal” is a panorama of pain, lingeringly moving from stanza to stanza through a painterly landscape of “dry-rot and leprosy.” In “Fatal Flower,” the persona seeks “the white suns of moonlight” and the sceptical invalids of “The Ill” yearn for the smoldering “far reaches of madness and hysteria.” In the violent and blood-thirsty city of “Revolt,” a clock-face “hurls its wrathful disk” against a sky “splattered red with stars.” The poet’s orb, the moon in “Tenebrae,” is cyclopean, “a chilling eye,” presiding over a frozen landscape of inanition. Throughout the Black Trilogy, the poet’s interior wound is mirrored in funereal landscapes of dullness, putrefaction, or deranged fury. With the combination of minute observation and subjective distortion which typifies Belgian Symbolism, the world is molded and made to conform to the poet’s unflinching, nihilistic vision. Though concentrated in the Black Trilogy, it is important to note that this dark phase of Verhaeren’s creation is not delimited. Experiences of self-torment and dejection are recurrent in Les Campagnes Hallucinées (1893), in which madmen’s songs form the thread of the collection, Les Villages Illusoires (1895) and Les Villes à
Emile Verhaeren
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Pignons (1910). There is a Verhaeren, the optimistic poet of the industrial metropolis, but there is also Verhaeren, the consummate Symbolist, whose achievement was to give expression to fragmented consciousness, using a French which is his own distinctive language of poetry. As the visual quality of his poetry would suggest, Emile Verhaeren was a subtle critic of painting, who was among the first to understand the work of Fernand Khnopff and James Ensor. The symbolist artist, William Degouve de Nunques (1867–1935) was Verhaeren’s close friend and brother-in-law. Degouve’s “A Canal,” an uncommonly elongate, flattened composition, visual analogue of Verhaeren’s sytactical distortions, depicts a ruinous building, suggestive of shattered hopes, nerves, dreams. The insistent repetition of broken windows and spiky trees, like the obsessive refrain in Verhaeren’s poetry, is hallucinatory. In Degouve’s Flemish snowscapes, as in Verhaeren’s polar Flanders in “Tenebrae,” there is no struggle, there is no action in a world given over to absolute immobility. The Poetry of Emile Verhaeren: Oeuvres complètes, 3 vols. (Genève: Slatkine Reprints, 1977). Les Villages Illusoires; Poèmes en Prose; extraits de la Trilogie Noire, ed. Christian Berg. (Bruxelles: Labor, 1985). Les Campagnes Hallucinées; Les Villes Tentaculaires, ed. Maurice Piron. (Paris: Gallimard, 1982). Poèmes choisis, ed. Robert Vivier. (Bruxelles: La Renaissance du Livre, 1981). Toute la Flandre. (Paris: Larousse, 1965).
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The Corpse from The Debacles (1888) In her dress, the color of fire and poison, The corpse of my reason Trails across the Thames. Bridges of bronze, where the carts Crash and burst in endless din, And the sails of somber boats, Cast upon her their trail of shadows. Without a clock-hand moving across its dial, A mighty bell-tower, masked in red, Stares at her, like someone Immensely sunk in sorrow and death. She knew too much to live any longer, She longed too much to shape the truth, Enthroned on the pedestal of black rocks, Of every breath and every shadow. And now, she is atrociously dead, Of a venomous elixir, distilled by destiny, Dead, as well, of a delirious desire, For the most absurd, scarlet kingdom. Her fibers have burst apart, Some evening, illuminated for joy, As she already felt its glory floating Above her head, like wild eagles. She is dead of impotence, Her ardor and will ground to sand, And it was she who took her life, Endlessly exhausted. Along the funereal ramparts, All along the iron factories, Where the hammers pound the light, She trails her way to burial. These are the piers and the barracks, Always piers and their lanterns, Slow, motionless spinners Of the dark gold of their lights;
Emile Verhaeren La Morte
En sa robe, couleur de feu et de poison, Le cadavre de ma raison Traîne sur la Tamise. Des ponts de bronze, où les wagons Entrechoquent d’interminables bruits de gonds Et des voiles de bâteaux sombres Laissent sur elle, choir leur ombres. Sans qu’une aiguille, à son cadran, ne bouge, Un grand beffroi masqué de rouge, La regarde, comme quelqu’un Immensément de triste et de défunt. Elle est morte de trop savoir, De trop vouloir sculpter la cause, Dans le socle de granit noir, De chaque être et de chaque chose. Elle est morte, atrocement, D’un savant empoisonnement, Elle est morte aussi d’un délire Vers un absurde et rouge empire. Ses nerfs ont éclaté, Tel soir illuminé de fête Qu’elle sentait déjà le triomphe flotter Comme des aigles, sur sa tête. Elle est morte n’en pouvant plus, L’ardeur et les vouloirs moulus, Et c’est elle qui s’est tuée, Infiniment exténuée. Au long des funèbres murailles, Au long des usines de fer Dont les marteaux tannent l’éclair, Elle se traîne aux funérailles. Ce sont des quais et des casernes, Des quais toujours et leurs lanternes, Immobiles et lentes filandières Des ors obscurs de leurs lumières;
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets There reigns a sadness of rock, Houses of brick, black turrets, Where the windows, mournful eyelids, Open to the mists of evenings. These are the great stockyards of panic, Full of dismantled ships And splintered masts, Splayed against a sky of crucifixion. In her dress of lifeless jewels, solemnized By the wine-colored hour on the horizon, The corpse of my reason Trails across the Thames. She sets out for chances, Hidden in shadow and in the mist, Alongside the hushed sounds of dull tocsins, Breaking their wings at the angle of the towers. In the distance, leaving distressed The city, breathing life, She sets out for the dark riddle, To sleep in the graveyards of evening, Where the slow, almighty oceans Open their limitless, gaping mouth, To devour for all eternity, The grey corpses of enigma.
The Revolt from The Black Torches (1891) Toward some remote city of riot and outcry, Where the guillotine flashes its shining steel, With a sudden, insane desire, my heart sets forth. The muffled drumbeats of many wasted days, Of silenced rage and suppressed storm, Sound, in the mind, an impetuous attack.
Emile Verhaeren Ce sont des tristesses de pierres, Maisons de briques, donjons en noir Dont les vitres, mornes paupières, S’ouvrent dans le brouillard du soir; Ce sont de grands chantiers d’affolement, Pleins de barques démantelées Et de vergues écartelées Sur un ciel de crucifiement. En sa robe de joyaux morts, que solennise L’heure de pourpre à l’horizon, Le cadavre de ma raison Traîne sur la Tamise. Elle s’en va vers les hasards Au fond de l’ombre et des brouillards, Au long bruit sourd des tocsins lourds, Cassant leur aile, au coin des tours. Derrière elle, laissant inassouvie La ville immense de la vie; Elle s’en va vers l’inconnu noir Dormir en des tombeaux de soir, Là-bas, où les vagues lentes et fortes, Ouvrant leurs trous illimités, Engloutissent à toute éternité: Les mortes.
La Révolte
Vers une ville au loin d’émeute et tocsin, Où luit le couteau nu des guillotines, En tout à coup de fou désir, s’en va mon coeur. Les sourds tambours de tant de jours De rage tue et de tempête, Battent la charge dans les têtes.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets From the black belfry, the old clock-face Hurls its wrathful disk in the depth of the evening, Against a stunned heaven, splattered red with stars. Tolling knells of thudding footsteps resound, As immense conflagrations, raging on roof-tops, Deface all of the capitals. They, who could find no other Consolation but in somber despair, Have now stepped down from their silence. Does anyone know what it is we hear approaching Upon the pathways of the future, So quietly terrible? All of the hatred of the world bursts in the air, And fists to seize the lightening Are strained toward the clouds. Now the hour has arrived when those deluded, Those destituted and abandoned Lay siege with their pride upon life. Now is the hour and, in the distance, the alarm resounds; Crosses of muskets pound upon my door; To kill, to be killed! what can it matter?
The Blade from The Debacles (1888) Brandishing a sword, someone predicted, Laughing at my sterilized pride: You will be a cipher and for your idle soul, The future will hold nothing more than a regret for the past. Your body, where has turned sour the blood of pure ancestors, Weak and clumsy, will be broken with every effort; You will be the feverish, bent at the window, Helpless witness of the rushing of life and its golden chariots;
Emile Verhaeren Le cadran vieux d’un beffroi noir Darde son disque au fond du soir, Contre un ciel d’étoiles rouges. Des glas de pas sont entendus Et de grands feux de toits tordus Echevèlent les capitales. Ceux qui ne peuvent plus avoir D’espoir que dans leur désespoir Sont descendus de leur silence. Dites, quoi donc s’entend venir Sur les chemins de l’avenir, De si tranquillement terrible? La haine du monde est dans l’air Et des poings pour saisir l’éclair Sont tendus vers les nuées. C’est l’heure où les hallucinés Les gueux et les déracinés Dressent leur orgueil dans la vie. C’est l’heure—et c’est là-bas que sonne le tocsin; Des crosses de fusils battent ma porte; Tuer, être tué!—qu’importe!
Le Glaive
Quelqu’un m’avait prédit, qui tenait une épée Et qui riait de mon orgueil stérilisé: Tu seras nul, et pour ton âme inoccupée L’avenir ne sera qu’un regret du passé. Ton corps, où s’est aigri le sang de purs ancêtres, Fragile et lourd, se cassera dans chaque effort; Tu seras le fiévreux ployé, sur les fenêtres, D’où l’on peut voir bondir la vie et ses chars d’or,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Your nerves will entwine you with their sapless fibers, Your nerves! —And your nails will grow soft with boredom, Your forehead, like a tombstone, will dominate your dreams, And will become your obsession, in the mirrors, at night. To fly from yourself! —If you could! but no, the lassitude Of others, your own, will have bent your back So well, riveted your feet so well, that dullness Will dethrone your mind and will seal your bones with lead. Dazzling and clacking, the banners toward the battles, Your bloodless lip, alas, will never know them: Worn-out, your heart, your mournful heart, in disputes Over ancient texts, as if slashing away at a cloth. You will set forth, outcast and alone, and all of the lost days Of youth will be a worthless magnet For your wide, distant eyes—and the joyous thundering Will herald the impetuous attack far from you, triumphantly!
The Ill from The Evenings (1887) Sallow and alone, they are, the skeptical ill, Made keen by all their pain. They watch the evening Grow in their room and lengthen the facades. Nearby, a church looms and holds high its black belfry. Dead hour, over there, somewhere in the provinces, In an extinguished town, in some unknown corner Where the walls are clad in mourning and portals, Where grinds the monumental hinge, like a clenched fist of iron. Sallow and alone, the inscrutable ill, Like dismal, old wolves, fix death with their gaze; They have consumed their lives, since all days are the same, They will hate those months and years that will bring their sad end.
Emile Verhaeren Tes nerfs t’enlaceront de leurs fibres sans sèves Tes nerfs!—et tes ongles s’amolliront d’ennui, Ton front, comme un tombeau dominera tes rêves, Et sera ta frayeur, en des miroirs, la nuit. Te fuir!—si tu pouvais! mais non, la lassitude Des autres et de toi t’aura voûté le dos Si bien, rivé les pieds si fort, que l’hébétude Détrônera ta tête et plombera tes os. Eclatants et claquants, les drapeaux vers les luttes, Ta lèvre exsangue hélas! jamais ne les mordra: Usé, ton coeur, ton morne coeur, dans les disputes Des vieux textes, où l’on taille comme en un drap. Tu t’en iras à part et seul—et les naguères De jeunesse seront un inutile aimant Pour tes grands yeux lointains—et les joyeux tonnerres Chargeront loin de toi, victorieusement!
Les Malades
Blafards et seuls, ils sont, les sceptiques malades, Aigus de tous leurs maux. Ils regardent le soir Se faire dans leur chambre et grandir les facades. Une église près d’eux lève son clocher noir. Heure morte, là-bas, quelque part, en province, En une ville éteinte, au fond d’un coin désert, Où s’endeuillent des murs et des porches, dont grince Le gond monumental, ainsi qu’un poing de fer. Blafards et seuls, les malades hiératiques, Pareils à de vieux loups mornes, fixent la mort; Ils ont mâché la vie et ses jours identiques Et ses mois et ses ans et leur haine et leur sort.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets But today, huddled in the drained cynicism Of their loathing, their minds find no rest: “What if happiness resided in virile selfishness, Then to suffer wisely, all alone, by act of will? Like all the others, they have tritely loved. They believed piously in bereavements, In suffering, in preaching gestures of apostles; Imbeciles, they were too scared to lose their pride. Now they discuss the ways in which cruelty reconciles Better than love; how they were deceived Into disguising ingratitude and blame; And so many tears spent for a few eyes they kissed one day. Void, the golden islands, lost in distant fogs of gold, Where the enthroned dreams, clothed in red, With frail, golden fingers scattered to the foam All the silent gold that rained from the sun. Broken the proud masts, slack the great sails! Let the barge go where it may and the harbours fade away; The beacons no longer will strain toward the high stars, Their arms, vastly on fire—for the fires are all dead!” Sallow and alone, the inscrutable ill, Like dismal, old wolves, fix death with their gaze; They have consumed their lives, since all days are the same, They will hate those months and years that will bring their sad end. And now their bodies? —cage of bones for fevers And their wooden nails, striking their scorching foreheads, And the peevishness of eyes and their thinness of lips, And a grit of bitter sand, always, between their teeth; And regret seizes them and the posthumous desire: “To depart and live again in a new world, Where the sunset, resembling a flaming tripod, Breathes forth the god of ivory and ebony in their thought. Beyond, in the far reaches of hysteria and of flame, And of livid froth and raucous frenzy, There we could ferociously rend and abolish the soul, Ferociously joyous, the soul and the heart.”
Emile Verhaeren Mais aujourd’hui, serrés dans le pâle cynisme De leur dégoût, ils ont l’esprit inquiété: «Si le bonheur régnait dans ce mâle égoïsme, «Souffrir pour soi, tout seul, mais par sa volonté? «Ils ont banalement aimé comme les autres «Les autres; ils ont cru benoîtement aux deuils, «A la souffrance, à des gestes prêcheurs d’apôtres; «Imbéciles, ils ont eu peur de leurs orgueils. «Ils discutent combien la cruauté rapproche «Mieux que l’amour; combien ils se sont abusés «A pavoiser l’ingratitude et le reproche; «Combien de pleurs, pour quelques yeux qu’ils ont baisés! «Vides, les îles d’or, là-bas, dans l’or des brumes, «Où les rêves assis sous leur manteau vermeil, «Avec de longs doigts d’or effeuillaient aux écumes, «Les ors silencieux qui pleuvaient du soleil. «Cassés les mâts d’orgueil, flasques, les grandes voiles! «Laissez la barque aller et s’éteindre les ports; «Les phares ne tendront plus vers les grandes étoiles, «Leurs bras immensément en feu—les feux sont morts!» Blafards et seuls, les malades hiératiques, Pareils à de vieux loups mornes, fixent la mort; Ils ont mâché la vie et ses jours identiques Et ses mois et ses ans et leur haine et leur sort. Et maintenant, leur corps?—cage d’os pour les fièvres Et leurs ongles de bois heurtant leurs fronts ardents, Et leur hargne des yeux et leur minceur de lèvres Et comme un sable amer, toujours, entre leurs dents. Et le regret les prend et le désir posthume: «De s’en aller revivre en un monde nouveau «Dont le couchant, pareil à un trépied qui fume, «Dresse le Dieu d’ébène et d’os en leur cerveau. «Là-bas, en des lointains d’hystérie et de flamme «Et d’écume livide et de rauque fureur, «Où l’on peut abolir férocement son âme, «Férocement joyeux, son âme et tout son coeur.»
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Sallow and alone, they are the tragic ill, Made keen by all their pain. They watch the ultimate fires Expiring within the town and the pale facades, Like great winding cloths, stretching toward them.
The Rain from Illusory Villages (1895) Long as threads without end, the long rain, Interminably, through the grey day, Lines up the green window with its long grey threads, An infinitude of rain, The long rain, The rain. Lingeringly, it unravels, since yesterday evening, Hanging in heavy, soaked rags, In the taciturn, black sky, It unravels, patient and slow, Upon the pathways, since yesterday evening, Upon the roads and the winding alleys, Continuous. The length of the byways, Which lead from the woods to the outskirts, By roads interminably twisted, They move on, grieving, dripping, steaming, The yoke-teams, with wagon-cloth bulging; In the even, beaten tracks, So ceaselessly parallel, That, at night, they seem to meet in the heavens, The water trickles, for hours on end; And the trees cry their tears and the dwellings, Soaked by the long rain, Tenaciously, vague.
Emile Verhaeren Blafards et seuls, ils sont les tragiques malades Aigus de tous leurs maux. Ils regardent les feux Mourir parmi la ville et les pâles facades Comme de grands linceuls venir au-devant d’eux.
La Pluie
Longue comme des fils sans fin, la longue pluie Interminablement, à travers le jour gris, Ligne les carreaux verts avec ses longs fils gris, Infiniment, la pluie, La longue pluie, La pluie. Elle s’effile ainsi, depuis hier soir, Des haillons mous qui pendent, Au ciel maussade et noir. Elle s’étire, patiente et lente, Sur les chemins, depuis hier soir, Sur les chemins et les venelles, Continuelle. Au long des lieues, Qui vont des champs vers les banlieues, Par les routes interminablement courbées, Passent, peinant, suant, fumant, En un profil d’enterrement, Les attelages, bâches bombées; Dans les ornières régulières Parallèles si longuement Qu’elles semblent, la nuit, se joindre au firmament, L’eau dégoutte, pendant des heures; Et les arbres pleurent et les demeures, Mouillés qu’ils sont de longue pluie, Tenacement, indéfinie.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The streams, through their rotten dikes, Discharge their burden upon the meadows, Where drowned hay drifts in the distance; The wind slaps elder and walnut-trees; Frightfully, sunk waist-high in the flood, Huge, black oxen bellow at the twisted skies. Evening draws close, with all of its shadows, Obstructing the planes and the copse, While, forever, it goes on, the rain, The long rain, Fine and dense, sodden, like soot. The long rain, The rain—and all of its identical threads, And its methodical fingernails Weave the garment, Mesh by mesh, of desolation, For the houses and enclosures, Of villages, grey and doddering: Linens and chaplets of tatters, Which ravel out in fluttering rags in the wind, Along the upright staffs; Blue dove-cotes pressed to the roof; Windows and on their disastrous panes, Wound-dressings of dark bister; Lodgings, where the regular gutters Form crucifixes on the stone pinions; Windmills, uniform, mournful, planted Upon their mounds, like horned cattle; Belfries and adjacent chapels, The rain, The long rain, All winter long, assassinates them as well. The rain, The long rain, with its long, grey threads, With its damply hanging hair, its ripples, The long rain, Upon ancient lands, Lethargic and eternal.
Emile Verhaeren Les rivières, à travers leurs digues pourries, Se dégonflent sur les prairies, Où flotte au loin du foin noyé; Le vent gifle aulnes et noyers; Sinistrement, dans l’eau jusqu’à mi-corps, De grands boeufs noirs beuglent vers les cieux tors; Le soir approche, avec ses ombres, Dont les plaines et les taillis s’encombrent, Et c’est toujours la pluie La longue pluie Fine et dense, comme la suie. La longue pluie, La pluie—et ses fils identiques Et ses ongles systématiques Tissent le vêtement, Maille à maille, de dénûment, Pour les maisons et les enclos Des villages gris et vieillots: Linges et chapelets de loques Qui s’effiloquent, Au long de bâtons droits; Bleus colombiers collés au toit; Carreaux, avec, sur leur vitre sinistre, Un emplâtre de papier bistre; Logis dont les gouttières régulières Forment des croix sur des pignons de pierre; Moulins plantés uniformes et mornes, Sur leur butte, comme des cornes; Clochers et chapelles voisines, La pluie, La longue pluie, Pendant l’hiver, les assassine. La pluie. La longue pluie, avec ses longs fils gris. Avec ses cheveux d’eau, avec ses rides. La longue pluie Des vieux pays, Eternelle et torpide!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Infinitely from The Evenings (1887) The hounds of despair, the hounds of the autumnal wind, Gnaw with their howling the black echoes of evenings. The darkness, immensely, gropes in the emptiness For the moon, seen by the light of water. From point to point, over there, the distant lights, And in the sky, above, dreadful voices Coming and going from the infinity of the marshes and planes To the infinity of the valleys and the woods. And roadways that stretch out like sails And pass each other, coming unfolded in the distance, soundlessly, While lengthening beneath the stars, Through the shadows and the terror of the night.
Fatal Flower from The Evenings (1887) Absurdity grows like a fatal flower In the leaf-mold of senses, of hearts, and intellects. Nothing more, neither of heroes nor of new saviours; And we remain to wallow in native reason. I wish to wander toward madness and its suns, The white suns of moonlight, at high noon, bizarre, And those distant, corroded echoes of clatter And baying, over there, fraught with vermilion hounds. Lakes of roses, here, in the snow; cloud, Where nest those birds with wings of wind; Caverns of evening, where a golden toad stands guard, Motionless, as he devours a corner of the landscape. Beaks of herons, enormously gaping for nothing at all, Insect in the light, which fidgets, immobile, Gleeful unconsciousness and the feeble tick-tock Of the peaceful death of madmen, as I hear it well.
Emile Verhaeren Infiniment
Les chiens du désespoir, les chiens du vent d’automne Mordent de leurs abois les échos noirs des soirs, Et l’ombre, immensément, dans le vide, tâtonne Vers la lune, mirée au clair des abreuvoirs. De point en point, là-bas, des lumières lointaines Et dans le ciel, là-haut, de formidables voix Allant de l’infini des marais et des plaines Jusques à l’infini des vallons et des bois. Et des routes qui s’étendent comme des voiles Et se croisent et se déplient au loin, sans bruit, Et continuent à s’allonger sous les étoiles A travers la ténèbre et l’effroi de la nuit.
Fleur Fatale
L’absurdité grandit comme une fleur fatale Dans le terreau des sens, des coeurs et des cerveaux. Plus rien, ni des héros, ni des sauveurs nouveaux; Et nous restons croupir dans la raison natale. Je veux marcher vers la folie et les soleils, Ses blancs soleils de lune au grand midi, bizarres, Et ses lointains échos mordus de tintamarres Et d’aboiements, là-bas, et pleins de chiens vermeils. Lacs de roses, ici, dans la neige, nuage Où nichent des oiseaux dans des plumes de vent; Grottes de soir, avec un crapaud d’or devant, Et qui ne bouge et mange un coin de paysage. Becs de hérons, énormément ouverts pour rien, Mouche, dans un rayon, qui s’agite, immobile: L’inconscience gaie et le tic-tac débile De la tranquille mort des fous, je l’entends bien!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets To Die from The Evenings (1887) An evening overflowing with purples and red rivers Grows rotten far above the dwarfed planes, And forcefully, with the fists of its clouds, Crushes, upon the greenish horizons, all of the suns. Massive season! And like October, which with indolence And heedlessness, swells and dies in this scene, Apples! pears of fire! grapes! golden rosaries, Which a tremulous fingering of light caresses, One final time, before the winter. The flight Of great ravens? it will come. But now is the hour Still of leafage carved in lacquer—and the proudest. Shoots of strawberries stain the ground with blood, The forest stretches toward the sky its hands of russet leaves, While bronze and iron resound, far away, in the distance; An odor of still water mingles with the scent of quince, And perfumes of wild iris with perfumes of moss. The pond, flat, luminous, enormously reflects, Between lithe birch trees with branches stirring, The climbing moon, heavy, red, immense, And which seems a lovely, ripe fruit, placidly come to light. Thus to die, my body, thus to die would be the dream! Beneath a supreme rush of colors and songs, And all of the golds and sunsets held within gazes, And with streams of strength rising within the mind. To die! like flowers far too overblown, to die! Too massive and too gigantic for life! Thus would lofty death be superbly served And our immense pride would suffer no offense! To die, my body! as does the autumn, to die!
Emile Verhaeren Mourir
Un soir plein de pourpres et de fleuves vermeils Pourrit, par au-delà des plaines diminuées, Et fortement, avec les poings de ses nuées, Sur l’horizon verdâtre, écrase des soleils. Saison massive! Et comme Octobre, avec paresse Et nonchaloir, se gonfle et meurt dans ce décor Pommes! caillots de feu! raisins! chapelets d’or, Que le doigté tremblant des lumières caresse, Une dernière fois, avant l’hiver. Le vol Des grands corbeaux? il vient. Mais aujourd’hui, c’est l’heure Encor des feuillaisons de laque—et la meilleure. Les pousses des fraisiers ensanglantent le sol, Le bois tend vers le ciel ses mains de feuilles rousses Et du bronze et du fer sonnent, là-bas, au loin. Une odeur d’eau se mêle à des senteurs de coing Et des parfums d’iris à des parfums de mousses. Et l’étang plane et clair reflète énormément Entre de fins bouleaux, dont le branchage bouge, La lune, qui se lève épaisse, immense et rouge, Et semble un beau fruit mûr, éclos placidement. Mourir ainsi, mon corps, mourir, serait le rêve! Sous un suprême afflux de couleurs et de chants, Avec, dans les regards, des ors et des couchants, Avec, dans le cerveau, des rivières de sève. Mourir! comme des fleurs trop énormes, mourir! Trop massives et trop géantes pour la vie! La grande mort serait superbement servie Et notre immense orgueil n’aurait rien à souffrir! Mourir, mon corps, ainsi que l’automne, mourir!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets London from The Evenings (1887) In this London of cast-iron and bronze, my soul, Where slabs of iron clack within shanties, Where sails depart without Our Lady, Without stars, through a tepid web of Chances. Stations of soot and smoke, where gas cries Its morbid spleen of silver toward tracks of lightening, Where creatures of tedium yawn at the hour, Immensely doleful, which tolls at Westminster. And those boundless wharfs with the lethal shinings, Withered Fates with spindles plunged into the depths, And drowned sailors beneath the petals Of flowers grown from muddy entrails, with the glare of a flame. And the shawls and the gestures of drunken women, And alcohol in letters of gold up to the rooftops, And all at once, death steals through the crowded streets, O my soul of evening, this black London languishing within you.
Madman’s Song from The Hallucinated Countrysides (1893) The rats from the neighboring graveyard, As mid-day sounds its din, Drone in the clamorous bells. They have gnawed at the hearts of the dead, And have grown fat and sleek on remorse. They devour even the worm, which feeds on all things, And their appetite endures, insatiable, tremendous. Here are the rats, Gnawing at the world, On every side, from top to bottom.
Emile Verhaeren Londres
Et ce Londres de fonte et de bronze, mon âme, Où des plaques de fer claquent sous des hangars, Où des voiles s’en vont, sans Notre-Dame Pour étoile, s’en vont, là-bas, vers les hasards. Gares de suie et de fumée, où du gaz pleure Ses spleens d’argent lointain vers des chemins d’éclair, Où des bêtes d’ennui bâillent à l’heure Dolente immensément, qui tinte à Westminster. Et ces quais infinis de lanternes fatales, Parques dont les fuseaux plongent aux profondeurs, Et ces marins noyés, sous des pétales De fleurs de boue où la flamme met des lueurs. Et ces châles et ces gestes de femmes soûles, Et ces alcools en lettres d’or jusques au toit, Et tout à coup la mort parmi ces foules, O mon âme du soir, ce Londres noir qui traîne en toi!
Chanson de Fou
Les rats du cimetière proche, Midi sonnant, Bourdonnent dans la cloche. Ils ont mordu le coeur des morts Et s’engraissent de ses remords. Ils dévorent le ver qui mange tout Et leur faim dure jusqu’au bout. Ce sont des rats Mangeant le monde De haut en bas.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets And the church—it was once so large and solemn With the faith of all the paupers within, And now, it is in shambles, Since they, the ravenous hordes of rats, Have gnawed all of the consecrated wafers. The massive blocks of stone are all stripped bare, Golden alcoves, like yawning graves, Open wide to reveal their emptiness; All of the suggestive glory Topples from the high pillars and from the apse, To the signal of a death-knell. The rats, They have worn away all the saintly haloes, The joined hands Of faith in days after, The mystical tenderness In the depth of ecstatic eyes, And the kisses of prayer Upon the mouths of poverty; The rats, They have stripped, worn away the entire town, From all sides, like a warehouse. And now, while they are departing, The maddened tocsins and cattle-bells, Are all screaming for pity, screaming for mercy, Shrieking, high above the roof-tops, All the way to the bellowing echoes, But no one at all can hear; there is no one to see: For the very soul of the fields Has for a long time been Blind. And only the rats from the neighboring graveyard Remain to chatter with the hiccoughing, Clattering Angelus of the bell.
Emile Verhaeren L’église?—elle était large et solennelle Avec la foi des pauvres gens en elle, Et la voici anéantie Depuis qu’ils ont, les rats, Mangé l’hostie. Les blocs de granit se déchaussent, Les niches d’or comme des fosses S’entr’ouvrent vides; Toute la gloire évocatoire Tombe des hauts piliers et des absides Au son des glas. Les rats, Ils ont rongé les auréoles bénévoles, Les jointes mains De la croyance aux lendemains, Les tendresses mystiques Au fond des yeux des extatiques Et les baisers de la prière; Sur les bouches de la misère; Les rats, Ils ont rongé le bourg entier De haut en bas, Comme un grenier. Aussi Que maintenant s’en aillent Les tocsins fous ou les sonnailles Criant pitié, criant merci, Hurlant, par au delà des toits, Jusqu’aux échos qui meuglent, Nul plus n’entend et personne ne voit: Puisqu’elle est l’âme des champs, Pour bien longtemps, Aveugle. Et les seuls rats du cimetière proche, A l’Angelus hoquetant et tintant, Causent avec la cloche.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Tenebrae from The Evenings (1887) A moon, with vacant, chilling eye, stares At the winter, enthroned vast and white upon the hard ground; The night is an entire and translucent azure; The wind, a blade of sudden presence, stabs. Faraway, on the skylines, the long pathways of frost, Seem, in the distance, to pierce the expanses, And stars of gold, suspended to the zenith, Always higher, amid the ether, to rend the blue of the sky. The villages crouched in the planes of Flanders, Near the rivers, the heather, and the great forests, Between two pale infinities, shiver with cold, Huddled near old hearthsides, where they stir the ashes.
Vesperal from The Black Torches (1891) Over marshes of gangrene and bile, Hearts of pierced stars pour blood from the depth of the sky. Vast, black forests and black horizon And clouds of despair, As they circle in futile voyages through the air, From North to South, in the closed precinct of sorrow. Lands of stooped rooftops and seaside hovels, Where my eyes have set forth as pilgrims, My vanquished eyes, my eyes deprived of swords, Like escorts, marching before their dreams. Leaden lands with endless sewers And swill brewed from aftertastes And a spigot of running nausea, Weeping over cadavers of thoughts.
Emile Verhaeren Ténèbres
La lune, avec son oeil vide et glacé, regarde L’hiver régner immense et blanc sur le sol dur; La nuit est d’un total et translucide azur; Le vent, comme un couteau, soudain, passe et poignarde. Aux horizons, là-bas, les longs chemins du gel Semblent, toujours plus loin, trouer les étendues, Et les étoiles d’or jusqu’au Zénith pendues Parmi l’éther, toujours plus haut, trouer le ciel. Les villages blottis dans les plaines de Flandre, Près des fleuves, des bruyères ou des grands bois, Entre ces deux infinis pâles, tremblent de froid, Autour des vieux foyers dont ils remuent la cendre.
Un Soir
Sur des marais de gangrène et de fiel Des coeurs d’astres troués saignent du fond du ciel. Horizon noir et grand bois noir Et nuages de désespoir Qui circulent en longs voyages Du Nord au Sud de ces parages. Pays de toits baissés et de chaumes marins Où sont allés mes yeux en pèlerins, Mes yeux vaincus, mes yeux sans glaives, Comme escortes, devant leurs rêves. Pays de plomb—et longs égouts Et lavasses d’arrière-goûts En chante-pleure de nausées Sur des cadavres de pensées.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Lands of memories, mired in slime, Where hatred flows free, decanted, Lands of dry-rot and leprosy, Where it is death that resounds in the bells of vespers; Where death rings out to death, Darkly, hidden in the depth of a harbor, From below a steeple, suddenly disinterred, Like a giant corpse, amid the massive fog; Where my heart also pours out its blood, My mournful heart, my benumbed heart, My heart of gangrene and of bile, Exhausted star in the depths of the sky.
The Rock from The Black Torches (1891) Upon this carious rock, tormented by the sea, Which footsteps will ever again climb, say, which footsteps? Say if I will finally be alone and which sustained knell Will I hear, while standing and facing the sea? It is there that I constructed my soul. —Say, will I be alone with my soul?— Alas, my soul, mansion of ebony, Where was slivered, soundlessly, one evening, The silver-gilt mirror of all my hopes. Say, will I be left alone with my soul, In that shadowy and anguished domain? Will I be left with my dark pride for companion, While seated in an armchair of hatred? Will I be left alone with my pale veneration, Of the holiest virgin, Our Lady of Lunacy? Will I be left alone with the sea In this shadowy and anguished domain?
Emile Verhaeren Pays de mémoire chue en de la vase, Où de la haine se transvase, Pays de la carie et de la lèpre, Où c’est la mort qui sonne à vêpre; Où c’est la mort qui sonne à mort, Obscurément, du fond d’un port, Au bas d’un clocher qui s’exhume Comme un grand mort parmi la brume; Où c’est mon coeur qui saigne aussi, Mon coeur morne, mon coeur transi, Mon coeur de gangrène et de fiel, Astre cassé, au fond du ciel.
Le Roc
Sur ce roc carié que fait souffrir la mer, Quels pas voudront monter encor, dites, quels pas? Dites, serai-je seul enfin et quel long glas Écouterai-je debout devant la mer? C’est là que j’ai bâti mon âme. —Dites, serai-je seul avec mon âme?— Mon âme hélas! maison d’ébène, Où s’est fendu, sans bruit, un soir, Le grand miroir de mon espoir. Dites, serai-je seul avec mon âme, En ce nocturne et angoissant domaine? Serai-je seul avec mon orgueil noir, Assis en un fauteuil de haine? Serai-je seul, avec ma pâle hyperdulie, Pour Notre-Dame la Folie? Serai-je seul avec la mer En ce nocturne et angoissant domaine?
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Croaking black toads, shaggy with moss, Consume the bright sunlight on the lawns. A towering pillar, with nothing to support, Rears up, like a stranger, in a garden path, Vastly paved with epitaphs in marble. On a pond of reptiles and wide-staring eyes, Gatherings of drowned swans, Toward distances of silk and crushed gold, Languidly trail their serene suicides, Amid the freesia and pallid jonquils. And from the summit of some headland in the air, Strange cries of sea-faring birds, With piercing, viperine beaks, Which sing the demise of all who pass. Upon this carious rock, hollowed more deeply by the sea, Say, will I be left alone with my soul? Will I finally know that atrocious joy Of seeing, fiber by fiber, like a prey, Fierce dementia rending piecemeal my mind? And will the crazed sufferer, released from the prison And the hard labor of his reason, Ever trim the sail for undiscovered lands? Say, to never again feel your life scaling The dogged iron steps of every single idea, To never again hear, endlessly, within, The screeching, always the same, whether fear or rage, Toward the great unknown, which journeys in the skies: To believe in insanity, as if in a faith! On this carious rock, driven mad by the sea, To grow old, pitiful dreamer of the steep domain, With all flesh dead and expectation set forth, Against the grain of life, immense and desolate.
Emile Verhaeren Des crapauds noirs, velus de mousse, Y dévorent du clair soleil, sur la pelouse. Un grand pilier ne soutenant plus rien, Comme un homme, s’érige en une allée, D’épitaphes de marbre immensément dallée. Sur un étang d’yeux ouverts et de reptiles, Des groupes de cygnes noyés, Vers des lointains de soie et d’or broyés, Traînent leurs suicides tranquilles Parmi des phlox et des jonquilles. Et du sommet d’un cap d’espace, D’étranges cris d’oiseaux marins, Les becs aigus et vipérins, Chantent la mort à tel qui passe. Sur ce roc carié que recreuse la mer, Dites, serai-je seul avec mon âme? Aurai-je enfin l’atroce joie De voir, nerfs après nerfs, comme une proie, La démence attaquer mon cerveau? Et détraqué malade, sorti de la prison Et des travaux forcés de sa raison, D’appareiller vers un lointain nouveau? Dites, ne plus sentir sa vie escaladée Par les talons de fer de chaque idée, Ne plus l’entendre infiniment en soi Ce cri, toujours identique, ou crainte, ou rage, Vers le grand inconnu qui dans les cieux voyage: Croire en la démence ainsi qu’en une foi! Sur ce roc carié que détraque la mer, Vieillir, triste rêveur de l’escarpé domaine, Les chairs mortes, l’espérance en allée, A rebours de la vie immense et désolée;
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets To never again hear, hushed within your ebony house, That iron-clad silence, which causes the dead to tremble with fear; To drag long, weighted steps through the soundless hallways; To see the same hours forever marching in succession, With never a hope for better hours; And forever to demolish the solitary lookout; Such a signal in the distance!—a presage has just appeared; Throughout the faded salons, to love the vacant seats And the chambers, where the large beds have seen death, And every single evening, to feel with livid fingers, Unreason growing ripe beneath your temples. Upon this carious rock, ruined by the sea, Say, will I finally be alone with the sea, Say, will I finally be alone with my soul? And then to die: to once again become nothing. To be someone who no longer recollects, And who departs, without a tolling knell, Without a taper in hand, Without his knowing, that person who passes, Joyous and bright, on the smooth surface of the sea, That the shadowy and anguishing domain, Where no torch will ever again blaze, In mourning for its mansion of ebony, Conceals a corpse and its tombstone.
The Abandoned Port from The Cities with Pinions (1909) A pitiful, blind lighthouse, worn away by corrosion, A few anchors scattered on the deserted pier, A windlass, rent asunder, useless forever, And, in the distance, the echoing footstep of a patrol.
Emile Verhaeren N’entendre plus se taire, en sa maison d’ébène, Qu’un silence de fer dont auraient peur les morts; Traîner de longs pas lourds en de sourds corridors; Voir se suivre toujours les mêmes heures, Sans espérer en des heures meilleures; Pour à jamais clore telle fenêtre; Tel signe au loin!—un présage vient d’apparaître; Autour des vieux salons, aimer les sièges vides Et les chambres dont les grands lits ont vu mourir Et chaque soir, sentir, les doigts livides, La déraison sous ses tempes mûrir. Sur ce roc carié que ruine la mer, Dites, serai-je seul enfin avec la mer, Dites, serai-je seul enfin avec mon âme? Et puis mourir; redevenir rien. Etre quelqu’un qui plus ne se souvient Et qui s’en va sans glas qui sonne, Sans cierge en main ni sans personne, Sans que sache celui qui passe, Joyeux et clair dans la bonace, Que le nocturne et angoissant domaine, En deuil de sa maison d’ébène, Où plus ne brûle aucun flambeau, Renferme un mort et son tombeau.
Le Port Déchu
Un pauvre phare aveugle, où mord la rouille; Quelques ancres sur le môle désert, Un cabestan fendu qui plus ne sert, Et, tout au loin, le pas d’une patrouille.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets No sailor’s song throws into confusion The solid threads of silence, woven in the air, As the hushed fold return home in even numbers To their decrepit houses, with bolted doors. Yet, in a corner of the wharf, still rises, Battered, groaning at the cruelty of the North Wind, The likeness of Lady Fortune, sculptured in wood. But when the moment comes for night to fall, The water grows tarnished and finds solely reflected in its dream Nothing, until the dawn, but the dead gold of the moon.
Emile Verhaeren Nulle chanson de matelot ne brouille Les fils du silence tissés dans l’air, Des gens muets rentrent par nombre pair En des maisons antiques qu’on verrouille. Pourtant, au coin du quai, s’élève encor, Battue et gémissante au vent du Nord, L’image, en bois sculpté, de la Fortune. Mais que vienne l’instant où la nuit choit, L’eau se ternit et plus ne mire en soi, Jusqu’au matin, que l’or mort de la lune.
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iii Selections from: Hothouses Serres Chaudes 1889 Fifteen Songs Quinze Chansons 1900
Maurice Maeterlinck
Maurice Maeterlinck (1862–1949) Commentary
As a poet, dramatist, and essayist, Maurice Maeterlinck explored the ineffable. 1889 marked the appearance of a collection of poetry, Serres chaudes, and a play, La Princesse Maleine, which created a Symbolist drama and revolutionized the theater. Maeterlinck’s early plays, L’Intruse, Les Aveugles, Pelléas et Melisande, are characterized by silence, a legendary atmosphere, anticipation of death as an omnipresent and insinuative force, and anguished, truncated utterances which express the tension between the spoken and the unspeakable. Ruptured discourse is also evident in the Serres chaudes poems, in which Maeterlinck accumulates brief, highly visual situations, momentary flashes of drama, in order to express a mood of debility and anxiety. Maeterlinck’s longer poems are expansive catalogues of displaced objects and conjunctions of opposites: “A fountain rises in the middle of the room,” “There are deer in a besieged city,” “oriental vegetation in an ice-cave.” In their brevity, Maeterlinck’s apostrophes are suggestive and open-ended. The ambiguous or absent link between the statements contributes to their symbolist, evocative quality. An atmosphere of strangeness is further developed through accretions of sensory confusions, such as “whispering gazes,” or “suffocated gazes,” and conjunctions of the concrete and abstract, “the secret hounds of desires.” The Serres chaudes poems are of two types. There are the aforementioned landscapes of analogies, where hallucinations assail a prophet of the apocalypse, who reports in rapid succession the bizarre things he witnesses. Interspersed are more succinct poems, affective and euphonious in their sound patterns, which are reiterated litanies of waiting and dejection, addressed to an absent deity. Teeming, mephitic visions and weighted lassitude are the modalities of the Serres chaudes, which convey an impression of an infirm human condition, man comfortless and powerless in the grasp of an implacable destiny. The central source of imagery in Maeterlinck’s Serres chaudes are structures formed or enclosed in glass—hothouses, bell-glasses, diving bells, various transparent membranes which represent an interior space of the mind or the soul. With its lush vegetation guarded by invisible yet infrangible walls, the hothouse becomes Maeterlinck’s paradigm for the unconscious, the world of dreams which may be glimpsed, but only imperfectly explored. The various glass structures, protective yet enclosing, also serve Maeterlinck as metaphors for a state of spiritual claustrophobia, the soul’s impulse to break free of constraints in order to join the unknown. Related to this impulse are the experiences of “entrevoir,” “entr’ouvrir,” dimly perceiving, half-opening to the sphere of mystery, alluring yet fearful.
Maurice Maeterlinck
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Spiritual quest also marks Maeterlinck’s only other collection of verse, the Douze Chansons of 1896, expanded to the Quinze Chansons of 1900. The poems are brief and folkloric, often taking the form of alternating voices engaged in question and answer. The songs are simple yet highly ambiguous in their reiteration of a search which remains always undefined, always failed, and always continued. Imagery of benightedness (blindfolded eyes, blindness, caverns, extinguished torches), imprisonment (locked doors, lost keys), and sacrifice of the meek is recurrent in the songs, which resume in miniature the atmosphere of uncertainty and helplessness which pervades Maeterlinck’s theater. The Poetry of Maurice Maeterlinck: Poésies complètes. Edition critique établie par Joseph Hanse. (Bruxelles: La Renaissance du Livre, 1965). Oeuvres. (Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1980).
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Hothouse O hothouse lost among the trees, With your doors forever closed! As the dead voice, whispering under your dome, Calls forth the lost days of my soul. The thoughts of a princess, fainting with hunger, The distress of a sailor, dreaming of waves in the desert, Copper music at the windows of those who are slowly dying. On to the mildest corners! You would say a woman fainted one harvest day; There are messengers in the courtyard of the asylum; In the distance, a bounding huntsman, become a nurse, passes by. Walk forward by moonlight! (Oh! nothing is in its place!) You would say a raving madwoman dragged to trial, A warship at full sail on a canal, Nocturnal birds perched on lilies, A knell resounding about midday, (Over there, beneath those bells!) A halting place for the diseased in the meadow, The smell of ether on a sunny day. Oh God! Oh God! how we long for rain And snow and wind in the hothouse!
Nocturnal Orison Beneath languid visions, Within my stunned prayers, I hear the hissing of passions, And the surging of enemy lusts. I see a bitter moonlight, Beneath the nightly tedium of dreams, And upon poisonous shores, The wandering pleasures of the flesh.
Maurice Maeterlinck Serre Chaude O serre au milieu des forêts! Et vos portes à jamais closes! Et tout ce qu’il y a sous votre coupole! Et sous mon âme en vos analogies! Les pensées d’une princesse qui a faim, L’ennui d’un matelot dans le désert, Une musique de cuivre aux fenêtres des incurables. Allez aux angles les plus tièdes! On dirait une femme évanouie un jour de moisson; Il y a des postillons dans la cour de l’hospice; Au loin, passe un chasseur d’élans, devenu infirmier. Examinez au clair de lune! (Oh rien ’y est à sa place!) On dirait une folle devant les juges, Un navire de guerre à pleines voiles sur un canal, Des oiseaux de nuit sur des lys, Un glas vers midi, (Là-bas sous ces cloches!) Une étape de malades dans la prairie, Une odeur d’éther un jour de soleil. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! quand aurons-nous la pluie, Et la neige et le vent dans la serre!
Oraison Nocturne En mes oraisons endormies Sous de languides visions, J’entends jaillir les passions Et les luxures ennemies. Je vois un clair de lune amer Sous l’ennui nocturne des rêves; Et sur de vénéneuses grèves, La joie errante de la chair.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Within my marrow, I hear arising Desires with green horizons, And beneath forever murky skies, I suffer an unquenched thirst for stars. I hear surging in my house, Evil, dark caresses; I see phantom marshes Beneath an eclipse on the horizons! And I perish beneath your spite! Lord, have mercy, O Lord, Open for the sick man drenched in sweat, The grass prophesied by the moonlight! Now is the time, Lord, now is the time, To scythe the untilled hemlock. Glimpsed through my most remote hopes, The moon is tinged green with serpents. And the tide of evil dreams floats ever onward With its sins brimming in my eyes, And I hear the sighs of blue fountain streams As they climb toward the absolute moon.
Foliage of the Heart Sealed within the windows of blue crystal And weary melancholy My vague, abolished distress Hovers in the air and slowly grows. Vegetations of symbols, Dismal water lilies of past pleasures, Sluggish palm trees of desires, Cold moss and slack vines. Solitary in their midst, A pale and rigid lily feebly Raises its motionless ascent Over the woeful foliage.
Maurice Maeterlinck J’entends s’élever dans mes moelles Des désirs aux horizons verts, Et sous des cieux toujours couverts, Je souffre une soif sans étoiles! J’entends jaillir dans ma maison Les mauvaises tendresses noires; Je vois des marais illusoires Sous une éclipse à l’horizon! Et je meurs sous votre rancune! Seigneur, ayez pitié, Seigneur, Ouvrez au malade en sueur L’herbe entrevue au clair de lune! Il est temps, Seigneur, il est temps De faucher la ciguë inculte! A travers mon espoir occulte La lune est verte de serpents! Et le mal des songes afflue Avec ses péchés en mes yeux, Et j’écoute des jets d'eau bleus Jaillir vers la lune absolue!
Feuillage du Coeur Sous la cloche de cristal bleu De mes lasses mélancolies, Mes vagues douleurs abolies S’immobilisent peu à peu: Végétations de symboles, Nénuphars mornes des plaisirs, Palmes lentes de mes désirs, Mousses froides, lianes molles. Seul, un lys érige d’entre eux, Pâle et rigidement débile, Son ascension immobile Sur les feuillages douloureux,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets And in the steps of its light, Like the moon, little by little, Lifts up to the closed window A mystic, white prayer against the blue.
Soul My soul! My too much sheltered soul! And those herds of my desires penned in a hothouse Awaiting a tempest over the grasslands. On to the most sickly: They have strange exhalations. In their midst, I cross through a battlefield with my mother. They are burying a comrade-at-arms at noon, While the sentries eat their meal. Let us move on to the weakest: They are drenched in strange sweats; Here is a sickly fiancée, A betrayal on Sunday, And little children in prison. (And further on, through the mist,) Is that a dying woman at a kitchen door? Or a nun shelling peas at the bedside of an incurable? Let us go to the saddest at last: (But at the very end because they are poisonous.) On! my lips accept a wounded man’s kiss! All of the chatelaines have starved to death, this summer, in the towers of my soul! And here is a sunrise that joins in the magic joy! I confusedly glimpse sheep along the quay, As the hospital windows are veiled. There is a long road from my heart to my soul! And all of the sentries are dead at their post!
Maurice Maeterlinck Et dans les lueurs qu’il épanche Comme une lune, peu à peu, Elève vers le cristal bleu Sa mystique prière blanche.
Ame Mon âme! O mon âme vraiment trop à l’abri! Et ces troupeaux de mes désirs dans une serre Attendant une tempête sur les prairies! Allons vers les plus malades: Ils ont d’étranges exhalaisons. Au milieu d’eux, je traverse un champ de bataille avec ma mère. On enterre un frère d’armes à midi, Tandis que les sentinelles prennent leur repas. Allons aussi vers les plus faibles: Ils ont d’étranges sueurs; Voici une fiancée malade, Une trahison le dimanche Et des petits enfants en prison. (Et plus loin, à travers la vapeur,) Est-ce une mourante à la porte d’une cuisine? Ou une soeur épluchant des légumes au pied du lit d’un incurable? Allons enfin vers les plus tristes: (En dernier lieu, car ils ont des poisons.) Oh! mes lèvres acceptent les baisers d’un blessé! Toutes les châtelaines sont mortes de faim, cet été, dans les tours de mon âme! Voici le petit jour qui entre dans la fête! J’entrevois des brebis le long des quais, Et il y a une voile aux fenêtres de l’hôpital. Il y a un long chemin de mon coeur à mon âme! Et toutes les sentinelles sont mortes à leur poste!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Once, there was a pitiful little holiday on the outskirts of my soul! They harvested hemlock there one Sunday morning; And all of the convent virgins watched the ships passing on the canal, one day of fasting and sunshine, While the swans suffered under a venomous bridge; They were chopping down trees around the prison, They were bringing medicine one June afternoon, And meals for the sick expand over all the horizons! My soul! And the sadness of it all, my soul, and the sadness of it all!
Prayer You have seen my distress through the dark nights, Now you know me, my Lord, And I will carry wretched flowers from the ground, To scatter on a young corpse beneath the sunlight. You also know my lassitude, The dimmed moon, the black dawn. Enrich, oh Lord, my barren solitude, Watering it with your divine glory. Open your pathway for me, Lord And light it for my weary soul, Because the sadness of my joy Resembles new life beneath the frozen ground.
Maurice Maeterlinck Il y eut un jour une pauvre petite fête dans les faubourgs de mon âme! On y fauchait la ciguë un dimanche matin; Et toutes les vierges du couvent regardaient passer les vaisseaux sur le canal, un jour de jeûne et de soleil. Tandis que les cygnes souffraient sous un pont vénéneux; On émondait les arbres autour de la prison, On apportait des remèdes une après-midi de Juin, Et des repas de malades s’étendaient à tous les horizons! Mon âme! Et la tristesse de tout cela, mon âme! et la tristesse de tout cela!
Oraison Vous savez, Seigneur, ma misère! Voyez ce que je vous apporte! Des fleurs mauvaises de la terre, Et du soleil sur une morte. Voyez aussi ma lassitude, La lune éteinte et l’aube noire; Et fécondez ma solitude En l’arrosant de votre gloire. Ouvrez-moi, Seigneur, votre voie, Eclairez-y mon âme lasse, Car la tristesse de ma joie Semble de l’herbe sous la glace.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Reflections Beneath the rising water of dream, My soul is afraid, my soul is afraid, Of the cold moonbeams in my heart, And still dream-waters of grey. Beneath the dull sorrow of reeds, Only deep reflections still breathe, Of lilies, bright palms, and roses, Weeping in the depths of dream. And the flowers shed their petals On the mirror of the sky, To descend eternally, Sinking into dreams and lights.
Maurice Maeterlinck Reflets Sous l’eau du songe qui s’élève, Mon âme a peur, mon âme a peur! Et la lune luit dans mon coeur, Plongé dans les sources du rêve. Sous l’ennui morne des roseaux, Seuls les reflets profonds des choses, Des lys, des palmes et des roses, Pleurent encore au fond des eaux. Les fleurs s’effeuillent une à une Sur le reflet du firmament, Pour descendre éternellement Dans l’eau du songe et dans la lune.
Fernand Khnopff. Secret-Reflection. 1902.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Diving Bell O diver forever within his bell! A vast sea of glass eternally warm, All that motionless life with sluggish green pendulums! And so many strange beings through the walls! And all touching forever forbidden! When there is so much life in the clear water outside! Look out! the shadow of the great sailing ships glides over the dahlias of submarine forests; And, for a moment, I am in the shadow of whales leaving for the pole! In the port, others must now be unloading ships full of snow! There was a glacier in the midst of July meadows! They swim backwards in the green water of the creek! They enter dark caverns at noon! And the breezes of the open sea fan the terraces! Look out! here are the flaming tongues of the Gulf Stream! Keep their kisses away from the walls of tedium! They no longer place snow on the foreheads of the feverish! The sick have lit fires of joy And toss handfuls of green lilies into the flames! Lean your forehead against the least warm walls, While waiting for the moon at the top of the bell, And close your eyes tight to the forests of blue pendulums and purple albumin, While remaining deaf to the incitements of the lukewarm water. Wipe off your desires weakened with perspiration. Go first to those on the verge of fainting; They look as if they were going to celebrate a wedding feast in a cellar. They look as if they were going to enter at noon into a lamplit avenue at the bottom of a vault; They cross in stately procession a landscape that resembles an orphan’s childhood. Next go to those who are dying. They arrive like virgins who have had a long stroll in the sun, one day of fasting;
Maurice Maeterlinck Cloche à Plongeur O plongeur à jamais sous sa cloche! Toute une mer de verre éternellement chaude! Toute une vie immobile aux lents pendules verts! Et tant d’êtres étranges à travers les parois! Et tout attouchement à jamais interdit! Lorsqu’il y a tant de vie en l’eau claire au dehors! Attention! l’ombre des grands voiliers passe sur les dahlias des forêts sous-marines; Et je suis un moment à l’ombre des baleines qui s’en vont vers le pôle! En ce moment, les autres déchargent, sans doute, des vaisseaux pleins de neige dans le port! Il y avait encore un glacier au milieu des prairies de Juillet! Ils nagent à reculons en l’eau verte de l’anse! Ils entrent à midi dans des grottes obscures! Et les brises du large éventent les terrasses! Attention! voici les langues en flamme du Gulf-Stream! Ecartez leurs baisers des parois de l’ennui! On n’a plus mis de neige sur le front des fiévreux; Les malades ont allumé un feu de joie, Et jettent à pleines mains les lys verts dans les flammes! Appuyez votre front aux parois les moins chaudes, En attendant la lune au sommet de la cloche, Et fermez bien vos yeux aux forêts de pendules bleus et d’albumines violettes, en restant sourd aux suggestions de l’eau tiède. Essuyez vos désirs affaiblis de sueurs; Allez d’abord à ceux qui vont s’évanouir: Ils ont l’air de célébrer une fête nuptiale dans une cave; Ils ont l’air d’entrer à midi, dans une avenue éclairée de lampes au fond d’un souterrain; Ils traversent, en cortège de fête, un paysage semblable à une enfance d’orphelin. Allez ensuite à ceux qui vont mourir. Ils arrivent comme des vierges qui ont fait une longue promenade au soleil, un jour de jeûne;
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets They are as pale as the ill who listen to the placidly falling rain in hospital gardens. They look like survivors who take their meal on the battlefield; They are like prisoners who are not unaware that the jailors are bathing in the river, And who hear the grass being mown in the prison garden.
Round of Tedium I intone the wan ballads Of kisses forevermore lost! I see weddings of the diseased, Upon love’s thick-sown lawn. I hear voices in my sleep, So heedlessly come! And lilies open in streets, Without stars, without sun. And those flights so slow still, And those desires that I willed, Are paupers in a palace, And candles weary in the dawn. I await the moon in my eyes, Opened on the verge of ceaseless nights; May she finally stanch my dreams, With her cloths, so indolent and blue.
Maurice Maeterlinck Ils sont pâles comme des malades qui écoutent pleuvoir placidement sur des jardins de l’hôpital; Ils ont l’aspect de survivants qui déjeunent sur le champ de bataille. Ils sont pareils à des prisonniers qui n’ignorent pas que tous les geôliers se baignent dans le fleuve, Et qui entendent faucher l’herbe dans le jardin de la prison.
Ronde d’Ennui Je chante les pâles ballades Des baisers perdus sans retour! Sur l’herbe épaisse de l’amour Je vois des noces de malades. J’entends des voix dans mon sommeil Si nonchalamment apparues! Et des lys s’ouvrent en des rues Sans étoiles et sans soleil. Et ces élans si lents encore Et ces désirs que je voulais, Sont des pauvres dans un palais, Et des cierges las dans l’aurore. J’attends la lune dans mes yeux Ouverts au seuil des nuits sans trêves, Afin qu’elle étanche mes rêves Avec ses linges lents et bleus.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Touches Touches! Darkness expands between your fingers! Brass music beneath the storm! Organ music in the sun! All of the soul’s herds lost in a night of eclipse! All of the sea salt in the grass of the meadows! And those blue fireballs on all of the horizons! (Have pity upon this power of mankind!) But those touches of your weak, damp hands! I hear your pure fingers slipping between my fingers, And streams of sheep flow in the moonlight along a warm river.
I recall all of the hands that have touched my hands. I see once again all that was out of reach of those hands, And I see today that I was sheltered from those lukewarm hands. I often became the pauper who eats bread at the foot of the throne. I was sometimes the diver who can no longer escape from the warm water! I was sometimes an entire people who could no longer leave the outskirts! And those hands like a convent without a garden! And those that shut me in like a throng of sick people in a glass house on a day of rain! Until others, cooler, came to half-open the doors, And sprinkle a little water on the threshold! Oh! I have known strange touches! And now they hem me in forever! They were giving alms on a sunny day, People harvested at the bottom of a crypt, There was the music of mountebanks all around the prison, There were wax figures in a summer forest, Elsewhere the moon mowed down an entire oasis, And sometimes I happened upon a feverish virgin at the bottom of a cavern of ice. Have pity upon the strange hands! Those hands hold the secrets of all the kings!
Maurice Maeterlinck Attouchements Attouchements! L’obscurité s’étend entre vos doigts! Musiques de cuivres sous l’orage! Musiques d’orgues au soleil! Tous les troupeaux de l’âme au fond d’une nuit d’éclipse! Tout le sel de la mer en l’herbe des prairies! Et ces bolides bleus à tous les horizons! (Ayez pitié de ce pouvoir de l’homme!) Mais ces attouchements plus mornes et plus las! O ces attouchements de vos pauvres mains moites! J’écoute vos doigts purs passer entre mes doigts, Et des troupeaux d’agneaux s’éloignent au clair de lune le long d’un fleuve tiède. Je me souviens de toutes les mains qui ont touché mes mains. Et je revois ce qu’il y avait à l’abri de ces mains, Et je vois aujourd’hui ce que j’étais à l’abri de ces mains tiédes. Je devenais souvent le pauvre qui mange du pain au pied du trône. J’étais parfois le plongeur qui ne peut plus s’évader de l’eau chaude! J’étais parfois tout un peuple qui ne pouvait plus sortir des faubourgs! Et ces mains semblables à un couvent sans jardin! Et celles qui m’enfermaient comme une troupe de malades dans une serre un jour de pluie! Jusqu’à ce que d’autres plus fraîches vinssent entr’ouvrir les portes Et répandre un peu d’eau sur le seuil! Oh! j’ai connu d’étranges attouchements! Et voici qu’ils m’entourent à jamais! On y faisait l’aumône un jour de soleil, On y faisait la moisson au fond d’un souterrain, Il y avait une musique de saltimbanques autour de la prison, Il y avait des figures de cire dans une forêt d’été, Ailleurs la lune avait fauché toute l’oasis, Et parfois je trouvais une vierge en sueur au fond d’une grotte de glace. Ayez pitié des mains étranges! Ces mains contiennent les secrets de tous les rois!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Have pity upon hands too pale! They seem to issue from the cellars of the moon, They have worn themselves out spinning the spindle of fountain cascades! Have pity upon hands too white and damp! It seems to me that all summer long the princesses went to sleep toward midday. Stay away from hands too hard! They seem to have sprung from rocks! But have pity upon cold hands! I see a heart bleeding beneath ribs of ice! Have pity upon wicked hands! They have poisoned the fountains! They have placed the young swans in a nest of hemlock! I have seen the pagan angels parting the doors at noon! Only madmen are left on a poisonous river! There are only black sheep in pastures without stars! And the lambs stray to graze on darkness! But those cool and loyal hands! They come to offer ripe fruit to the dying! They carry clear and cold water in their palms! They sprinkle the battlefields with milk! They seem to issue from wonderful forests, forever virgin!
Maurice Maeterlinck Ayez pitié des mains trop pâles! Elles semblent sortir des caves de la lune, Elles se sont usées à filer le fuseau des jets d’eau! Ayez pitié des mains trop blanches et trop moites! Il me semble que les princesses sont allées se coucher vers midi tout l’été! Eloignez-vous des mains trop dures! Elles semblent sortir des rochers! Mais ayez pitié des mains froides! Je vois un coeur saigner sous des côtes de glace! Ayez pitié des mains mauvaises! Elles ont empoisonné les fontaines! Elles ont mis les jeunes cygnes dans un nid de ciguë! J’ai vu les mauvais anges ouvrir les portes à midi! Il n’y a que des fous sur un fleuve vénéneux! Il n’y a plus que des brebis noires en des pâturages sans étoiles! Et les agneaux s’en vont brouter l’obscurité! Mais ces mains fraîches et loyales! Elles viennent offrir des fruits mûrs aux mourants! Elles apportent de l’eau claire et froide en leurs paumes! Elles arrosent de lait les champs de bataille! Elles semblent sortir d’admirables forêts éternellement vierges!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Bell-Glasses O bells of glass! Uncanny plants forever sheltered! While outside the crystal partitions, the wind stirs my senses! An entire valley of the soul, forever motionless! And so much mildness shut in toward midday! And the strange images perceived through the crystal panes! Never raise any of them! Several have been placed over ancient moonlight! Part the foliage and search. You might find that there is a beggar seated on a throne, One senses that pirates are lurking on the pond And that antediluvian beings will soon assail the cities. Some have been placed over ancient snow-storms, Some enclose by-gone rains. (Have pity upon the heavy, stifling air.) I hear a raucous celebration on a Sunday of famine, There is an ambulance in the midst of the harvest, And all of the king’s daughters ramble, one fasting day, through the meadows. And especially search those glaring on the skylines! They cover with care the ancient tempests. Oh! somewhere a fleet must be afloat on a swamp! I would swear that the swans have found young ravens in their nests! (A gaze can barely pierce the clouded glass.) A virgin sprinkles the ferns with hot water. A flock of little girls stares at the hermit in his cell, My sisters drift into sleep at the heart of a poisonous cavern! Let us wait now for the moon and a white winter, To cover at last these bells, scattered over the ice.
Maurice Maeterlinck Cloches De Verre O cloches de verre! Etranges plantes à jamais à l’abri! Tandis que le vent agite mes sens au dehors! Toute une vallée de l’âme à jamais immobile! Et la tiédeur enclose vers midi! Et les images entrevues à fleur du verre! N’en soulevez jamais aucune! On en a mis plusieurs sur d’anciens clairs de lune. Examinez à travers leurs feuillages: Il y a peut-être un vagabond sur le trône, On a l’idée que des corsaires attendent sur l’étang, Et que des êtres antédiluviens vont envahir les villes. On en a placé sur d’anciennes neiges. On en a placé sur de vieilles pluies. (Ayez pitié de l’atmosphère enclose!) J’entends célébrer une fête un dimanche de famine, Il y a une ambulance au milieu de la moisson, Et toutes les filles du roi errent, un jour de diète, à travers les prairies! Examinez surtout celles de l’horizon! Elles couvrent avec soin de très anciens orages. Oh! Il doit y avoir quelque part une énorme flotte sur un marais! Et je crois que les cygnes ont couvé des corbeaux! (On entrevoit à peine à travers les moiteurs) Une vierge arrose d’eau chaude les fougères, Une troupe de petites filles observe l’ermite en sa cellule, Mes soeurs sont endormies au fond d’une grotte vénéneuse! Attendez la lune et l’hiver, Sur ces cloches éparses enfin sur la glace!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Weary Hunts Today, my soul languishes, Ill with distress and absence, Diseased with darkness and silence, And my eyes flash without horizons. Today, I perceive frozen hunts, Beneath the blue whips of memories, And the secret hounds of desire, Course along the weary slopes. I see the packs of my dreams, Through the dimness of warm trees, And toward the white stags of lies, The yellow arrows of regrets. God, my agonizing wishes, The warm longings of all I can see, Have faded into a panting blue, The new moon on the hill, my soul.
Gazes O those gazes wretched and weary! And yours and mine! And those that are no longer and those still to come! And those that will never arrive and yet exist! Some seem to visit paupers on Sunday; Some are like the homeless ill; Some are like lambs in a meadow covered with washing. And those strange gazes! Under the vault of some, you watch virgins put to death in a sealed chamber; And some make you dream of unknown sorrows! Of Of Of Of
peasants under the factory windows, a gardener become a weaver, a sultry afternoon in a wax museum, a queen’s thoughts as she watches a sick man in the garden,
Maurice Maeterlinck Chasses Lasses Mon âme est malade aujourd’hui, Mon âme est malade d’absences, Mon âme a le mal des silences, Et mes yeux l’éclairent d’ennui. J’entrevois d’immobiles chasses, Sous les fouets bleus des souvenirs, Et les chiens secrets des désirs Passent le long des pistes lasses. A travers de tièdes forêts, Je vois les meutes de mes songes, Et vers les cerfs blancs des mensonges, Les jaunes flèches des regrets. Mon Dieu, mes désirs hors d’haleine, Les tièdes désirs de mes yeux, Ont voilé de souffles trop bleus La lune dont mon âme est pleine.
Regards O ces regards pauvres et las! Et les vôtres et les miens! Et ceux qui ne sont plus et ceux qui vont venir! Et ceux qui n’arriveront jamais et qui existent cependant! Il y en a qui semblent visiter des pauvres un dimanche; Il y en a comme des malades sans maison; Il y en a comme des agneaux dans une prairie couverte de linges. Et ces regards insolites! Il y en a sous la voûte desquels on assite à l’exécution d’une vierge dans une salle close, Et ceux qui font songer à des tristesses ignorées! A des paysans aux fenêtres de l’usine, A un jardinier devenu tisserand, A une après-midi d’été dans un musée de cires, Aux idées d’une reine qui regarde un malade dans le jardin,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Of the smell of camphor in a forest, Of locking a princess in a tower, some feast day, Of navigating an entire week on a warm canal. Have mercy upon those that set forth with tottering steps like a convalescent during harvest! Have mercy upon those that look like lost children at the time for repast! Have mercy upon the gaze of the wounded man at the surgeon, Like tents buffeted by a storm! Have mercy upon the gazes of an enticed virgin! (Oh! the rivers of milk have fled into the shadows! And the swans are dead in the midst of serpents!) And those of a virgin who succumbs! Princesses abandoned in swamps without escape! And those eyes where ships leave at full sail, lit by a storm! And the wretchedness of all of those eyes which suffer from not being elsewhere! And so much suffering, almost indistinct and yet so manifold! And those that no one can ever understand! And those poor gazes almost mute! And those poor gazes that whisper! And those poor, suffocated gazes! In the midst of some, you imagine yourself in a castle become a hospital! And so many others look like tents, battle lilies on a little convent lawn! And so many others like sisters of charity on a yacht without the ill! Ah! to have seen all of those gazes! To have recognized all of those gazes! And to have worn out my own seeking them! And from now on never again to be able to close my eyes!
Maurice Maeterlinck A une odeur de camphre dans la forêt, A enfermer une princesse dans une tour, un jour de fête, A naviguer toute une semaine sur un canal tiède. Ayez pitié de ceux qui sortent à petits pas comme des convalescents dans la moisson! Ayez pitié de ceux qui ont l’air d’enfants égarés à l’heure du repas! Ayez pitié des regards du blessé vers le chirurgien, Pareils à des tentes sous l’orage! Ayez pitié des regards de la vierge tentée! (Oh! des fleuves de lait ont fui dans les ténèbres! Et les cygnes sont morts au milieu des serpents!) Et de ceux de la vierge qui succombe! Princesses abandonnées en des marécages sans issues! Et ces yeux où s’éloignent à pleines voiles des navires illuminés dans la tempête! Et le pitoyable de tous ces regards qui souffrent de n’être pas ailleurs! Et tant de souffrances presque indistinctes et si diverses cependant! Et ceux que nul ne comprendra jamais! Et ces pauvres regards presque muets! Et ces pauvres regards qui chuchotent! Et ces pauvres regards étouffés! Au milieu des uns on croit être dans un château qui sert d’hôpital! Et tant d’autres ont l’air de tentes, lys des guerres, sur la petite pelouse du couvent! Et tant d’autres ont l’air de blessés soignés dans une serre chaude! Et tant d’autres ont l’air de soeurs de charité sur une Atlantique sans malades! Oh! avoir vu tous ces regards! Avoir admis tous ces regards! Et avoir épuisé les miens à leur rencontre! Et désormais ne pouvoir plus fermer les yeux!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Amen At last has come the hour to bless The extinguished sleep of the slaves, And I await the coming of his hands, White roses in the cellars. I await at last the coolness of his breath Upon my heart, at last sealed to deceit, Paschal lamb lost in the marshes, And wound sunk in warm water. I await nights without days after, And weaknesses without remedy, I await his shadow on my hands, And his image in the lukewarm water. I await your nights, at last to see My desire washing its face, And my dreams in the evening bath, Dying in a palace of ice.
Hospital Hospital! Hospital alongside the canal! Hospital in the month of July! They are lighting a fire in the ward! While ocean liners whistle on the canal! (Don’t go too close to the windows!) Emigrants are walking through a palace! I see a yacht in a storm! I see herds on all the ships! (It is much better to keep the windows closed, We are almost safe from the outside.) The thought of a hothouse upon snow comes to mind, You would think they were celebrating a recovery on a stormy day. You glimpse plants scattered over a woolen blanket, And a fire on a sunny day, And I cross through a forest teeming with the wounded.
Maurice Maeterlinck Amen Il est l’heure enfin de bénir Le sommeil éteint des esclaves, Et j’attends ses mains à venir En roses blanches dans les caves. J’attends enfin son souffle frais, Sur mon coeur enfin clos aux fraudes; Agneau-pascal dans les marais, Et blessure au fond des eaux chaudes. J’attends des nuits sans lendemains, Et des faiblesses sans remède; J’attends son ombre sur mes mains, Et son image dans l’eau tiède. J’attends vos nuits afin de voir Mes désirs se laver la face, Et mes songes aux bains du soir, Mourir en un palais de glace.
Hôpital Hôpital! hôpital au bord du canal! Hôpital au mois de Juillet! On y fait du feu dans la salle! Tandis que les transatlantiques sifflent sur le canal! (Oh! n’approchez pas des fenêtres!) Des émigrants traversent un palais! Je vois un yacht sous la tempête! Je vois des troupeaux sur tous les navires! (Il vaut mieux que les fenêtres restent closes, On est presque à l’abri du dehors.) On a l’idée d’une serre sur la neige, On croit célébrer des relevailles un jour d’orage, On entrevoit des plantes éparses sur une couverture de laine, Il y a un incendie un jour de soleil, Et je traverse une forêt pleine de blessés.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets At last the moonlight appears! A fountain rises in the middle of the room! A group of little girls parts the door a crack! I see lambs on an island of meadows! And beautiful plants on a glacier! And lilies in a marble hall! There is a feast in a virgin forest! And oriental vegetation in an ice-cave! Listen! They are opening the dams! And ocean liners swell the water of the canals! But the sister of charity is stoking the fire! All of the beautiful green reeds on the banks are aflame! A ship full of the wounded tosses on moonlight! All of the king’s daughters are on a barge in the storm! And the princesses will die in a field of hemlock! Oh! Don’t unseal the windows! Listen! the ocean liners still whistle on the horizon! Someone is being poisoned in the garden! They are having a great festivity at the enemies’! There are deer in a besieged city! And a zoo in the midst of lilies! There is tropical vegetation in the depths of a coalpit! And a herd of lambs crosses an iron bridge! And the sheep sadly stray from the meadow into the room! Now the sister of charity is lighting the lamps, She is bringing the sick peoples’ meals, She has shut the windows overlooking the canal, And all of the doors are barred to the moonlight.
Maurice Maeterlinck Oh! voici enfin le clair de lune! Un jet d’eau s’élève au milieu de la salle! Une troupe de petites filles entr’ouvre la porte! J’entrevois des agneaux dans une île de prairies! Et de belles plantes sur un glacier! Et des lys dans un vestibule de marbre! Il y a un festin dans une forêt vierge! Et une végétation orientale dans une grotte de glace! Ecoutez! on ouvre les écluses! Et les transatlantiques agitent l’eau du canal! Oh! mais la soeur de charité attisant le feu! Tous les beaux roseaux verts des berges sont en flammes! Un bateau de blessés ballotte au clair de lune! Toutes les filles du roi sont dans une barque sous l’orage! Et les princesses vont mourir en un champ de ciguës! Oh! n’entr’ouvrez pas les fenêtres! Ecoutez: les transatlantiques sifflent encore à l’horizon! On empoisonne quelqu’un dans un jardin! Ils célèbrent une grande fête chez les ennemis! Il y a des cerfs dans une ville assiégée! Et une ménagerie au milieu des lys! Il y a une végétation tropicale au fond d’une houillère! Un troupeau de brebis traverse un pont de fer! Et les agneaux de la prairie entrent tristement dans la salle! Maintenant la soeur de charité allume les lampes, Elle apporte le repas des malades, Elle a clos les fenêtres sur le canal, Et toutes les portes au clair de lune.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Hothouse of Boredom Blue tedium fills my heart, As a pale moon cries, shining behind clouds, Illuminating the far reaches of the skies, And my dreams, so blue with langour. This tedium, blue as the hothouse, Where enclosed, one dimly perceives, Through panes, profound and almost green, Clothed with moonlight and sad earth, The high vegetation Stretching its nocturnal web of oblivion, Silently still as a dream, Above the red roses of all passions. Where water very slowly rises, Mingling with the moon and the far reaches of the sky, In glaucous, eternal tears, Monotonously, like a dream.
Afternoon My eyes have ensnared my soul, Oh God, let drift, oh God, Some leaves upon the silent snow, Some snow upon the bright fire. Sunlight warms my pillow, As the same hours always toll, And my gazes will heap flower-petals, Upon dying women who reap in the fields . . . While my hands gather only withered grass, And my eyes tarnished with sleep Are like the sickly yearning for cooling drink, Or cellar flowers exposed to the sun. I await the relief of water upon the lawn, And upon my motionless dreams As my gazes on all of the horizons Follow flocks streaming into the cities.
Maurice Maeterlinck Serre d’Ennui O cet ennui bleu dans le coeur! Avec la vision meilleure, Dans le clair de lune qui pleure, De mes rêves bleus de langueur! Cet ennui bleu comme la serre, Où l’on voit closes à travers Les vitrages profonds et verts, Couvertes de lune et de terre, Les grandes végétations Dont l’oubli nocturne s’allonge, Immobilement comme un songe, Sur les roses des passions; Où de l’eau très lente s’élève, En mêlant la lune et le ciel En un sanglot glauque éternel, Monotonement comme un rêve.
Après-midi Mes yeux ont pris mon âme au piège, Mon Dieu, laissez tomber, mon Dieu, Un peu de feuilles sur la neige, Un peu de neige sur le feu. J’ai du soleil sur l’oreiller, Toujours les mêmes heures sonnent; Et mes regards vont s’effeuiller Sur des mourantes qui moissonnent . . . Mes mains cueillent de l’herbe sèche, Et mes yeux ternis de sommeil Sont des malades sans eau fraîche, Et des fleurs de cave au soleil. J’attends de l’eau sur le gazon Et sur mes songes immobiles, Et mes regards à l’horizon Suivent des agneaux dans les villes.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Soul of Night My soul overflows with sadness in the end, She is weighted with the sadness of being weary, With the weariness finally of being in vain, She is sad and weary in the end, And I await your hands upon my face. I await your pure fingers upon my face, The caresses of angels of ice, I wait for them to bring me the ring, I await their coolness upon my face, Like a treasure sunk in water. And I await at last their remedies, Not to perish in the sunlight, To perish hopelessly in the sunlight! I wait for them to bathe my tepid eyes, Where so many paupers sigh for sleep! Where so many swans on the sea, Swans lost, adrift on the sea, Stretch in vain their sullen throats, Where the dying wander through winter gardens, Gathering the last hope of roses. I await your pure fingers upon my face, The caresses of angels of ice, I wait for them to moisten my gazes, The sear grass of my eyes, Where so many weary lambs are astray.
“And if he were ever to return” from Fifteen Songs And if he were ever to return What should one say? —Tell him that one longed for him To the point of dying . . .
Maurice Maeterlinck Ame de Nuit Mon âme en est triste à la fin; Elle est triste enfin d’être lasse, Elle est lasse enfin d’être en vain, Elle est triste et lasse à la fin Et j’attends vos mains sur ma face. J’attends vos doigts purs sur ma face, Pareils à des anges de glace, J’attends qu’ils m’apportent l’anneau; J’attends leur fraîcheur sur ma face, Comme un trésor au fond de l’eau. Et j’attends enfin leurs remèdes, Pour ne pas mourir au soleil, Mourir sans espoir au soleil! J’attends qu’ils lavent mes yeux tièdes Où, tant de pauvres ont sommeil! Où tant de cygnes sur la mer, De cygnes errants sur la mer, Tendent en vain leur col morose, Où, le long des jardins d’hiver, Des malades cueillent des roses. J’attends vos doigts purs sur ma face, Pareils à des anges de glace, J’attends qu’ils mouillent mes regards, L’herbe morte de mes regards, Où tant d’agneaux las sont épars!
“Et s’il revenait un jour”
Et s’il revenait un jour Que faut-il lui dire? —Dites-lui qu’on l’attendit Jusqu’à s’en mourir . . .
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets And if he questions me still Without recognizing me? —Speak to him like a sister, He suffers perhaps . . . And if he asks where you are What is one to say? —Give him my golden ring Without saying a word . . . And if he wants to know why The room is empty? —Show him the extinguished lamp And the open door . . . And if he questions me then About the last hour? —Tell him that I smiled For fear that he might cry . . .
“They killed three sweet little girls” from Fifteen Songs They killed three sweet little girls To see what was in their hearts. The first was full of great glee, And wherever her blood flowed, Three serpents would hiss three years. The second was full of meekness, And wherever her blood flowed, Three sad sheep bleated three years. Then the third was full of sorrow, And wherever her blood flowed, Three archangels stood guard three years.
Maurice Maeterlinck Et s’il m’interroge encore Sans me reconnaître? —Parlez-lui comme une soeur, Il souffre peut-être . . . Et s’il demande où vous êtes Que faut-il répondre? —Donnez-lui mon anneau d’or Sans rien lui répondre . . . Et s’il veut savoir pourquoi La salle est déserte? —Montrez-lui la lampe éteinte Et la porte ouverte . . . Et s’il m’interroge alors Sur la dernière heure? —Dites-lui que j’ai souri De peur qu’il ne pleure . . .
“Ils ont tué trois petites filles”
Ils ont tué trois petites filles Pour voir ce qu’il y a dans leur coeur. Le premier était plein de bonheur, Et partout où coula son sang, Trois serpents sifflèrent trois ans. Le deuxième était plein de douceur, Et partout où coula son sang, Trois agneaux broutèrent trois ans. Le troisième était plein de malheur, Et partout où coula son sang, Trois archanges veillèrent trois ans.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “You have lit the lamps” from Fifteen Songs You have lit the lamps, —Oh! the sunlight in the garden! You have lit the lamps, I see sunshine through the chinks, Open the doors to the garden! —The keys to the doors are lost, We must wait, we must wait, The keys have fallen from the tower, We must wait, we must wait, We must await other days . . . Other days will open the doors, The forest guards their locks, The forest around us is ablaze, It is the brightness of dead leaves That blazes on all the doorsills. Other days are already weary, Other days are also afraid, Other days will never come, Other days will also die, And we will die here also . . .
Canticle of the Virgin from Fifteen Songs For every soul that weeps, And every sin that fades, I open in the depth of stars, My hands full of grace. No sin can survive When love has spoken; No soul can die When love has wept . . .
Maurice Maeterlinck “Vous avez allumé les lampes”
Vous avez allumé les lampes, —Oh! le soleil dans le jardin! Vous avez allumé les lampes, Je vois le soleil par les fentes, Ouvrez les portes du jardin! —Les clefs des portes sont perdues, Il faut attendre, il faut attendre, Les clefs sont tombées de la tour, Il faut attendre, il faut attendre, Il faut attendre d’autres jours . . . D’autres jours ouvriront les portes, La forêt garde les verrous, La forêt brûle autour de nous, C’est la clarté des feuilles mortes, Qui brûlent sur le seuil des portes . . . —Les autres jours sont déjà las, Les autres jours ont peur aussi, Les autres jours ne viendront pas, Les autres jours mourront aussi, Nous aussi nous mourrons ici . . .
Cantique de la Vierge A toute âme qui pleure A tout péché qui passe J’ouvre au sein des étoiles Mes mains pleines de grâces. Il n’est péché qui vive Quand l’amour a parlé Il n’est âme qui meure Quand l’amour a pleuré. . .
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets And if love goes astray, On pathways here below, Its tears will find me, And will never be lost . . .
“I have searched thirty years” from Fifteen Songs I have searched thirty years, my sisters, Where can he have hidden? I have walked thirty years, my sisters, Without coming any nearer . . . I have walked thirty years, my sisters, And my feet are weary, He was everywhere, my sisters, And does not exist . . . The mournful hour now comes, my sisters, Remove my sandals. The evening must also die, my sisters, And my soul is ill . . . You are sixteen years old, my sisters, Go far from here, Take up the pilgrim’s staff, my sisters, And you shall search like me . . .
Maurice Maeterlinck Et si l’amour s’égare Aux sentiers d’ici-bas Ses larmes me retrouvent Et ne s’égarent pas . . .
“J’ai cherché trente ans, mes soeurs”
J’ai cherché trente ans, mes soeurs, Où s’est-il caché? J’ai marché trente ans, mes soeurs, Sans m’en rapprocher . . . J’ai marché trente ans, mes soeurs, Et mes pieds sont las, Il était partout, mes soeurs, Et n’existe pas . . . L’heure est triste enfin, mes soeurs, Otez mes sandales, Le soir meurt aussi, mes soeurs, Et mon âme a mal . . . Vous avez seize ans, mes soeurs, Allez loin d’ici, Prenez mon bourdon, mes soeurs, Et cherchez aussi . . .
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iv Selections from the poetry of: Max Waller Albert Giraud Valère Gille Iwan Gilkin Georges Khnopff Jean Delville Georges Marlow Fernand Séverin Gregoire Le Roy Albert Mockel Marcel Wyseur André Fontainas
The Young Belgians
The Young Belgians
Commentary
The 1880’s mark the beginning of an extraordinary efflorescence of poetry in Belgium, effected by a group of ardent young writers who sought to cultivate their individuality and artistic integrity, their national identity, but also close ties with the internationalism of the Symbolist movement in Paris. “Soyons nous-mêmes,” “Let us be ourselves,” was the motto of La Jeune Belgique, the Brussels-based literary journal founded in 1881 and published until 1897. “To be ourselves” did not mean to be delimited, closed and provincial, but to be aware of the modern currents of philosophy and aesthetics, open to the vitality and fervor of the symbolist poetic renewal which was taking place in Paris. Thus, the journal, La Wallonie, published in Liège for a seven year period, 1886–1893, had an important readership in France and presented works by Mallarmé and Verlaine, as well as by Verhaeran, Maeterlinck, Elskamp, and Lerberghe. There was great and often bitter rivalry between the literary journals, but the aesthetic quarrels are symptomatic of the intensity of poetic creation in Belgium at the turn of the century. Stylistic and thematic diversity characterizes the outpouring of this period of literary resurgence and emancipation. The young Belgians gave expression to their inner experience, each in a manner true to his own muse and the spirit of the time.
Max Waller (1860–1889)
Max Waller was the founder of La Jeune Belgique. His original program was Art for Art, a severance from the social preoccupations and political ideology which characterized Belgian literary reviews of the period. Between 1881 and 1886, La Jeune Belgique was decidedly non-conformist in tone, welcoming a variety of styles. It was during these years that Rodenbach and Verhaeren were major contributors. After 1887, the journal became biased toward a parnassian clarity of style, causing many writers to give their allegiance to La Wallonie, more accepting of symbolist innovations. Max Waller was a rallying figure, convinced of the need for a strong Belgian presence in the literary innovations of the time. His charisma as an editor has eclipsed his considerable promise as a poet. “It’s Raining” and “Love-Hotel” are tender, sensual, and gently ironic examples of carpe diem. Perhaps the brevity of Waller’s life lends in retrospect a poignant quality to these knowing pleas for amorous freedom. Max Waller’s poems appeared in the 1887 Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique, an anthology which introduced Maeterlinck and Lerberghe.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets It’s Raining from Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique (1887) It’s raining, hurry over, my love, And we’ll chat away by the fireside; The grey sky will seem blue In your eyes full of light. We’ll toss out words at random, Like a wind of starlight, And then the sky will turn bright Upon your hair, curled with gold. We’ll again kiss, Like the other evening. My passion will be so feverish That the sky will seem to shine. And in this night of infamy, Where evil thunders outside, We’ll just nestle in a corner, Very close to each other, my love. We’ll tell the sky that it’s lying, We’ll forget how much it’s raining, Lost in sweet dreams, which cradle us, Gently exalting us. Come, my sweet, come, now is the time, When the respectable are working hard, For our sins will be pardoned, And we’ll laugh, since the sky is crying.
Love-Hotel from Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique (1887) My heart is like a grand hotel, Where my darlings come to stay a while, And pasted on their suitcases, closed tight, A flight of little Cupids, in pastel.
Max Waller Il Pleut from Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique (1887) Il pleut, accourez ma mignonne, Nous jacasserons près du feu, Et le ciel gris paraîtra bleu Dans votre regard qui rayonne! Nous nous dirons des mots en l’air, Des mots vifs comme des fusées, Et le ciel noir paraîtra clair Dans vos chères boucles frisées! Nous nous embrasserons encor Comme l’autre soir, sur les lèvres, Et si folles seront nos fièvres Que l’affreux ciel paraîtra d’or! Et dans cette nuit d’infamie Où des crimes hurlent au loin, Nous nous blottirons dans un coin, Tout près l’un de l’autre, m’amie. Nous dirons à ce ciel qu’il ment Nous oublierons qu’il pleut à verse, Plongés dans un rêve qui berce Et qui grise adorablement. Viens, ma douce, viens, dis, c’est l’heure Où les gens graves font des nez . . . Nos péchés seront pardonnés: Nous rirons, puisque le ciel pleure.
Amour-Hôtel from Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique (1887) Mon coeur est comme un Grand-Hôtel Où descendent les bien-aimées, Et sur leurs valises fermées Volent des Amours au pastel.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets I receive them with all due respect, Kindly carry their trunks, with no idle chatter, Then they follow the alluring lure of my magnet, My loving magnet: a knowing smile. I whisper to them in a low voice: “You will have A very long stay, in this suitable room, And one fine day, we’ll walk in the Bois de la Cambre, Some day, when we find the time, but no time soon. Your eyes will belong to me, your lip Will belong to me, and your hands Will wander every pathway Of my body, inflamed with fever. We will exhaust all the treats Of new kisses and sweet caresses, And we will sip the guilty Frenzy of those twin-sister lips. We won’t turn low the nightlight, In order to shed light on our crime, And the boudoir will turn golden, With mysterious glimmers. In the morning, very late, the waiter Will appear with a tray of rose-colored Liqueurs and preserves of roses And pralines afloat in milk. We won’t be visiting museums Or public galleries or The churches, but we will see, at our leisure, The infinity of unappeased pleasure. And when we have been all the rounds, And tried out all the dishes at table, If nothing unexpected arises, We’ll pack up and say goodbye forever.”
Max Waller Je les recois sans leur rien dire, Porte leurs malles doucement, Puis elles suivent mon aimant, Mon aimant aimant: le sourire! Je leur murmure: «Très longtemps Vous habiterez cette chambre, Nous irons au bois de la Cambre Le jour où nous aurons le temps. «Vos yeux seront miens, votre lèvre Sera mienne, et vos longues mains Parcourront les moindres chemins De mon corps éperdu de fièvre. «Nous épuiserons les douceurs Des frais baisers et des caresses, Et savourerons les ivresses Coupables de deux lèvres soeurs. «Nous n’éteindrons pas la veilleuse Pour voir notre crime éclairé, Et le boudoir sera doré D’une lueur mystérieuse. «Le matin, très tard, le valet Nous servira des liqueurs roses, De la confiture de roses, Et des pralines dans du lait. «Nous ne verrons pas les musées Ni les monuments publics, ni Les églises—mais l’infini Des voluptés inapaisées: «Et quand nous aurons tout bien vu, Épuisé la table servie, S’il n’arrive rien d’imprévu, Nous nous quitterons pour la vie!»
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Albert Giraud (1860–1929)
Albert Giraud is best known for his debut collection of poetry, the 1884 Pierrot lunaire (Paris: Lemerre), which in German translation, inspired Schönberg’s musical setting of 1912. The world of Giraud’s commedia dell’arte character, cruel and ironic, is closer in mood to Laforgue than to the suave Bergamasque of Verlaine’s poetry. As an artist figure, Giraud’s Pierrot is an acrobat who bounds from being into states of absence, mental alienation, and hallucination. Decapitations, suicidal hanging, and self-mutilation are recurrent themes in Giraud’s Pierrot lunaire, a guignol in which a mocking and jaunty refrain accentuates the bizarre subject matter. In its brevity and in the tension between the jocose and shocking, the verse of Pierrot lunaire is Giraud’s most successful. In the later collection, Hors du siècle (1888), decadent themes are given a dense and traditional prosody. After the death of Max Waller, Giraud assumed prominence at La Jeune Belgique and used his position to rail against the stylistic innovations of Verhaeren, whose work he misunderstood and considered barbarous stammering. Giraud’s own verse in Hors du siècle is Baudelairean, as are the themes. “Initiation,” with its emphasis on corruption and tormented self-awareness, echoes Baudelaire’s “Femmes Damnées” and “L’Héautontimoroumenos.” Imagery of sacrilege, perversity, and damnation is recurrent in the collection.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Red Mass from Pierrot Lunaire For the cruel Eucharist, Midst a flash of blinding gold And candles with troubling flame, Pierrot steps forth from the sacristy. His hand ordained with Grace Rends his white adornments, For the cruel Eucharist, Midst a flash of blinding gold. And with a sweeping gesture of pardon, He shows the quirvering believers His heart betwixt his bloody fingers, Like a hideous, red host, For the cruel Eucharist.
Waltz of Chopin from Pierrot Lunaire Like a bloodstained kiss From tubercular lips, This music lets sink Its pained and morbid charm. The white theme’s cruel lilt, Suddenly crimsons the drapes, Like a bloodstained kiss, From tubercular lips. The gentle and violent flux, Of the melancholy waltz, Leaves me with a real savor, A stale, thick aftertaste— Like a bloodstained kiss.
Albert Giraud Messe Rouge from Pierrot Lunaire (1884) Pour la cruelle Eucharistie, Sous l’éclair des ors aveuglants Et les cierges aux feux troublants, Pierrot sort de la sacristie. Sa main de la Grâce investie, Déchire ses ornements blancs, Pour la cruelle Eucharistie, Sous l’éclair des ors aveuglants. Et d’un grand geste d’amnistie Il montre aux fidèles tremblants Son coeur entre ses doigts sanglants, —Comme une horrible et rouge hostie Pour la cruelle Eucharistie.
Valse de Chopin from Pierrot Lunaire (1884) Comme un baiser sanguinolent De la bouche d’une phtisique, Il tombe de cette musique Un charme morbide et dolent. Un son cruel du thème blanc Empourpre soudain la tunique Comme un baiser sanguinolent De la bouche d’une phtisique. Le rythme doux et violent De la valse mélancolique Me laisse une saveur physique, Un fade arrière-goût troublant, Comme un baiser sanguinolent.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Initiation from Hors du siècle Come, my child: over there, guarded by an angel, Treasurer of the secrets of forbidden Knowledge, There bleeds, for corrupted hearts, a strange vine, Twined with the hissing snake of Paradise Lost. The angel sleeps when I wish. Come, My beautiful child, eat with wanton teeth The clusters where my mouth has bitten: Tomorrow you will know the cost of the wine And the power of the vintage your elder has sold you. You will watch yourself act and think and live, You will be at once the reader and the book, The obscure writer of that hideous book. And you will die very old, cultivating your pain, For having abdicated the scepter of your ignorance, Which raised you to the height of heroes and the gods.
The Missal from Hors du siècle You, my sister, are a profaned missal, A Byzantine missal wreathed with obscene flowers, Illustrated long ago during midnight toil unclean, In the depths of a Greek cloister by a condemned monk. O suave missal of sin, dear to my heart! Save for my desire alone, your feline caress, Your feline caress, guileful and fine, And the satin kiss of your parchment of flesh. Save for me the fervor of your pious text, Where fiery roses, bleeding and cruel, Greedily mingle their sensual lips And the breath of their most noiseless secrets;
Albert Giraud Initiation from Hors du Siècle (1888) Viens, mon enfant: là-bas, sous la garde d’un ange, Trésorier des secrets du Savoir défendu, Pour les coeurs dévoyés saigne une vigne étrange Où siffle le serpent du Paradis perdu. L’ange dort quand je veux. Va, mon bel enfant, mange A folles dents la grappe où ma bouche a mordu: Demain tu connaîtras le prix de la vendange Et la vertu du vin que l’aîné t’a vendu. Tu te regarderas agir, penser et vivre; Tu seras à la fois le lecteur et le livre Et l’obscur écrivain de ce livre odieux; Et tu mourras très vieux, cultivant ta souffrance, Pour avoir abdiqué le sceptre d’ignorance Qui te sacrait l’égal des héros et des dieux.
Le Missel from Hors du Siècle (1888) Vous êtes, ô ma soeur, un missel profané, Un missel byzantin fleuri de fleurs obscènes, Historié naguère en des veilles malsaines, Au fond d’un couvent grec, par un moine damné. O missel du péché suave qui m’est cher! Garde à mon seul désir ta caresse féline, Ta féline caresse, astucieuse et fine, Et le soyeux baiser de ton vélin de chair. Garde-moi la ferveur de ton texte pieux Où des roses de feu, saignantes et cruelles, Mêlent avidement leurs lèvres sensuelles Et l’haleine de leurs secrets silencieux;
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets And your henchmen wrapped in gold brocade Intoxicated to watch beneath their arrows’ flight, Martyred breasts ripening like peaches, Under giant crucifixes of ebony and sun. Your angels with their ambiguous grace, kneeling For erotic communion, so frail That they let fall the veil of their wings Over the shame of a spasm, invisible and most sweet. And your virgins walking toward pale cradles, Raising toward the naive sky their weak eyes, Not knowing that they hold on a leash, Instead of their lambs, equivocal swine.
Albert Giraud Tes bourreaux lamés d’or de la nuque à l’orteil Qui s’enivrent de voir, sous le vol de leurs flèches, Les seins martyrisés mûrir comme des pêches Sur de grands crucifix d’ébène et de soleil; Tes anges, et leur grâce ambiguë, à genoux Pour la communion érotique, si frêles Qu’ils laissent retomber le luxe de leurs ailes Sur la honte d’un spasme invisible et très doux; Et tes vierges marchant vers de pâles berceaux, Levant au ciel naïf les yeux de leur faiblesse, Sans même se douter qu’elles tiennent en laisse, Au lieu de leurs brebis, d’équivoques pourceaux!
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Valère Gille (1867–1950)
Valère Gille assumed directorship of La Jeune Belgique between 1890– 1891 and inaugurated the journal’s most receptive and cosmopolitan phase, publishing Verlaine, Mallarmé, Henri de Regnier, and Gustave Kahn, whose vers librisme had been of great influence in Belgium. The tenth anniversary of La Jeune Belgique marked a reconciliation with La Wallonie and a mood of accomplishment and confraternity among Belgian writers. In 1891, a new symbolist review, Le Reveil, was inaugurated and would continue publication until 1896. As a poet, Valère Gille evoked states of Schopenhaurian inanition, the gentle effluence from the shores of life of “Golden Slumbers.” His “Legend” is one of the best examples of a recurrent Symbolist motif, the sleeping beauty, freed from the taint of living, a denizen of a pure, Edenic, and interior world. Lost in a silver and white landscape of artifice and stillness, Gille’s sleeping princesses are emblematic of the poet as seer, absent from the quotidian realm of survival and struggle, lost in communion with the inner life.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The Slumbers of Gold from La Jeune Belgique 8 (1889) I have forsaken my playthings, my mirrors, and my palms, I have scented my golden hair with violets, Bathed my body with essence of iris and violet And have abandoned myself to the slow water. Nothing to ponder, nothing to wish for, in this cradle Of slumber and flowers, which gently drifts away, Love and hatred, wan madness, aimlessly drifting, —Listen to the music that sings down the stream. White hands have closed the eyes of my childhood, Red chalices surround my sleep with perfumes, Golden leaves refresh my slumber, As indolent lutes ravish the silence. My sisters, with their bright smiles, look at their faces Amid the childish luxuriance of roses, Amid a soft indolence of roses, Which crown their reflections in the tranquil water. Like an azure veil, the heavens tired of light, Motionless, have fallen asleep in the moss, All of my dreams have lain down to sleep, Upon the golden sand at the bottom of the water. Drifting away . . . see the frail columbine, Let us forget days to come and die with grace, Let us perfume our embraces and die with grace, Because now the end has arrived with its pale, long fingers.
Legend from La Jeune Belgique 11 (1892) In the white forest of silver where the mauve shadow of the glades expands in clouds of light, in a diamond mist,
Valère Gille Les Sommeils d’Or from La Jeune Belgique 8 (1889) J’ai délaissé mes jeux, mes miroirs et mes palmes, J’ai parfumé mes blonds cheveux de violette, J’ai baigné mon corps d’iris et de violette Et je me suis abandonné sur les eaux calmes. Rien à penser, rien à vouloir en ce berceau De sommeil et de fleur qui glisse à la dérive, —Ecoute la chanson qui chante au fil de l’eau. Des mains blanches ont clos les yeux de mon enfance, Des calices vermeils parfument mon sommeil, Des feuillages d’or rafraîchissent mon sommeil Et des luths paresseux ravissent le silence. Mes soeurs aux clairs sourires mirent leur visage Parmi la floraison enfantine des roses, Parmi les indolences suaves des roses Qui couronnent dans l’eau tranquille leur mirage. Comme un voile d’azur les ciels las de lumière Immobiles se sont endormis dans la mousse, Tous mes rêves se sont endormis dans la mousse Et sur le sable d’or au fond de la rivière. A la dérive . . . oh! vois ces frèles ancolies! Oublions l’avenir et mourons avec grâce Parfumons nos baisers et mourons avec grâce Voici la fin suprême et sa blanche agonie.
Légende from La Jeune Belgique 11 (1892) Dans la blanche forêt d’argent où l’ombre mauve des clairières s’ouvre en nuages de lumières dans un brouillard de diamant,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Near the frozen fountains, amid the ferns of frost, where rose trees of snow surrender chill flowers to the icy mirrors, Their lilac gowns spread around their arms, linked in garlands, the pallid queens of legends are leaning upon urns. But no one having sounded the awakening in the frozen forest, whitened with ice, the princesses could not live on and sweetly died of endless sleep.
Valère Gille Autour des fontaines gelées, parmi les fougères de givre où le rosier de neige livre aux vains miroirs ses fleurs ourlées, Leurs robes lilas éployées autour de leurs bras en guirlandes, les pâles reines des légendes sur des urnes sont appuyées. Mais nul n’ayant sonné l’éveil dans la blanche forêt de givre, les princesses n’ont pu survivre et sont mortes de leur sommeil.
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Iwan Gilkin (1858–1923)
In Iwan Gilkin’s “Psychology,” the poet-doctor probes the “hidden ulcers of black passions” and “dissects souls.” Such is the modality of Gilkin’s poetry, intransigently classical in form, but steeped in a predilection for the decadent and unsavory. This is particularly evident in his “Litany and Prayer,” in which Catholic form is used to unfurl a series of correspondences for erotic experience with a femme fatale, worshipped, desired, and feared. The litany progresses through twenty-three strophes, each dominated by an image or metaphor, beginning with the sublime, light, beacons, continuing with the sensual, drugs, perfumes, music, and gardens, and ending in sordid and misogynous comparisons of the woman to a brothel and leper’s asylum. Gilkin was haunted by a peculiarly turn of the century phantasm, woman as a consuming vampire, a destroyer of man. A sense of sin, guilt, and prurience suffuses Gilkin’s work.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Litanies and Prayer from La Jeune Belgique 4 (1885) Uncanny, calm, and almighty Beauty, Fountain of Health, Mirror of Strangeness, Listen to me! Spiritual beacon, ignited upon the rocks, Belfry of defunct days, where the bells sob, Call to me! Harbor, where the white sails and the smoking steamers, Charged with valiant hearts, come from the ends of the seas, Receive me! Dizzying sun, you who cause visions Of splendor and festivity to flower, Dazzle me. Gardener, who sows in the darkness of minds, The unexpected dreams and unheard of words, Render me fruitful. Majestic river, where upon the slow water Bursts the glory of scarlet and azure lotus, Submerge me. Ivory tower, castle which the temptations Surround with their obsessions, but in vain, Shelter me. Twilit forest, where the nocturnal birds Open their bright golden eyes and their silent flights, Pacify me. Gateway to paradise, inhabited by the absurd, Hashish, the liberator from reality, Deliver me. Carpet of white velvet, where slowly tread The solemn processions of arrogant thoughts, Exalt me.
Iwan Gilkin Litanies et Prière from La Jeune Belgique 4 (1885) Surnaturelle, calme et puissante Beauté, Fontaine de santé, Miroir d’étrangeté, Écoutez-moi! Phare spirituel allumé sur les roches, Beffroi des jours défunts, où sanglotent les cloches, Appelez-moi. Hâvre où les blancs voiliers et les fumeux steamers Chargés de coeurs vaillants, viennent du bout des mers, Accueillez-moi. Soleil vertigineux, vous qui dans les yeux faites Fleurir des visions de spendeurs et de fêtes, Aveuglez-moi! Jardinier qui semez dans la nuit des cerveaux Les songes imprévus et les verbes nouveaux, Fécondez-moi. Fleuve majestueux, où sur l’eau lente éclate La gloire des lotus d’azur et d’écarlate, Submergez-moi. Tour d’ivoire, château que les tentations Entourent vainement de leurs obsessions, Abritez-moi. Forêt crépusculaire, où les oiseaux nocturnes Ouvrent leurs clairs yeux d’or et leurs vols taciturnes, Apaisez-moi. Porte du Paradis, par l’absurde habité, Hatschisch libérateur de la réalité, Délivrez-moi. Tapis de velours blanc, où marchent cadencées D’amples processions d’orgueilleuses pensées, Exaltez-moi.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Flagon, where whirls within a mind of crystal, The madness of musk, amber, and sandalwood, Perfume me. Religious organ, whose swelling music Constructs, within the heart, mystical cathedrals, Raise me up. House of gold and alabaster, where generous wines Pour strong hope into the vagabonds, Lodge me. Silken liqueur, cream where fruits and balms Blend their consolations and their subtle flavors, Intoxicate me. Manna of love, paschal lamb, unleavened bread, Miraculous feast, where the water changes to wine, Provide for me. Hammock, where an exotic, soft indolence Sways in shadows of refreshing palm-groves, Lull me to sleep. Officinal gardens with gentle flowering, Where the herb of healing grows amid the lilies, Cure me. Balloon, conqueror of the sublime clouds, Nostalgic carriage, rocker of long journeys, Carry me away. Secret book of the Sibyls, casket where sleeps Far from the learned, many an austere secret, Instruct me. Heavy, opulent cape, where the tawny silks, Star their golden fields with jeweled flowers, Clothe me. Turquoise of sweetness, ruby of cruelty, Topaz, where the light lulls the voluptuousness, Adorn me.
Iwan Gilkin Flacon, où tournent dans un cerveau de cristal Les vertiges du musc, de l’ambre et du santal, Parfumez-moi. Orgue religieux dont les vastes musiques Bâtissent dans les coeurs des églises mystiques, Élevez-moi. Maison d’or et d’albâtre, où les vins généreux Versent aux vagabonds les espoirs vigoureux, Hébergez-moi. Liqueur soyeuse, crême où les fruits et les baumes Fondent leur bienfaisance et leurs subtils arômes, Enivrez-moi. Manne d’amour, agneau pascal, pain sans levain, Festin miraculeux où l’eau se change en vin, Nourrissez-moi. Hamac, qu’une exotique et moelleuse indolence A l’ombre des palmiers rafraîchissants balance, Endormez-moi. Jardin officinal aux douces floraisons, Où croît parmi les lys l’herbe des guérisons, Guérissez-moi. Aérostat vainqueur des sublimes nuages, Nostalgique wagon, berceur des longs voyages, Emportez-moi. Livre mystérieux des Sibylles, coffret Où dort, loin des savants, maint austère secret, Instruisez-moi. Lourde mante opulente où les fauves soieries Étoilent leurs prés d’or de fleurs de pierreries, Revêtez-moi. Turquoise de douceur, Rubis de cruauté, Topaze où la lumière endort la volupté Adornez-moi.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Shameless brothel, full of filthy rapture, Entangling all of the kisses and all of the dreariness, Drain me! Hypocritical fish-pond, where the slimy octopus Drags his yielding tentacles over stinking gravel, Destroy me! Lazaret of the leprous, hospital of the poets, Dark padded cell, rotting place of the prophets, Suffocate me! Neronian torch, o monstrous cross, where martyrs, Anointed with grease and wax, blaze up, Consume me!
Prayer O You, most worshipped of all women, Bride of dead hearts and sister to young souls, Queen of ancient days, queen of days to come, You, who bend a brow stained red with poppies, Mistress of sleep, Sovereign of wakeful nights, O you, who ruled over miracles in Sheba, You, who in the age of Ahasuerus was Esther, Bathing your childlike and precious flesh, Six months in myrrh and six months in aromatics, You, who tamed the Nile on your fabled barge, Devourer of heroes, drinker of jewels, Cleopatra! the princess with strong auburn hair, Who dragged your lovers, all bruised with lewdness, From the crossroads of Rome to the gardens of Subur, Untamed Messalina—o vast and somber heart, Who would have worn out the strength of Cretan bulls; You, the eternal love, You, the eternal woman, Absurd Devouring, ignoble and solemn, Who sucks out life and empties our brains, Rekindle, rekindle, beneath your long, devout lashes, In their crystalline whites, like fluid ivory, Your ashen eyes, where broods a bitter, black flame; And the better to entwine me with desire for your arms,
Iwan Gilkin Lupanar éhonté, plein d’immondes ivresses, Mêlant tous les baisers et toutes les tristesses, Epuisez-moi! Hypocrite vivier, où des poulpes gluants Traînent leurs suçoirs mous sur les cailloux puants, Dévorez-moi! Lazaret des lépreux, hôpital des poètes, Ténébreux cabanon, pourrissoir des prophètes, Etouffez-moi! Torche Néronienne, ô monstrueuse croix, Où flambent des martyrs oints de graisse et de poix, Consumez-moi!
Prière O Vous, femme adorable entre toutes les femmes, Épouse des coeurs morts et soeur des jeunes âmes, Reine des jours anciens, Reine des jours nouveaux, Vous qui penchez un front empourpré de pavots, Maîtresse du sommeil, Souveraine des veilles, O Vous qui dans Saba régniez sur les merveilles, Vous qui fûtes au temps d’Assuérus Esther, Baignant votre enfantine et précieuse chair Six mois d’huile de myrrhe et six mois d’aromates; Vous qui domptiez le Nil sous vos galères plates, Mangeuse de héros, buveuse de bijoux, Cléopâtre!—ô princesse aux puissants cheveux roux, Qui traîniez vos amants tout meurtris de luxure Des carrefours de Rome aux jardins de Suburre, Farouche Messaline,—ô large et sombre coeur, Qui des taureaux crétois eut lassé la vigueur; Vous, l’éternel amour, Vous, la femme éternelle, Dévoratrice absurde, ignoble et solennelle, Qui sucez notre vie et videz nos cerveaux, Rallumez, rallumez, sous vos longs cils dévots, Dans leur cristallin blanc comme un fluide ivoire, Vos yeux de cendre où couve une âpre flamme noire; Et, pour mieux m’enlacer du désir de vos bras,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Braid, braid your fingers, perfumed with ananas, Like the breathing wicker of an ardent basket, Which my flesh will bathe with its red liqueur, And with your lily teeth, drunk with cruelty, Where the afflicted moon has congealed its brightness, And with your insane nails, flushed red with roses, Lacerate, knowingly, with exquisite pauses, Full of sweet regrets, full of dear kisses, My muscles and my fibers, forever unsatisfied, Until that day, Madonna, when your too smiling lips Will press, in vain, the lips of my wounds.
Psychology from La Jeune Belgique 5 (1886) I am the doctor who dissects souls, Bending my feverish brow over corruptions, The vices, the sins, and the perversions, Of primitive instinct and its infamous hunger. On the marble, with stomachs open, men and women Spread out, nastily, with their contortions, The hidden ulcers of black passions. I have fingered the sore secrets of tragedies. Then, with both arms still tinged with scrofulous blood, Poet, I have noted in my scrupulous verse, All that my sharp eyes have seen in the shadows. And if a subject is lacking for the dissecting knife, I stretch out, in my turn, on the funereal slab, Screaming, as I jab the scalpel into my heart.
Iwan Gilkin Tressez, tressez vos doigts parfumés d’ananas, Comme l’osier vivant d’une ardente corbeille, Que ma chair baignera de sa liqueur vermeille; Et de vos dents de lys, ivres de cruauté, Où la lune affligée a figé sa clarté, Et de vos ongles fous, fleuris de jeunes roses, Déchirez savamment, avec d’exquises pauses Pleines de doux regrets, pleines de chers baisers, Mes muscles et mes nerfs toujours inapaisés Jusqu’au jour, ô Madone, où vos lèvres trop gaies Presseront vainement les lèvres de mes plaies.
Psychologie from La Jeune Belgique 5 (1886) Je suis un médecin qui dissèque les âmes, Penchant mon front fièvreux sur les corruptions, Les vices, les péchés et les perversions De l’instinct primitif en appétits infâmes. Sur le marbre, le ventre ouvert, hommes et femmes Etalent salement dans leurs contorsions Les ulcères cachés des noires passions. J’ai palpé les secrets douloureux des grands drames. Puis, les deux bras encor teints d’un sang scrofuleux, Poète, j’ai noté dans mes vers scrupuleux Ce que mes yeux aigus ont vu dans ces ténèbres. Et s’il manque un sujet au couteau disséqueur, Je m’étends à mon tour sur les dalles funèbres Et j’enfonce en criant le scapel dans mon coeur.
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Georges Khnopff (1880–1927)
The uncollected verse of Georges Khnopff has been overshadowed by the genius and lasting renown of his brother, the artist, Fernand Khnopff, whose works were largely inspired by the motifs and enigmatic style of Symbolist writing. It was Georges Khnopff who introduced his brother to Verhaeren and Rodenbach and to the writing of Mallarmé, for which Khnopff provided the frontispiece in a Deman edition. Georges Khnopff was among the first and most active participants in the resurgence of Belgian literature, his poetry appearing prominently in La Jeune Belgique between 1883 and 1885. Khnopff then broke with the increasingly parnassian journal and, in a September, 1885 letter in L’Art Moderne, a review largely devoted to the visual arts, emphasized the importance of the stylistic renewals of symbolist poetry. In 1887, Georges Khnopff joined Verhaeren at La Wallonie. Georges Khnopff ’s “An Evening,” is dedicated to Georges Rodenbach. The poem conveys a mood of serenity tinged with melancholy solitude, evoked through concrete, visual impressions of a seashore, gilded and weighted with an opulent sunset. Overtones of German Romanticism may be discerned in this northern seascape which becomes the site of spiritual experience, a presentiment of universal tranquility and devout silence.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Evening—Life: Serenity from La Jeune Belgique 3 (1884) A stroke of gold at the edge of the white skies, Shudders:—the sonorous sea has soothed its rage; Lonely, streaking the brightness with its circular flight, A plaintive crying of seagulls passes. The surge remains deaf to the sobs of the sun, As the golden orb dims in the bloodstained foam, The exhausted surge murmurs in the mist To the snowy birds with reddened plumage. The distances, lightly stroked by white visions, Share the sweetness of infants drowsing in swaddling; Serenity shines in the firmament. And while the song of the stars is scattered, I hear God, as he mysteriously whispers A sweet confession of love to the heart of the silence.
Georges Khnopff Soir—La Vie: Sérénité from La Jeune Belgique 3 (1884) Une barre de feu tout au bord des cieux blancs Frémit:—la mer sonore a calmé sa colère; Seul, rayant la clarté de son vol circulaire, Passe un roucoulement plaintif de goëlands; Les flots demeurent sourds aux sanglots du soleil Dont l’orbe d’or s’éteint dans la sanglante écume, Les flots exténués murmurent dans la brume Vers les oiseaux de neige au plumage vermeil; Les lointains effleurés par des visions blanches Ont la douceur d’enfants assoupis dans leurs langes; Et la sérénité luit dans le firmament. Et, tandis que le chant des étoiles s’élance, J’entends Dieu chuchoter mystérieusement Un doux aveu d’amour à l’âme du silence.
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Jean Delville (1867–1953)
Both a painter and poet, Jean Delville was an animator of the cultural life of Brussels at the turn of the century. During stays in Paris, Delville was influenced by the occultism of Villiers de l’Isle—Adam and especially Josephin Péladan, founder of the Salon Rose-Croix for the exhibition of Idealist art. Delville was also opposed to naturalist and realist painting, seeking instead to present images culled from exterior reality but which refer to an ineffable experience of the mind. In 1892, Delville founded in Brussels the Salon Pour l’Art, which became an important exhibition space for artists creating under the aura of symbolism. Among others, it welcomed Rodin, Gallé, and Puvis de Chauvannes. In 1896, Delville opened the Salon de l’Art Idéaliste, which continued exhibitions of art with evocative imagery. Jean Delville was a director of the Glasgow Academy of Fine Arts and professor at the Brussels Academy until 1930. Unlike the intimist, secretive work of Fernand Khnopff, Jean Delville’s paintings have an imposing Wagnerian scope and grandeur, peopled by the persona of myth and legend. Androgynous angels, freed from contingency, and clairvoyants, surrounded by astral light, are also denizens of Delville’s painted universe. Delville’s interest in the occult is revealed in the poems, “The Sacred Book,” and “Magica,” a portrait of a clairvoyant, who transcends time and space and whose word is allied to angels. “Lunar Park” suggests a Mallarmean landscape of evanescence, where “a dream of incense symphonies the lustral lake.” “The Horror of the Rain,” an evocation of a locus of dejection, a “dismal city, long bereaved of sun,” reveals the stylistic and thematic influence of Emile Verhaeren.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Magica from La Jeune Belgique 14 (1895) Behold the hour for your clairvoyant eyes to shine, Intent Pythoness, inert in the silent heart of evening! Your spirit has departed, lost amid the soul of the world, Seeking the treasure, as your desire weaves its magic. The sacred flame, which reabsorbs your fleshly being, Will soon transform the chasms of life into blazing pyres, As the powers summon you to most secret sabbaths, Reality of the firmament or infernal nightmare! The holy aromatic burns in bright vessels; For you, the world is a pure enchantment, Where you hover, dazzled, above the element, And the angel, whom your word calls in the twilight, Will come to reflect in the depths of a black temple, The brilliance of his golden brow, in a magic mirror.
Jean Delville Magica from La Jeune Belgique 14 (1895) Voici l’heure où luiront tes beaux yeux de voyante, pythonisse au coeur mûr prosternée en la nuit! Parmi l’âme du monde est allé ton esprit pour chercher les trésors que ton désir incante. Le feu spirituel qui résorbe ta chair embrasera soudain les gouffres de la vie; aux sabbats enchantés le pouvoir te convie, réalité du ciel ou rêve de l’enfer! L’aromate sacré dans les clairs réchauds brûle. L’univers est pour toi le pur enchantement où ton être ébloui plane sur l’élément. Et l’Ange que ton verbe évoque au crépuscule viendra réverbérer du fond du temple noir l’éclat de son front d’or au magique miroir!
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Jean Delville. Expectation, 1903.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The Holy Book from La Jeune Belgique 14, 1895 Turning the golden pages with my fervent hands, As if my pure fingers were handling light, O immense and luminous book, your powerful prayer Unfolds, in my night, the mystical treasure! My spirit, in the night, opens its angel’s glances, To plunge their luster into the recesses of your wisdom; For those who read you, the secret will be known, Of how divine love changes even degradation into radiance. —Eternal and veiling the horror of the world, An ineffable mystery has joined mankind and verse, The human ideal to the most divine flames, And from the depth of the flesh to the reaches of the azure, You lift the veil, the enshrouder of souls, To the sybilline breath of your enchanted word.
Lunar Park from La Wallonie III (1889–90) Becalmed the profane noise of the crowd. Toward the risen Moon, the symbolic Bronzes Curve, in the blue night, their antique nudity, In the sphinx-like majesty of attitudes. A dream of incense symphonies the lustral Lake, Enchanted by the sidereal presence of Swans, Elegiacally swooning their silver-pale lines, Beneath the sacred music of astral infinitude. Drunken with silence, the aching lawns Grow languid in the brightness of calm reveries; Amid the somnolent shadows of the bowers Hovers the conjugal slumber of weary birds; And the mute asphalt of the abandoned pathways No longer shudders beneath the lascivious step of idylls.
Jean Delville Le Livre Sacré from La Jeune Belgique 14 (1895) De mes ferventes mains tournant tes pages d’or, comme si mes doigts purs palpaient de la lumière, ô Livre immense et clair, ta puissante prière révèle dans ma nuit le mystique trésor! Mon esprit, dans le soir, ouvre ses regards d’ange pour plonger leur éclat au fond de ton savoir; à ceux qui te liront le Secret fera voir comment l’amour divin fait rayonner la fange. —Éternel, et voilant l’effroi de l’univers, un mystère ineffable a mêlé l’homme aux vers et l’idéal humain aux plus divines flammes. Et, du fond de la chair à l’azur consulté, tu soulèves le voile enveloppeur des âmes au souffle sibyllin de ton verbe enchanté.
Parc Lunaire from La Wallonie 3 (1889–90) S’accalme la rumeur profane des multitudes. Vers la Lune ascendue les Bronzes symboliques Galbent dans la nuit bleue leurs nudités antiques En la sphingesque majesté des attitudes. Un rêve d’encens symphonise le LAC lustral Qu’incante la présence sidérale des Cygnes, Elégiaquement pâmant leurs albes lignes Sous les musiques sacrées de l’infini astral. S’enivrant de silence les pelouses endolories S’alanguissent en la clarté de calmes rêveries; Parmi l’ombrage somnolent des charmilles Plane le conjugal sommeil des oiseaux lassés; Et l’asphalte muette des sentiers délaissés Ne frémit plus sous le pas lascif des idylles.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The Horror of the Rain from La Wallonie IV (1891–92) Implacably, dismally, prophetically, It is raining interminable tears of rain, it rains death upon the dismal city, long bereaved of sun. It rains annihilation, immensely, upon my sleep and my tormented dreams and, in the night, it rains implacably, dismally, prophetically . . . Oh! the secret sorrow of the Night weeps Upon the pale wakefulness of my pensive mind. Upon the slab of my brow, with funereal sobs, it is raining lividness and obscurity, upon the pale wakefulness of my pensive mind, oh! the secret sorrow of the Night weeps . . . implacably, dismally, prophetically . . . It is raining, it is raining lethargy upon my flesh, rigidly, like chimerical haircloths, which come to mortify the lecherous obsessions, it is raining upon my feverish body, scorched with gasps, Rigidly, like chimerical haircloths, it is raining lethargy, it is raining upon my flesh . . . implacably, dismally, prophetically . . .
The Marmorean Slumbers from La Wallonie IV (1891–92) Thus, the souls of dismal feudal lineage, Perpetuating their pride in illustrious sepulchers, Stretch out their long, marble sleep upon the flagstones, Weighted with dead centuries and funereal pasts, The heraldic and grandiose white cadavers, With righteous hands joined in ardent rigidity, Pallid with faith, that rise from their bosoms, With sacerdotal gestures of prayer in eternity.
Jean Delville L’Horreur de la Pluie from La Wallonie 4 (1891–92) Implacablement, mornement, fatidiquement il pleut d’interminables pleurs de pluie, il pleut de la mort sur la ville morne et morte de soleil. Il pleut du néant, immensément, sur mon sommeil et mes songes de spleen et dans la Nuit, il pleut implacablement, mornement, fatidiquement . . . Oh! la ténébreuse douleur de la Nuit pleure Sur la veillée pâle de mon cerveau pensif. Sur la dalle de mon front en sanglots funèbres il pleut des lividités et des ténèbres, sur la veillée pâle de mon cerveau pensif oh! la ténébreuse douleur de la Nuit pleure . . . implacablement, mornement, fatidiquement . . . Il pleut, il pleut de la léthargie sur ma chair, rigidement comme des cilices fantastiques qui veulent macérer les hantises stuprales, il pleut sur mon corps ardent brûlé de râles. Rigidement comme des cilices fantastiques il pleut de la léthargie, il pleut sur ma chair . . . implacablement, mornement, fatidiquement . . .
Les Sommeils de Marbre from La Wallonie 4 (1891–92) Ainsi les Ames des mornes races féodales perpétuant l’orgueil en sépulcres célèbres, gisent leur long sommeil de marbre sur les dalles lourdes de siècles morts et de passés funèbres, les héraldiques et grands cadavres blancs aux droites mains jointes d’ardente rigidité et qui, blèmes de foi, s’érigent hors les flancs hiératiquement pour des prières d’éternité.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Beneath a heavy mourning of shadows in the tumulus crypts, Within the illustrious vision of their solemn brows slumbers, The barbarous splendor of age-old reigns. And their bodies, where the original blood has congealed, Sealed within the marbles, austerely patrician, Are the petrified Phantoms of ancient times.
Jean Delville Sous le lourd deuil d’ombres des cryptes tumulaires dort en le songe illustre de leur front solennel, la barbare splendeur des règnes séculaires. Et leurs corps où s’est glacé le sang originel, sont dans les marbres—rigidement patriciens— les Fantômes pétrifiés des temps anciens.
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Georges Marlow (1872–1947)
Of British and Liègois descent, Georges Marlow was born and raised in the Flemish city of Malines. He was a physician and a writer, elected to both the directing committee of the College of Medicine and to the Royal Academy of Letters. His principal literary activity was as a critic and cultural ambassador, contributing a monthly “Chroniques de la Belgique” to the Mercure de France between 1919–32 and 1936–40. He founded and edited Le Masque, one of the last symbolist reviews, published 1911–14. He contributed poems in his own name and as Paul Alériel, often in the same issue, to Le Reveil, the journal which was the successor of La Wallonie. In his 1895 collection, L’Ame en exil, Georges Marlow evokes Malines as a dead city, an interiorized space of remembrance, using a gently musical, Verlainian style to express the theme inaugurated by Rodenbach. As a city encompassed by the soul, Marlow’s Malines is evoked in a series of diminutives. In “At Evening I,” it is the “little, desolate city,” “the slender city,” where the bells are a “bit melancholy” and all is dimmed. Marlow’s city seems remote and suggestive to the extent that it is etherialized to the dimension of a delicate book illumination from the vanished Flemish past.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets At Evening I from Le Reveil 3 (1893) Little city, and you the Bells, My sisters, whose vague music, A bit melancholy, Snows its reproaches within my soul. Little desolate city, Who remembers all the dead voices, All the withered voices, That the autumn sweeps away with the flowers, Say, are you crying over my childhood, Where all the gleams have dimmed, Under the frail wing of silence, Little city of dear plaints? . . . The sweet Child never came at all And will surely never come . . . Gone, the lilies in the avenues And no more roses along the roads! All the flowers have faded away, With the sad melodies of the years, And in this waiting, but so in vain, My soul hovers, faintly, Amid your sonorous turrets, Slender city of a thousand bells, Amid the parcels of dawn That the sky hangs on your towers.
Georges Marlow Du Soir from Le Reveil 3 (1893) Petite ville et vous les Cloches Mes Soeurs, dont la vague musique Un tantinet mélancolique Neige en mon âme ses reproches, Petite ville désolée Qui vous souvenez des voix mortes, De toutes les voix en allées Qu’avec les fleurs l’automne emporte, Dites, pleurez-vous mon enfance Où les lueurs se sont éteintes Sous l’aile frêle du silence Petite ville aux chères plaintes? . . . La douce Enfant n’est point venue Et ne viendra jamais sans doute . . . O plus de lys dans l’avenue Et plus de roses sur la route! Toutes les fleurs se sont fanées En cette attente combien vaine Aux chansons tristes des années, Et mon âme plane incertaine, Parmi vos tourelles sonores Fluette ville aux mille cloches, Parmi les parcelles d’aurore Qu’à vos donjons le ciel accroche! . . .
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Fernand Severin (1867–1931)
Fernand Severin has tenuous ties with the literary revival in Belgium at the turn of the century. During his student days in Brussels, Severin contributed poems to La Jeune Belgique, published in 1888 as Le Lys, a series having to do with unfulfilled waiting for an imagined beloved. Severin later repudiated the volume as juvenilia. During the twelve years he spent as a teacher at Virton in the Ardennes, Severin cultivated a classical style and direct discourse to express a romantic love of nature. The poetry published in the 1895 Un Chant dans l’ombre, although dedicated to his friend, Charles Van Lerberghe, is distanced from the symbolist creation of the author of La Chanson d’Eve. Severin’s early poetry remains interesting, a juncture of Racine and Verlaine, as his contemporary, Albert Arnay, commented in La Wallonie IV. In Severin’s 1886 “She, Who Will Come,” the poet’s desire for a private space of love leads to an imagined Liebestod in a shrine where the lovers “sleep enlaced upon faded roses.”
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets She, Who Will Come from La Jeune Belgique 5 (1886) You, who will come from the distances of hope In the gardens of lilies, where my lips await, Say to me only words full of dream and evening, To calm, within me, the fire of ancient fevers. May your love be for me the intended tomb, Where we will sleep, enlaced, upon faded roses, The lips of the beloved pressed to the brow of the chosen, And may thus the flower of our years disappear. Nothing will really live, but that which we conceal, And to perpetuate this moment that we are, May our precious bouquets die away while in bud And hide their fragrance from the vain kisses of men. The sorrow of lovers and the tedium of the married, Those pitiful satiated, whose soul is in exile, Will arrive at our threshold and will go away from us, Without ever suspecting the peace they approached. And we will watch them, bearing away their cross, With eyes in tears, with our boundless pity, And these, our amorous eyes, will sometimes understand How to bring a smile to blighted, mournful gazes. And none among these men of latter days Will know that love offered this precious gift to them; As soon as they return to their thirst, their hunger, They will curse the day, fallen into death.
Fernand Severin A Celle qui Viendra from La Jeune Belgique 5 (1886) O toi qui me viendras des lointains de l’espoir Dans les jardins de lys où t’attendent mes lèvres, Ne me dis que des mots pleins de rêve et de soir Et qui calment en moi le feu des vieilles fièvres. Que ton amour me soit un sépulcre voulu Où l’on dorme enlacés dans des roses fanées, Les lèvres de l’aimée au front las de l’élu, Et que s’écroule ainsi la fleur de nos années. Rien ne vivra vraiment que ce que nous tairons, Et pour éterniser cet instant que nous sommes Puissent nos chers bouquets se mourir en boutons Et céler leur parfum au vain baiser des hommes. La douleur des amants et l’ennui des époux, Ces pauvres assouvis dont l’âme est exilée, Viendront à notre seuil et s’en iront de nous Sans soupconner jamais la paix qu’ils ont frôlée. Aussi les verrons-nous s’en aller sous leurs croix Avec les yeux en pleurs, d’une pitié sans bornes, Et ces yeux amoureux s’entendront quelquefois Pour donner un sourire aux yeux flétris et mornes. Et nul jamais parmi ces hommes de la fin Ne saura que l’amour leur fit ce don sublime, Et sitôt de retour, dans leur soif et leur faim, Ils maudiront le jour tombé dans leur abîme.
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Gregoire Le Roy (1862–1941)
Along with Maurice Maeterlinck and Charles Van Lerberghe, Gregoire Le Roy was the third member of the Ghent triumvirate that made its literary debut together in the 1887 Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique. Le Roy’s most important symbolist collection is Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois (Paris:Vannier, 1889), characterized by repetitive rhymes, series of hypnotic spinning songs, conducive to the suppression of the vigilance of the conscious mind. The folkloric style is used to evoke spatializations of the ineffable, effected through junctures of the concrete and abstract similar to those found in Maeterlinck’s Serres chaudes. In “Wretchedness,” Le Roy’s mendicant “begs on the shores of deceased time.” His “palace of dreams” has been ransacked by the “envious masses of falsehoods.” The indeterminate takes both a spatial and auditory form in “Dimmed Christmases,” “Do you hear over there, over there, in my thoughts, / The grandmothers as they recount fabulous tales?” Nostalgia is the constant theme of Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois, not for any specific, lost past, but for the veiled life of the unconscious, “The remembrance of things / That never were for us, but a memory!” Le Roy’s is a collection of dream formations coaxed to the borderline of consciousness, reliant upon a lulling expression which in turn provokes reverie on the part of the reader. In Fernand Khnopff ’s 1889 frontispiece for the collection, a narcissistic kiss in an aqueous mirror and the bridge and gateway of the Beguinage at Bruges serve as emblems of entrance into the inner world. In 1907, Le Roy published La Chanson du Pauvre, eighteen years after Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois, using a Verlainean style to express themes of Flemish country life found in Verhaeren’s Villages Illusoires and Les Campagnes Hallucineés. Le Roy turned to the study of the visual arts, became a painter and curator of the Musée Wiertz in Brussels.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Wretchedness from My Heart Weeps for Days Long Past (1889) Since the palace of my dreams And of my loves was laid waste By the envious masses of falsehoods, I trail my pale royalty. Now I am the strange pauper of dreams, The mendicant of ancient perfumes, The exiled from starving shores, Who begs on the roads of deceased time. And you, the women who pass through my pain, If my love implores you, know that it is lying, Because my impoverished hands are held in prayer Only for a little memory. ....
The Fiancée of Shadows from My Heart Weeps for Days Long Past (1889?) Who is she, in this manor of dreams, With windows barely opened, Who is she, at the edge of the green plains, At the horizons of illusion, Who is she, in this manor, that Lady Who reigns upon the throne of darkness? What are these grey, funereal walls, Searching themselves in the pond Like a criminal before his heart? Who is the frail-looking child? Who is the queen, spinning out her days, And who waits these many years? What are these mystic souls Hidden within monastic halls, And who, beneath oriental lamps, With an indolent, languid mien, Weave pale, very pale linen, And for whom? For whom!
Gregoire Le Roy Misère from Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois Depuis que le palais de mes songes Et de mes amours fut dévasté Par le peuple jaloux des mensonges, Je traîne ma pâle royauté. Je suis l’étrange indigent de rêves, Ce mendiant d’anciens parfums, L’exilé des faméliques grèves, Qui prie aux routes des temps défunts. Et vous, passantes en ma misère, Si mon amour vous implore, il ment Car mes mains pauvres sont en prière D’un peu de souvenir seulement. ......
La Fiancée de l’Ombre from Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois Quelle est, en ce manoir des songes, Aux fenêtres à peine ouvertes, Quelle est, au loin des plaines vertes Et de l’horizon des mensonges, Quelle est, en ce manoir, la Dame Qui règne au trône des ténèbres! Quels sont ces murs gris et funèbres Qui se regardent dans l’étang, Comme un coupable dans son âme? Quelle est la maladive enfant, Quelle est la reine qui s’y traîne Et qui, depuis des ans, attend? Quelles sont ces âmes mystiques Qui, dans des salles monastiques, Sous des lampes orientales, D’un air indolent, alangui, Tissent des toiles pâles, pâles? Et pour qui?
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Dimmed Christmases from My Heart Weeps for Days Long Past (1889)
It is the hour of my heart and evening, over the world, Has joined its hands of sleep, its shadowy hands; It is the hour when sweetly dreams the roundelay Of old women of legend and of mystic dwarfs. Do you hear, over there, over there, in my thoughts, The grandmothers, as they recount fabulous tales? Like the mute passage of the spirits through the shadows Or the silence of a wing as it brushes a branch? I see, within the ancient houses of my soul, The little ones, late at night, before a roaring fire, As they listen, as if in dream, to a very old woman, And the wind that wanders the shadows, rhythmically and slow. Those are the very old evenings in old thatched cottages, Those are old winters, which snow outside . . . And then, in the trembling gentleness of the lights, Gently, gently, o my heart, you fall asleep . . . The old woman speaks far away and the story comes to an end, Far away, in a manor, like an end of day, While in a very vague corner, a spinning wheel dreams, Like the heart of a princess exiled from love, O gentleness, o languor! This remembrance of things That never were for us, but a memory! O days, barely lived, so plaintive and rose, And dead! so gentle in death that we wish to die! Long ago, in our childhood, there was a prince or a princess, For whom we wept, sometimes, now and again, and how often remembered With love and regret! someone given over to sadness, Someone dearly loved, someone who has gone away!
Gregoire Le Roy Les Noëls Éteints from Mon Coeur Pleure d’Autrefois C’est l’heure de mon coeur et le soir, sur le monde, Joint ses mains de sommeil, ses ténébreuses mains; C’est l’heure, doucement, où se rêve la ronde Des vieilles de légende et des mystiques nains, Entendez-vous là-bas, là-bas dans ma pensée, Les aïeules conter de fabuleux récits? Comme un silence d’aile et de branche froissée, Le passage muet, sur l’ombre, des esprits? Je vois, dans les maisons anciennes de mon âme, La veille des petits devant le feu ronflant: Ils entendent, de rêve, une très vieille femme Et le vent qui dans l’ombre erre rythmique et lent. Ce sont de très vieux soirs dans de vieilles chaumières: Ce sont de vieux hivers qui neigent au dehors . . . Alors dans la douceur tremblante des lumières, Doucement, doucement, ô mon coeur, tu t’endors . . . La vieille parle au loin et l’histoire s’achève Au loin, dans un manoir, comme une fin de jour, Tandis que dans un coin très vague un rouet rêve, Comme un coeur de princesse exilé de l’amour, O douceur, ô langueur! Ce souvenir de choses Qui ne furent jamais, pour nous, qu’un souvenir! O jours si peu vécus, si plaintifs et si roses! Et morts! si douces morts qu’on en voudrait mourir! Jadis, dans notre enfance, un prince, une princesse Que nous pleurons parfois, et, combien rappelé D’amour et de regret! quelqu’un de la tristesse, Quelqu’un de bien aimé, quelqu’un s’en est allé!
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Albert Mockel (1866–1945)
Albert Mockel was a poet, musician, and literary critic. In 1886, he founded La Wallonie, the Liège-based journal, which would make Belgium a center of European literary life. All of the great symbolist writers contributed to La Wallonie during its seven years of publication, the time limit which Mockel had set at its inception. From the outset, La Wallonie was a nexus of Franco-Belgian literary alliance, co-edited by the Belgians, Mockel and Pierre Olin, and the French poet, Henri de Regnier. Mockel, himself, divided his time between Belgium and Paris, where he was an intimate of Mallarmé and his circle. In his theoretical writings, Mockel synthesized the thought of Mallarmé. As a literary critic, Mockel devoted book-length studies to Mallarmé (1899), Van Lerberghe (1904), and Verhaeren (1917). Mockel’s true prominence stems from his position as a nurturer and mid-wife to the new literature in Belgium. His own early poetry, Chantefable, un peu naïve (published privately in Liège, 1891) and Clartés (Paris: Mercure de France, 1901), seems slight in comparison to the innovative works of his friends, Lerberghe and Elskamp. As he emphasized in his theoretical writings, music was, for Mockel, the most significant of all the arts. The interludes and songs which he composed to accompany the poetry are an interesting aspect of the early volumes, an attempt at a Wagnerian “Gesamtkunstwerk,” a meshing of the arts as a totality. Mockel’s late volume, La Flamme Immortelle (Bruxelles: La Renaissance de Livre, 1924) is an important prolongation of the symbolist aesthetic during the 1920’s. In this collection, an unnamed ‘he’ and ‘she’ engage in an inner dialogue, an exploration of the psyche and the flesh, the secret rhythms of attraction, from alternating male and female perspectives. The poem is a sustained hymn to “the inexhaustable fountain of desire,” the wellsprings of creation.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Carmen from La Wallonie I (1886–87) Do you recall? the ocean swelled its glistening Waves, where emerald glimmers were gliding. Uncertain furrows phosphoresced in the darkness, Voice of the endless Dream, lightning of the giant Voices. Child, your pallor grazed my savage love, —Lilies exhaling the perfume of promises to the skies— And with an iris reflection, with limpid caresses, Your gaze embraced my triumphant gaze. ... And we wept, Carmen, we wept tears of fire, In the whisperer Night, with its vague shimmering; Impassable and sinister in the shifting heart of the waves, A shade arose, as slow as a farewell. Then the prophetic shade, with mysterious voices, And the infinite, dreamy plaint of the waves Spoke of the despair of Man and the sobbing Of a dead Illusion and its dazzling tears . . . And in the whiteness snowing in the tide of phosphorus, We listened to the mysterious Voices.
To the Destroyer La Wallonie I (1886–87) Sphinx, fascinating specter of the deceptive vows, Broken skeleton with creaking vertebrae, Your merciless claw has gleamed in my darkness, Like a lightning of horror, writhing over the living. I fear you, I despise you: my weakness begs you, Gaze of the Nights, phantom with phosphorescent eyes, Your hand, morbid hope of adolescents in tears, Pours a chill of silence upon the plangent pains.
Albert Mockel Carmen from La Wallonie I (1886–87) T’en souviens-tu? La mer enflait ses chatoyantes Vagues où des lueurs smaragdines glissaient. Dans le noir, des sillons douteux phosphorescaient: Voix du Rêve éternel, éclair des Voix géantes. Ta pâleur effleura mon fauve amour enfant, —Lys exhalant aux cieux le parfum des promesses— Et d’un reflet d’iris aux limpides caresses, Ton regard enlacait mon regard triomphant. .... Et nous avons pleuré, Carmen, des pleurs de feu. En la Nuit chuchotteuse aux luisarnements vagues, Impassible et sinistre au sein mouvant des vagues Une ombre se dressa, lente comme un adieu. Or l’ombre fatidique aux voix mystérieuses Et la plainte infinie et rêveuse des flots Disaient le désespoir de l’Homme et les sanglots D’une Illusion morte aux larmes radieuses. . . . Et des blancheurs neigeant au phosphore des flots Nous avons écouté les Voix mystérieuses.
A La Faucheuse from La Wallonie I (1886–1887) Spectre fascinant, Sphinx,—oh les voeux décevants! Squelette disloqué dont craquent les vertébres Comme un éclair d’horreur tordu sur les vivants. Je te crains. Je te hais: mes faiblesses t’implorent. Regard des Nuits, fantôme aux yeux phosphorescents, Ta main, morbide espoir des pleurs adolescents, Verse un froid de silence aux douleurs qui plangorent.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets My cowardly dread loathes you, Death, priestess of time. Your frenzy is a torrent, rolling in deep waves, To snatch Love from the entrails of all the worlds: And Death, you laugh out, in mourning, your piercing screams. I beseech you, o Queen with the vampire’s kiss, Close your arms and your void to one of my verses, So that hope, with her wings toward the gigantic Future, May throb in the eternal suffering of the work.
Intoxication from The Immortal Flame (1924) He: Immobile evening, where a murmur of aspens dies; Evening, heavy with all the stormy weight of a long day. The air stifles a beating of wings; the sky trembles, And the ground, strengthless, has fainted with love. In this hour which languishes, thirsting, I lean Over your grace, mirrored in the light of memory, Where you glide, shiver of shoulder, lightning of hip, Nude, in the inexhaustible fountain of desire. But now awakens, troubling, intoxicating me, Your perfume, where survives the suave secret of a kiss. And, barely wandering in the sleep of a breeze, it is A breath that succumbs but does not wish to be exhausted, A soul that is stirred, a flesh that breaks to pieces . . .
Albert Mockel Mon lâche effroi te hait, Mort, prêtresse du Temps. Ta fureur est un flux roulant vagues profondes Pour arracher l’Amour aux entrailles des mondes: Et tu ris dans le deuil, Mort, tes cris éclatants. . . . Je te supplie, ô Toi. Reine au baiser de pieuvre, Ferme à l’un de mes vers tes bras et ton néant, Pour qu’un espoir ailé vers l’Avenir géant Palpite en la souffrance éternelle de l’oeuvre.
Enivrement from La Flamme Immortelle (1924) Lui. Soir immobile où meurt un murmure de trembles; soir lourd de tout le poids orageux d’un long jour. L’air étouffe un battement d’ailes; le ciel tremble, et la terre sans force a défailli d’amour. Dans l’heure qui languit, altéré je me penche sur ta grâce mirée au clair du souvenir où tu glisses, frisson d’épaule, éclair de hanche, nue en l’inexhaustible source du désir. Mais voici que s’éveille, et me trouble, et me grise ton parfum où survit le secret du baiser. Et c’est, à peine errant au sommeil de la brise, un souffle qui succombe et ne veut s’épuiser, une âme qui s’émeut, une chair qui se brise . . .
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The Prey from The Immortal Flame (1924) She: Cruel one! when you came to me, I was nothing but a sole cry of suffering and dread. My heart rebelled, but I hardly wept, already submissive, a slave to bear all of the pains, when you came, unknotting my woolen tunics, to oppose your harshness to my vain starts. I screamed! and my flesh was nothing but a shrill laughter, and Hope was sobbing over the lost dream. What am I in your hands? the shuddering prey whose cry of fear is the same as a cry of joy. When your force bends and subdues me, vanquished, I am the child who doubts, turns back, and will not; I push away and I press, with my knees and with my arms, desperately, with all of my convulsive fear, the approach of the burning mystery that kills me . . . And the current of fire carries me away from shore, As exiled Hope sings on the other bank. ... Friend, when I come to you I admit, in a cry, my delirious emotion. What matters your stern brow and your foreign soul? I have shattered the altar of the god whom I awaited. As your mouth, my thirst, which nothing can quench, has drunk the voluptuousness of a deadly delight; and I surrender to your fire, renounced in vain, a love, wherein my ecstatic shame survives.
Albert Mockel La Proie from La Flamme Immortelle (1924) Elle: «Cruel! lorsque tu vins à moi, je ne fus qu’un seul cri de souffrance et d’effroi. Mon coeur se révoltait; mais je pleurais à peine, déjà soumise, esclave à subir tous les maux, quand tu vins, dénouant mes tuniques de laine, opposer ta rigueur à mes vains soubresauts. Je criais! et ma chair n’était qu’un rire aigu,— et l’Espoir sanglotait vers le songe perdu. Que suis-je dans tes mains? la palpitante proie dont le cri d’épouvante égale un cri de joie. Quand ta force me courbe et me dompte, vaincue, je suis l’enfant qui doute, et se replie et ne veut pas; je repousse et j’étreins, de mes genoux et de mes bras, éperdument, de toute ma peur convulsive, l’approche du brûlant mystère qui me tue . . . Et le courant de feu m’emporte à la dérive. Et l’Espoir exilé chante sur l’autre rive. ... Ami, lorsque je viens à toi, je t’avoue en un cri mon délirant émoi. Qu’importent ton front dur et ton âme étrangère? Le dieu que j’attendais, j’en ai brisé l’autel. A ta bouche, ma soif que rien ne désaltère a bu les voluptés d’un délice mortel; et je livre à ta fougue, en vain répudiée; un amour où survit ma honte extasiée.»
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Marcel Wyseur (1886–1950)
A poet of Bruges, Marcel Wyseur is a neglected Belgian Symbolist, a bridge-figure between the oneiric literature of the turn of the century and the explosive oneiricism of his friend, Michel de Ghelderode. In Coup d’Ailes (Gand: Siffer, 1909), Les Cloches de la Flandre (Paris: Perrin, 1918), and La Flandre Rouge (Paris: Perrin, 1916), Wyseur gave consummate expression to Rodenbach’s dead city theme. With the depredations of the First World War, the theme gains urgency in La Flandre Rouge, no longer the literary evanescence of cities of the past, but their actual disappearance, evoked in imagery of melancholy resignation. “The Chapel in the Dunes” hinges on a gentle personification, as the last chapel “gazes into the distance and her eyes of affliction / Have lost sight of the steeples, whose sister she once was.” Wyseur’s “The Spinners” is a dream-like alternation of images culled from the pure surroundings of a lace-maker and ominous interjections of the spinning fates. The suavity of the Flemish provincial world and the forces of destruction which threaten it are the recurrent modalities of Wyseur’s poetry. In his preface to La Flandre Rouge, Verhaeren praised the poet: “Your strophes move or stand still, drag or fly. They have a soul independent of the words which they enclose.” Verhaeren saw Wyseur as the poet who expresses the essence of his native land: “You carry Flanders within you. It is in your eyes that see, in your ears that hear, and in your fingers that write.”
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The Spinners from The Red Flanders (1916) Three Spinners: Death, Pain, and Oblivion, Wind off infinity, at the black spinning wheel of time . . . In front of a window with muslin curtains, Which frame a cool view of white geraniums, An elderly lace-maker and all her singing bobbins Collaborate at perfecting a delicate lace. Three Spinners: Death, Pain, and Oblivion, Wind off infinity, at the black spinning wheel of time . . . Outside, it is a peaceful evening, with bronze-toned shadows, And the comfortable languor of sweet-scented jasmine, And the deep velvets, which fall palpitating From the sky, like a brocade, edged with gold and ermine. Three Spinners: Death, Pain, and Oblivion, Wind off infinity, at the black spinning wheel of time . . . But the lace-work is long and the bobbins docile From having so often made their way across the webs, And now their eyes are tired as well . . . In the closed room, where the light grows dim, Invisible sleep has touched their eyelids . . . But tomorrow, the bobbins will not awaken. Three Spinners: Death, Pain, and Oblivion, Have taken flight this evening . . . The shroud is finished.
The Chapel in the Dunes from The Red Flanders (1916) Over there, in the dunes, at the edge of the horizon That delays the realm of Flanders and renders profound Its Dream, a chapel, in a rose and white mantle, Sleeps like a sea-bird on the sand.
Marcel Wyseur Les Fileuses from La Flandre Rouge Trois fileuses: la Mort, la Douleur et l’Oubli, Au rouet noir du temps dévident l’infini . . . Devant une fenêtre à rideaux d’étamine, Qu’encadre un frais décor de géraniums blancs, La vieille dentelière et ses fuseaux chantants Travaillent à parfaire une dentelle fine. Trois fileuses: la Mort, la Douleur et l’Oubli, Au rouet noir du temps dévident l’infini . . . Dehors, c’est le soir calme et l’ombre purpurine, Et la bonne langueur des jasmins odorants, Et les velours profonds, qui tombent palpitants Du ciel, comme un brocart frangé d’or et d’hermine. Trois fileuses: la Mort, la Douleur et l’Oublie, Au rouet noir du temps dévident l’infini . . . Mais la dentelle est longue, et les fuseaux dociles, D’avoir tant cheminé sur les trames subtiles, Et d’avoir tant usé leurs pauvres yeux, sont las . . . Et dans la chambre close où s’éteint la lumière, Le sommeil invisible a touché leur paupière . . . Mais demain les fuseaux ne s’éveilleront pas. Trois fileuses: la Mort, la Douleur et l’Oubli, Ce soir ont pris leur vol . . . Le linceul est fini.
La Chapelle dans Les Dunes from La Flandre Rouge Dans les dunes, là-bas, au seuil de l’horizon Qui recule la Flandre et qui fait plus profond Le Rêve, une chapelle, à mante blanche et rose, Comme un oiseau de mer sur le sable, repose.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets She gazes into the distance and her eyes of affliction Have lost sight of the steeples, whose sister she once was, For Nieuport and Caeskerke, Dixmude and Pervyse, Are dead and the cold has taken their grey ashes. She is alone, most alone and solemn, infinitely, And the days are endless and endless is the wind, And endless the sobs of her vain distress . . . But in the mourning of the choir, a droplet of blood, Lamp of the tabernacle and lamp of hope, Like Flanders and ourselves, persists, immensely.
Marcel Wyseur Au loin elle regarde, et ses yeux de douleur N’ont plus vu les clochers dont elle était la soeur, Car Nieuport, et Caeskerke, et Dixmude, et Pervyse, Sont mortes, et le froid a pris leur cendre grise. Elle est seule, très seule et grave, infiniment, Et les jours sont sans fin, et sans fin est le vent, Et sans fin les sanglots de sa vaine navrance . . . Mais dans le deuil du choeur une goutte de sang, Lampe du tabernacle et lampe d’espérance Comme la Flandre et nous, s’obstine, immensément.
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André Fontainas (1865–1948)
André Fontainas was born in Belgium, but spent most of his childhood and youth in Paris. During law studies in Brussels, Fontainas was actively involved in the Belgian literary renaissance and figured prominently in the 1887 Parnasse de la Jeune Belgique. After his return to Paris, Fontainas continued to contribute to the Belgian literary journals, La Jeune Belgique, Le Reveil, and La Wallonie. The Franco-Belgian writer is the most hermetic and Mallarmean of the group. “The Virgins Look at Themselves in the Mirrors,” from the 1894 Nuits d’Epiphanies, is a powerful and original avatar of the recurrent symbolist mirror reverie. A group of imprisoned maidens is forced to witness the fleeting of life as it passes in shadows across their mirror. “Already, this evening, strange visions / Slide pallid through the thick panes of our wJindows / And are dying in the gold of our mirrors.” In the manner of the prisoners of the platonic cave, the maidens perceive an intangible, phantom disembodiment, a dream of life, but not life itself. They are condemned to being seers, absorbed in unreal visions. The mirror is also a privileged symbol in Fontainas’ recondite sonnets from the 1895 Les Estuaires d’Ombre, stygian verse haunted by the lusterless waters of oblivion. The central image of Sonnet VI is a blackened mirror of obsidian and Sonnet VII is dominated by the mirror barren of dreams: “Lakes, where will not emerge toward fabled shores, / The grey and heavy plumage of the swans of December.” The dark explorations of the Estuaires d’Ombre are succeeded in the later verse of the 1926 Lumières Sensibles by a light-flooded world of ecstatic scintillation. In “Your Eyes,” the vision of love mirrors the joy of the beloved as she witnesses the “luminous laughter of the hour,” “the brightness of blue waves and its flight of birds.” The rich and varied poetry of André Fontainas has been collected in Choix de Poèmes (Paris: Mercure de France; 1950).
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Jealousy from La Jeune Belgique 4 (1885) Seduction of eyes, charm of my youth, You wish to vanish in the thick cloud Of distant memories, which fly away in peace, Without hope of their former grace reviving. Your rose and purple lip, arched with finesse, Derided the anguish you used to shroud me, While at your knees, I groveled, begging The only divine power acknowledged by my heart! And your cold laughter burst out and my body Knew it was failing and my senses were dead Under the weight of sorrow, weeping in my soul. Nonetheless, fixed upon your laced corset, my eyes Avidly followed, seized by an infamous longing, The ray of furtive sunlight that broke into desire.
The Virgins Look at Themselves in the Mirrors from Nights of Epiphanies (1894) At our windows, at our mirrors, The sun is dying in last kisses of light, And the wide orb is inflaming the dark forest, The glade, over there, toward the City and the Sea. Already, this evening, strange visions Slide pallid through the thick panes of our windows And are dying in the gold of our mirrors. Riders galloping on horse-back, To what hour of fate? o Kings! and what hopes Guide you through the nights to our dim mirrors, Where the flashes of your helmets are dying? The hour has come, alas, In the nocturnal malice of the forests, Of quivering anguish and hidden ambush. In our windows, in our mirrors, O proud riders! your specters have passed, But toward the dark thickets, under ash trees, the beeches,
André Fontainas Jalousie from La Jeune Belgique 4 (1885) O volupté des yeux, charme de ma jeunesse, Tu veux te dissiper dans le nuage épais Des souvenirs lointains qui s’envolent en paix, Sans que leur grâce antique un seul instant renaisse! Ta lèvre pourpre-rose arquée avec finesse Me raillait des douleurs dont tu m’enveloppais, Tandis qu’à tes genoux, suppliant, je rampais, O seul pouvoir divin que mon coeur reconnaisse! Et ton rire éclatait froidement; et mon corps Se sentait défaillir et mes sens étaient morts Sous le poids du chagrin qui pleurait en mon âme, Et, cependant, mes yeux, fixés sur ton corset, Suivaient avidement, pris d’une envie infâme, Le rayon de soleil furtif qui s’y glissait.
Les Vierges se Mirent dans les Miroirs from Nuits D’Epiphanies (1894) A nos fenêtres, à nos miroirs Le soleil agonise en baisers de lumière, Et là-bas l’orbe large embrase la clairière De la forêt obscure vers la Ville et vers la Mer. Déjà d’étranges visions ce soir Glissent pâles aux vitraux lourds de nos fenêtres Et se meurent en l’or de nos miroirs. Chevauchées Vers quelle destinée? ô Rois! et quels espoirs Vous guident par la nuit vers nos ternes miroirs Où les éclairs de vos cimiers se meurent? Hélas, c’est l’heure, En la méchanceté nocturne des forêts, De l’angoisse éperdue et d’embûches cachées. Dans nos fenêtres, dans nos miroirs O chevaucheurs hautains! vos spectres ont passé, Mais vers les halliers noirs sous les frênes, les hêtres,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets And the oaks of the taciturn forests of evening; In vain, from our windows, Toward you, whom we had dreamt the Kings of our hope, We offered our hopeful gestures, only to the twilight; Phantoms of our mirrors, Phantoms, now, of the past, Our eyes have sought you in the gold of our mirrors, With the startled kisses of the restless light, As far as the reflected gleam of the glade, In the gold of our mirrors or of ancient windows.
The Estuaries of Shadows VI from Le Reveil 5 (1895) Flowers, the hope of crosses, the gleam of red gold, Their vows, ancient flotilla in the breeze of sea-faring skies, Kneel at the threshold, where ascend, Pilgrims, With your voices, the bronze voices of the bell-towers. The daily round of useless life, Souls of love, and by which serene miracles, Blossomed, in the sad field watered by your grief, Bright corollas, wreathing the peristyle. The dark river of oblivion, where our cypress trees plunge, Turns the thick gravel of Dream and the Regrets Beneath the blackened mirror of its obsidian: Forsake a vain dream and your senseless vows, Exiled stranger, become a herdsman in Sogdiane, Dreams are dangerous and to be alive is enough.
André Fontainas Les chênes des forêts taciturnes de soir, En vain de nos fenêtres Vers vous que nous rêvions les Rois de notre espoir Nous fîmes au crêpuscule un geste d’espoir. O fantômes de nos miroirs Fantômes déjà du passé Nos yeux vous ont guettés sous l’or de nos miroirs Aux baisers apeurés des mouvantes lumières Jusqu’au rêve reflété de la clairière Dans l’or de nos miroirs ou d’antiques fenêtres.
Les Estuaires de l’Ombre VI from Le Reveil 5 (1895) Fleurs, tout l’espoir des croix, et l’or roux y rutile, Leurs voeux, flottille ancienne au vent des cieux marins S’agenouillent au seuil d’où montent, Pèlerins, Avec vos voix les voix d’airain d’un campanile. L’ennui quotidien de la vie inutile, Ames d’amour, et par quels miracles sereins, Eclôt, du triste champ qu’arrosaient vos chagrins, Claires corolles en guirlande au péristyle. Le fleuve d’oubli sombre où plongent nos cyprès Roule l’épais gravier du Rêve et des Regrets Sous le miroir noirci de son obsidiane: Délaisse un songe vain et tes voeux insensés, Etranger qu’un exil fit pâtre en Sogdiane, Le rêve est malfaisant et vivre c’est assez.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets The Estuaries of Shadows VIII from Le Reveil 5 (1895) I think of You. Sad shivers in the shadows. The amber Shivers in the bare mirror of our cold dreams, Lakes, where will not emerge toward fabled shores, The grey and heavy plumage of the swans of December. Secure the house of destiny, where the Other contorts The evil sweetness of her ideal: those Whom she will wordlessly strangle for the blue mirages, Will never again be reborn on the cold walls of my chamber. And You, for your heraldry was of ancient blue and gold, Were they not yours, the fingers that scattered the treasure Of their shining petals to the sea of lusterless water? Night, which a lightning flash—You!—burns with sudden flowers, What rivers of green oblivion have silenced among their own, Elated with perfumes, the voices of our hopes?
Your Eyes from Palpable Light (1926) This morning, you said: “How beautiful is the sea!” Tender flutter of birds, which hover over the water, The luminous laughter of the hour sparkles With the brightness of blue waves and its flight of birds. A quivering wing in the immense sky Climbs, lengthens, thrills. The waves Swell, with universal splendor, all of Space, enraptured beneath an unborn song. I watch, in your eyes, the faithful ecstasy Whereby is born, in your voice, the azure, the birds; Your eyes repeat: “The sea is lovely!” And I answer with a smile that reflects in your eyes.
André Fontainas Les Estuaires de l’Ombre VIII from Le Reveil 5 (1895) Je songe à Toi. Frissons tristes dans l’ombre, l’ambre Frissonne au miroir nu de nos rêves frileux, Lacs d’où n’émergeront vers les bords fabuleux Les lourds plumages gris des cygnes de décembre. La maison du destin est sûre où l’Autre cambre La mauvaise douceur de son idéal: eux Qu’elle étrangla muets pour les mirages bleus Ne pourront pas renaître aux murs froids de ma chambre. Et Toi, car ton blason fut d’azur vieux et d’or, N’es-tu de qui les doigts ont semé le trésor De leurs pétales clairs à la mer aux eaux mates? Nuit qu’un éclair—c’est Toi!—brûle de brusques fleurs, Quels fleuves d’oubli vert ont tû parmi les leurs Les voix de nos espoirs enivrés d’aromates?
Tes Yeux from Lumière Sensible (1926) Tu disais ce matin: «Que la mer est belle!» Tendre émoi d’oiseaux qui planent sur les eaux, Le rire lumineux de l’heure étincelle De l’éclat de l’azur au vol des oiseaux. Dans le ciel immense un frémissement d’aile Monte, se prolonge, palpite. Les eaux Emplissent d’une spendeur universelle L’espace pâmé sous quels chants inéclos. J’observe dans tes yeux l’extase fidèle Qui fait naître à ta voix l’azur, les oiseaux; Ils répetent, tes yeux: «Que la mer est belle» Et je réponds toujours: «Que tes yeux sont beaux!»
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v Selections from: Beneath the Tents of the Exodus Sous les Tentes de l’Exode (1921) The Song of the Rue Saint-Paul La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul(1922) Aegri Somnia (1924)
Max Elskamp
Max Elskamp (1862–1932) Commentary
Like Georges Rodenbach, for whom Bruges was the space of poetry, Max Elskamp is also a poet of place. His realm of the imagination, rendered mythic and interiorized, was his birthplace, the port city of Antwerp. Elskamp spent his early years in the parish of St. Paul and most of his life in his family’s vast mansion on Leopold Street, surrounded by the collections of orientalia and old navigational equipment which fueled his reverie. In his early collections, Enluminures and La Louange de la Vie, both published in 1898, Elskamp evokes an Antwerp which is a series of villages, inhabited by simple folk. The language used in these poems is naive and archaic in mood, suffused with the rhythms of folksongs. The seemingly simple style was intended to convey the spiritual candor of the populace, living in a harmonious and natural world, rooted in the religious calendar. Ten years of silence followed these volumes, during which Elskamp collected Flemish folklore and engaged in study of Buddhism. Following a bitter period of exile in Holland during the First World War, Elskamp underwent a remarkable resurgence of poetic creation. The years 1920 –1924 mark the appearance of successive volumes of symbolist poetry, Sous les tentes de l’exode (1921), La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul (1922), Les Chansons Désabusées (1922), Les Délectations Moroses (1923), Maya (1923), and Aegri Somnia (1924). In these works, Elskamp, like the Verhaeren of the 1880’s, has fashioned a highly idiosyncratic French, rich in distorted syntax, ellipsis, neologisms, suppression of articles, and succinct lines meant to convey moments of vision. The purity of the legendary past gives way in the Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul to the teeming life of the present. The atmosphere of the port is the prevailing theme, but the ubiquity of the harbour also leads the poet to evoke distant and exotic realms in a series of dream voyages. Spaces of suspended time are found at both axes of Elskamp’s imagination. The brothel in the seventh poem of the Rue Saint-Paul is a place of waiting, dominated by a poster of the Brooklyn Bridge stretched in suspension. The “violet islands” found at the edge of the world in Aegri Somnia are places where “so many pasts are worn away / In dark oblivion of everlasting presents.” Throughout Elskamp’s late period, scenes of Flemish life alternate with evocations of beloved women, oriental fantasies, and poems inspired by objects, porcelains and silks, which are “pieces of music for the eye.” The last ten years of Elskamp’s life were spent in syphilitic madness and paranoid rage.
Max Elskamp The poetry of Max Elskamp: Oeuvres Complètes (Paris: Seghers, 1967). La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul, ed. Paul Gorceix. (Bruxelles: Labor, 1987). Chansons et Enluminures. (Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1980).
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets In Memoriam from Beneath the Tents of the Exodus In this land, in this land, My God, where we have wasted away, My God, where we have endured pain, Torn even by the sky and the sea, In this land, for us so drawn out, With dejected waiting and with renunciation, From day to day, for seasons, And then for months and then for years; In this land that received us Fraught with bitterness and care, Poisoned with loathing and with doubt, Feet so bloodstained from the roadways, Burdened with mourning, dressed in tears, Eyes screwed tight, wounded by magic spell, And a bitter mouth, deafened ears, Bursting heart and a soul weighted down; In this land, for us so slow In its welcome, both with face and accent, Mauve and grey as an autumn, In a remote world, lost among men; In this very foreign land, Where we never learned to love, Which by rule or mistrust, Our hearts turned into deep silences, In this land, for us so cold, From the bread to the water that was ours, And for eyes and for hearing, Peevish and melancholy:
Max Elskamp In Memoriam from Sous les Tentes de l’Exode En ce pays, en ce pays, Mon Dieu, où nous avons langui, Mon Dieu, où nous avons souffert Même du ciel et de la mer, En ce pays qui nous fut long D’attente morne et d’abandon Au jour le jour, dans des saisons, Et puis des mois, et puis des ans; En ce pays qui nous a pris Pleins d’amertume et de soucis, Aigris de haines et de doutes Et pieds tout saignants de la route, Chargés de deuil, vêtus de larmes, Yeux lovés comme sous un charme, Et bouche amère, oreilles sourdes, Gros le coeur et l’âme si lourde; En ce pays qui nous fut lent D’accueil, de visage et d’accent, Et mauve et gris comme une automne Au monde loin parmi les hommes; En ce pays très étranger Où nous n’avons pas su aimer Et qui, par règle ou défiance, Si tôt en nous s’est fait silence; En ce pays qui nous fut froid, Du pain qu’on mange à l’eau qu’on boit, Et pour les yeux, et pour l’ouïe, Morose et de mélancolie:
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Wavering daylight, puritan sky, Our eyes have often seen you, And voices of the water, lost in the air, You, our ears, so often heard! In this land, too far into the ocean, Where our hearts never opened, Where hard, and secret, and closed, We hated, more than loved, In this land, breeding merchants, Where we never had a chance, In this land of preachers To whom we hardly listened, In this land, alas, where we were, In this land where we lived, Weary souls, undeceived, Bearing our thoughts like a cross; My God, such dark days of life, My God, so much suffering withstood, In this land, in this land, Where we languished in this way, Sharing, even unto our flesh, Our wounds and our misery, It was the world that changed, Paradise that we won: We lived like brothers, Throughout the months of that war.
Max Elskamp Jour indécis, ciel protestant. Nos yeux, l’aurez-vous vu souvent, Et voix des eaux dans l’air perdues, Vous, nos oreilles, entendues! En ce pays trop de la mer, Où nos coeurs ne se sont ouverts. Où durs, et secrets, et fermés, Nous avons plus haï qu’aimé, En ce pays trop de marchands Où nous n’avons pas acheté, En ce pays de prédicants Que nous avons mal écoutés, En ce pays, las! où nous fûmes, En ce pays où nous vécûmes, Ames lasses, désabusées, Portant comme croix nos pensées; Mon Dieu des jours noirs de la vie, Mon Dieu des souffrances subies, En ce pays, en ce pays, Ainsi où nous avons langui, Les partageant jusqu’à la chair, Nos blessures et nos misères, C’est le monde qui a changé, Le paradis qu’on a gagné: On a vécu comme des frères Pendant les mois de cette guerre.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets no. 7 Song of the Rue Saint-Paul This street sets out To find the docks, Holes, dens, Where the sailors go. Houses with curtains, Lowered, but which move, Filtering a closed day Of scarlet light. All those English girls Preoccupied with downing drinks, Readying themselves for love, With silken tights, Throughout the day, which weighs Outside and so heavy, Throughout the summer night, Those who sell love. And all the varieties of liquor To choose, like the flesh, Danish aquavit, Bitter Greek anis, Irish Whiskey, American rum, Japanese sake, Opium from India. And mirrors reflecting, In yellow and black, All the shining copper Behind the counter. Women and those who chat, Bared shoulder, Or who prefer to rest, Forever lounging, Rings on their hands,
Max Elskamp no. 7 from La Chanson de la Rue Saint-Paul Puis rue qui s’en va Chercher les bassins, Bouges, galetas, Où vont les marins, Maisons à rideaux Baissés mais qui bougent, Filtrant un jour clos De lumière rouge, C’est filles anglaises Occupées à boire, Vêtant pour aimer Des maillots de moire, Dans le jour qui pèse Dehors et si lourd, Dans le soir d’été Qui vendent l’amour. Mais liqueurs au choix Lors comme la chair, Aquavit danois, Anis grec amer, Whiskey irlandais, Rhum américain, Saké japonais, Opium indien, Et glaces mirant En jaune et en noir, Les cuivres luisants Au dos du comptoir, Femmes et qui causent Les épaules nues, Ou bien se reposent En long étendues,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Dreaming of bad or worse, Or finding all of their good In at last going to sleep, For time stretches out, Told in slow hours, Days spent here In expectation. Eyes, like theatrical lights, Scan the walls, And at the engravings Stand still. You see Vesuvius, Overcome with fire, Like a vat full of Hell and Flame. And red and carmine, Hanging further on, The Brooklyn Bridge, Suspended in the air.
Blue Night from Aegri Somnia The night is blue, The beloved is blond, There is God, And then the world, And the garden Where you set out To seek tomorrow, Which will come.
Max Elskamp Bagues à leurs mains, Rêvant mal ou pire, Ou trouvant leur bien Enfin à dormir. Lors temps qui s’espace Dit en heures lentes, Et jour qui se passe Ici dans l’attente, Yeux comme une rampe Les suivant les murs, Et sur des estampes Qui s’arrêtent durs: On voit le Vésuve En feu qui se pâme, Ainsi qu’une cuve D’enfer et de flammes, Et rouge et carmin Plus loin appendu, Le pont de Brooklyn Dans l’air suspendu.
Nuit Bleue from Aegri Somnia La nuit est bleue, L’amie est blonde, Il y a Dieu, Et puis le monde, Et le jardin Où l’on s’en va, Trouver demain Et qui viendra.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets There is the heart You carry within, Believing without delusion All suffering to be dead. The moon is round, Arcturus gleams, And the beloved is blond She smiles, You have no idea At what, at whom, But with joined hands, Just as in prayer. And eyes climbing High, toward the heavens, Seek, you would say, Like wings. Silence in her, Silence in yourself, And then faith, Which turns to gall, Newborn doubts Of love, which binds Forever And for life, And then there is, within the soul That you carry within, Something like a woman Whom you know to be dead.
Max Elskamp Il y a coeur En soi qu’on porte, Croyant sans leurre, La douleur morte; La lune est ronde, Arturus luit, Et l’amie blonde Elle, sourit, On ne sait point A quoi, à qui, Mais jointes mains Ainsi qu’on prie, Et yeux montés Haut vers le ciel, Cherche, on dirait, Comme des ailes. Silence en elle, Silence en soi, Et alors foi Qui se fait fiel, Doute qui naît, Amour qui lie D’éternité Et pour la vie, C’est lors dans l’âme En soi qu’on porte, Comme une femme Qu’on saurait morte.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets Silks from Aegri Somnia A peacock in a Persian garden, A peacock fans its tail and women laugh To see it, like a white sun, Change the grass to shining brightness, Some, seated on a bench, In their veils the color of rain, And others, their hair in the wind, In dresses that tell of saffron. A stream is there, where the water Seems, you would say, to turn to roses, A bridge crosses, drolly, Lolling on spindly pilings, And the sky laughs like a faun, Who knows at what or at whom, With great yellow sunspots, Like peelings from a fruit. Then further, on a terrace, The green lords taking tea From the back, profile, and full-face, All drinking with dignity, Meanwhile, with fly-swats, Because of the month and the season, Servants expedite the dubious spiders, Come to rest on the bowls. But the suavity of silks, Which marry with the caressing fingers, Just like a body, and sent from The radiant workshops of Isphahan,
Max Elskamp Soieries from Aegri Somnia Un paon dans un jardin persan, Un paon roue, et des femmes rient, De le voir, comme un soleil blanc, Dans l’herbe faire clarté luie, Les unes sises sur un banc En leurs voiles couleur de pluie, Et les autres, cheveux au vent, En robes disant le safran. Une rivière est là dont l’eau Semble, on dirait, ainsi que rose, Un pont la traverse, falot, Sur des pilotis, qui repose, Et le ciel rit ainsi qu’un faune On ne sait pas de quoi, de qui, Avec de grandes taches jaunes Comme des pelures de fruit. Or plus loin, sur une terrasse, Des Seigneurs verts prennent le thé De dos, de profil ou de face, Et boivent avec gravité, Tandis qu’avec des chasse-mouches, A cause du mois de l’année, Des servants tuent araignes louches, Venues sur les bols se poser. Mais douceur alors des soieries Qu’épousent les doigts les touchant, Ainsi qu’une chair, et sorties Des clairs ateliers d’Ispahan,
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets These are pieces of music for the eyes, And also velvet for the fingers, And Persia recounted beneath the skies By a peacock as white as faith.
The Islands from Aegri Somnia Violet islands dream, Over there, at the edge of the blue world, Where the leaning schooners set forth White sails beneath the skies, Toward the lost ports, confirmed In perfumes of swooning flesh, In coral beneath the light And distant greens of the palm groves. Huts, raising their roofs of straw Beneath the golden rain of the sun, Sea-cucumber, copra, nacre, tortoiseshell, Goods of trade and vermilion, Are sold and bought at evening After the burning hours, In the presence of the sea, as it goes down Like blood along the shores, Their breeze also passes sometimes, Fanning the lethargy of the sky, It is in glory of weary brightness That the daylight is fading, resplendent. Then night, creating mute life, Over there, even near the breakers, Moon that climbs, full, clean,
Max Elskamp Ce sont musiques pour les yeux, Et velours aussi pour les doigts, Et Perse dite sous les cieux, Par un paon blanc comme la foi.
Les Iles from Aegri Somnia Des îles rêvent violettes Là-bas, au bout du monde bleu. Où s’en vont penchées les goélettes A voiles blanches sous les cieux, Vers les ports perdus qui s’avèrent Dans des senteurs de chair pâmée, En les coraux sous la lumière Et vertes loin, des palmeraies. Cases montant leurs toits de paille Sous la pluie dorée du soleil, Tripang, copra, nacres, écaille, Choses de trafic et vermeilles Que l’on achète et que l’on vend De soir, après les heures chaudes, Devant la mer et qui descend Comme du sang le long des côtes, Et brise alors parfois qui passe Éventant le ciel endormi, C’est en gloire de clartés lasses Le jour qui se meurt resplendi. Mais nuit lors, qui fait vie muette, Là-bas, même autour des brisants, Lune qui monte pleine et nette
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets In the air, sweet-smelling with perfumes. Passing hour, so far from the world, Since time doesn’t matter any longer, And so many pasts are worn away In dark oblivion of everlasting presents. Those are the violet islands, Over there, at the edge of the summer seas, Those are the violet islands, Dreaming of eternal days.
Salome from Aegri Somnia It is in the evenings, Sometimes harsh, When, in theaters, You kill time, And you lean To see them better Pink or white, Blond or dark, In the light, And their aromas Of flowers of flesh Those who dance To the music, Quick or slow, With rhythmic step, And smiling, Mimes, dancers, And ballerinas, Sweet, mocking, Or sometimes feline.
Max Elskamp Dans l’air de parfums odorant, Heure au monde si loin qui passe Que plus il n’importe du temps, Et que c’est passés qui s’effacent En l’oubli même du présent; Ce sont des îles violettes, Là-bas, au bout des mers d’été, Ce sont des îles violettes Qui rêvent là d’éternité.
Salome from Aegri Somnia C’est dans les soirs Parfois marâtres, Où, au théâtre On va s’asseoir, Et qu’on se penche Pour mieux les voir Roses ou blanches, Blondes ou noires, Dans la lumière Et leurs fragrances De fleurs de chair Celles qui dansent, Sur des musiques Vites ou lentes, A pas rythmiques, Et souriantes, Mimes, danseuses, Et ballerines, Douces, railleuses, Ou bien félines.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets When during the ballet, Whether long, whether short, Gracious, vivacious, And sometimes heavy, Sudden things And those conjured From distant times, Without question, It is over there, distant, In Galilee, In the serene air When evening has fallen, A palace of gold In the sunset, Where horns sound, Where songs climb, And then lances, Soldiers and guards, Banquet and dance, Where watches, Darkly, Antiphas, With downcast eyes. But dancing there, Salome, Lips offered, Arms uplifted, The breasts nude And shadowed with gold, While upon A silver dish, Following the white Wall of the fortress, A soldier approaches, With rigid fingers, Bearing in his hands The head, once John.
Max Elskamp Mais lors ballet Ou long, ou court, Gracieux, gai, Et parfois lourd, Choses soudain Et qui s’évoquent De temps lointains Sans équivoques, C’est là-bas loin En Galilée, En l’air serein Au soir tombé. Un palais d’or Dans le couchant, Où sonnent cors, Où montent chants, Et puis des lances, Soldats et gardes, Banquet et danse Et que regarde Sombre, Antipas Les yeux baissés. Mais dansant là C’est Salomé Lèvres tendues, Les bras dressés, Et les seins nus Et d’or ombrés, Tandis que sur Un plat d’argent, Le long du mur Blanc du redan, Un soldat vient Et les doigts raides, Portant aux mains, De Jean, la tête.
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vi Selections from: The Song of Eve La Chanson d’Eve 1904
Charles Van Lerberghe
Charles Van Lerberghe (1861–1907)
Commentary
Charles Van Lerberghe studied with Maurice Maeterlinck and Gregoire Le Roy at the Jesuit College Sainte-Barbe in Ghent, the same school where Georges Rodenbach and Emile Verhaeren had been educated. Under the tutelage of Rodenbach, Lerberghe made his literary debut with La Jeune Belgique, but soon became allied with La Wallonie, a journal more receptive to symbolist innovations in versification. In 1889, Lerberghe completed a protoSymbolist play, Les Flaireurs, which, like Maeterlinck’s more ominous L’Intruse, is concerned with anguished waiting for death. It was, however, as a poet that Lerberghe has made his mark with two collections, Entrevisions (1898) and a masterwork of the Symbolist movement, La Chanson d’Eve (begun in 1899 and completed in 1904). La Chanson d’Eve is a collection in the truest sense, a system of associations, each poem linked to the others in a sustained and cyclical exploration of a poetic consciousness awakening to the nascent world. Lerberghe’s Eve is a poet, the primal poet like Rilke’s Orpheus or Valery’s Amphion, who conceives and sings the world. In perfect solitude, Lerberghe’s virgin Eve pronounces her pure word as she wanders a plurality of Edens, pastoral landscapes of the soul evoked in imagery of dazzling light and mobile shadows. She is, at once, the Idealist Narcissus, identifying with all she encounters, and Psyche, engaged in a quest for knowledge of self and universe. In her explorations, she is accompanied by her “radiant angels,” intermediaries between self and world, guiding her through experiences with the elements. Water, identified with delving exploration of interiority, air, suggestive of freedom, dispersion, and mobility, and fire, element of flickering metamorphosis, are dominant sources of imagery. Several moods and registers of experience are recurrent. In one mood, there is a lulled harmony between paradisal nature and persona, as in “But one night Venus came to bring me roses.” The poems of this type are often associated with a gentle setting of dawn or twilight and with experiences of sleep, dream, and diffuse sensuality. In another mood, there is a dionysiac, triumphant identification of self and world: “Dove! Dove! Enchanted Dove!” or “Be absolved by my decree.” In poems of this type, Eve is an intoxicated dancer, reeling with power, a Nietzschean figure who asserts the force of her will, her lack of guilt, and her creative drive. There is a third mood in the collection, a fearful fascination with non-being: “I crossed the ardent thicket” or “Along the pale waters,” in which Lerberghe presents landscapes of arrested time, symbolist other worlds within the other world of Eden. Allied to this is a fourth
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mood in which Eve welcomes death as a form of self-forgetfulness and pantheistic reabsortion into the universe: “Come death, dust of stars . . .” Lerberghe’s poetfiguration awakens to the world, its joy, splendor, but also its inherent suffering. She is, at once, the enchanted, marveling at all she sees, and the enchantress, rendering her wonder in the incantation of verse. She establishes with her word a bond between herself and the infinite and then disappears into her song. Lerberghe’s Eve merges with the world she has celebrated, as the poet merges into his poem. Lerberghe’s collection is a hymn to the immortality of Song, the creative act, and also a hymn to mutability, the poet’s ability to render reality malleable and fluid, metamorphosis as the essence of poetry. The Poetry of Charles Van Lerberghe: Entrevisions. (Bruxelles: Nouvelle Société d’Editions, 1926). La Chanson d’Eve. (Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1980).
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “Gaze into our depths; we are the Emerald . . .” Gaze into our depths; we are the Emerald, Everlasting and leafy, like the soul of the oceans, Where perfumes roam through the warm night, And flows the wave of the great angels of the wind. We are the enormous and murmurous forest, Overflowing with dazzled shadows and somber splendor, Breathing and living, where a thousand golden birds sing, Where the peaks burst into a foam of flowers. Ever since the original breath and the first dawn, With ceaseless striving and endless desire, Together we climb from the entrails of the earth Toward that wondrous treasure which you alone have reached. Together, we its voice, we its deep soul, Within this vast foliage, turned green ever more, We have dreamed all of the dreams on earth And have grown old on the shores of the sun.
“Place your pale diadem . . .” Place your pale diadem Upon my head, ray Of the pure moonlight. And leave your white veil Over my shoulders. Then place your virginal Word Upon my lips. And so, stay, Leave a trail between my frail fingers, Which I raise, A ray, Or the scepter of my kingdom.
Charles Van Lerberghe “Regarde au fond de nous: nous sommes l’Emeraude . . .” Regarde au fond de nous: nous sommes l’Emeraude Eternelle, et feuillue, et qui semble une mer, Où rôdent des parfums à travers la nuit chaude, Où circule le flot des grands anges de l’air. Nous sommes la forêt énorme et murmurante, Pleine d’ombre éblouie et de sombre splendeur, Qui respire et qui vit, où mille oiseaux d’or chantent, Et dont la cime éclate en écumes de fleurs. Depuis le premier souffle et l’aurore première, D’un effort inlassable et d’un désir sans fin, Ensemble, nous montons des antres de la terre, Vers ce but merveilleux que toi seule as atteint. Ensemble, nous sa voix, nous son âme profonde, Dans ce feuillage immense, à jamais reverdi, Nous avons abrité tous les rêves du monde, Et c’est dans le soleil que nous avons grandi.
“Mets sur mon front . . .” Mets sur mon front Ton pur diadème, ô rayon De la lune pâle, Et ton blanc voile Sur mes épaules. Mets ta parole Virginale Sur mes lèvres. Et sois, Entre mes frêles doigts Que je lève, O rayon, Le sceptre de mon royaume!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “My resonant angels came . . .” My resonant angels came Among the roses of sunrise, Like a peal of laughter in the air Or breezes over the waves. I held fast, my hands clasped before them, And silently stood still. They greeted me with the wind of their wings, And fell to my knees. They said: Behold your handmaids, As their breaths brushed my body. Their lips did not sing with the first light, Nothing but a kiss were their words. My joyous angels came In the great, diaphanous morning, Closing the world to my eyes With a horizon of snow and flame. And from my white feet to my golden head They scattered me with flowers, Tracing great waves, Bright spirals of splendor. Then quivering, bewinged over me, In my entirety and all of them at once, To the depth of their thirst-corrupted souls, Languorously, gently, like a shadow, drank me in.
Charles Van Lerberghe “D’entre les roses de l’aurore . . .” D’entre les roses de l’aurore, Elles sont venues, mes anges sonores. Ils sont venus comme un rire dans l’air, Et comme des souffles sur la mer. Je me tenais, mains jointes devant elles, Silencieuse, immobile et debout. Ils m’ont saluée du vent de leurs ailes, Et sont tombés à mes genoux. Elles m’ont dit: Voici tes servantes. Déjà leurs bouches m’effleuraient. Leurs lèvres n’étaient pas de celles qui chantent; Leurs paroles n’étaient qu’un baiser. Dans le grand matin diaphane, Ils sont venus, mes anges joyeux. D’un horizon de neige et de flamme Ils ont fermé le monde à mes yeux. De mes pieds clairs à ma tête blonde Toute par eux jonchée de fleurs, Ils ont tracé de grandes ondes, Et des spirales de splendeur. Puis frémissants, ailés sur moi, M’ont tout entière et tous à la fois, Au fond de leurs âmes altérées, Longuement, doucement, comme une ombre, aspirée.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “Do you still remember . . .” Do you still remember, O my unicorn, A wondrous night, Deep in the great woods, It was I who took you; I was as wild as you. Without an arrow, without a dart, With a single glance Of my child’s eyes, I subdued you; And you came, meek as a fawn, To stretch out in the grass, At my white feet, Like my shadow. Only a virgin could take you. And now you repose, O my unicorn, In this little garden, By my own hands enclosed With a hedge of roses, And all surrounded by boundless Eden. And I fold my arms, Around your neck, My gentle beast, full of grace, And lean my head against your head, For fear my voice might wake you.
“But one night, Venus came to bring me roses . . .” But one night, Venus came to bring me roses. It was in the grove, where I was yet asleep. She was nude and blond, sparkling, roseate, And all of the somber air around her was of gold. In the warm night there was a sudden flight of doves.
Charles Van Lerberghe “Le sais-tu encore, O ma Licorne?” Le sais-tu encore, O ma Licorne? Une nuit merveilleuse, Au fond des grands bois, C’est moi qui t’ai prise; J’étais farouche comme toi. Sans une flèche, sans un dard, D’un seul regard De mes yeux d’enfant, Je t’ai soumise; Et tu vins, douce comme un faon, Dans l’herbe t’étendre, A mes pieds blancs, Comme mon ombre. Seule, une vierge pouvait te prendre. A présent, tu reposes, O ma Licorne En ce petit jardin, Que j’ai clos de mes mains D’une haie de roses, Et qu’enveloppe l’Eden sans bornes. Et j’enlace mes bras Autour de ton cou, Ma douce bête, pleine de grâce, Et pose ma tête contre ta tête, Pour que ma voix ne te trouble pas.
“Or, Vénus, une nuit, vint m’apporter des roses . . .” Or, Vénus, une nuit, vint m’apporter des roses. C’était dans le bosquet où je dormais encor. Elle était nue, et blonde, étincelante et rose, Et tout l’air sombre autour d’elle était d’or. Dans la nuit chaude il volait des colombes.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets In unison, her lovely nymphs, —They wore purple girdles Beneath their breasts and Roses in their hair— Caused under flying fingers Their shining lyres to resound. And one proclaimed: O Queen! look, She awakens, she laughs, surprised. She resembles you on the day you were born Of the foam dancing on waves of the vernal seas. Look at her. Her dazzled eyes are unaware Of why you smile and why we have come With flowers, divine Venus, and with songs, From the depth of our night to salute her dawn; And yet, she is like the very image of Love. And I said to her: Gracious Queen, How that name, of which my lips first learned The dazzling murmur, Suavely resounds in the silence. And like your presence, that word Has perfumed the night! Before you, my angels reverently kneel. And I adore you and I seek in my heart Words that would be, Like your grace and beauty, divine. But alas, our human souls Can only tell their bliss, Their afflictions, In an exquisite murmur and in tears . . . And all at once, in the sound of my voice, Through the air reeling with song and with roses, She, who with her breath quickens all things, Gently approached me . . . And I felt upon my throbbing heart all on fire Something like the alighting of lips.
Charles Van Lerberghe Ses belles nymphes, à la fois, —Elles avaient des ceintures De pourpre sous les seins, Et des roses dans leurs chevelures,— Firent, sous leurs agiles doigts, Résonner des lyres: Et l’une dit: O reine! vois, Elle s’éveille, elle rit, étonnée. Elle est semblable à toi, au jour où tu es née De l’écume des eaux sur la mer du printemps. Comme toi elle est blonde, et ce n’est qu’une enfant. Regarde-la. Ses yeux émerveillés ignorent Pourquoi tu lui souris et pourquoi nous venons, Vénus divine, avec des fleurs et des chansons, Du fond de notre nuit saluer son aurore; Et pourtant elle est comme une soeur de l’Amour. Et je lui dis: O reine, Comme ce nom dont mes lèvres apprennent Le murmure ébloui, Suavement sonne dans le silence, Et comme ta présence A parfumé la nuit! Devant toi mes anges s’inclinent. Et je t’adore, et je cherche en mon coeur Des paroles qui soient, Comme ta grâce et ta beauté, divines. Mais, hélas! nos âmes humaines N’ont pour dire leurs bonheurs, Comme leurs peines, Qu’un murmure ineffable, et des pleurs. . . . . Et, tout à coup, dans le son de ma voix, A travers l’air plein de chants et de roses, Celle qui, de son souffle, anime toutes choses, Doucement vint vers moi. . . . . Et je sentis sur mon coeur embrasé Comme des lèvres se poser.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “Close now, magic ring . . .” “Close now, magic ring, Close now, wall of light Now as I sing, Fence of haze, Gate of moonlight, Close now and hold her tight. Step by step; trace by trace, We now close tight this magic space. And may her angels never enter.” In your palace I am locked away, What do you want of me, woodland sprites? For you did I not on the banks of the spring Gather vervain and the wild thyme? “We are cold.” Here is my breath, and here my fingers. Are you warm again? What more do you ask of me? “Your soul, That little flame of gold.” Here it is; I grant it freely, And take my heart as well. “We were chilled; you revived us, We were starving and you filled us, And you freely gave your soul. Would you have in return Robes of shimmering hue, Bright wings, robes, Webs of azure and of moon?” No, I would remain nude, Like the flowers and the angels.
Charles Van Lerberghe “«Ferme-toi, cercle enchanté . . .” «Ferme-toi, cercle enchanté. Ferme-toi, mur de clarté Enceinte de brume, Porte de lune, Ferme-toi, et garde-la. Trace à trace, et pas à pas, Fermons l’espace, Et que ses anges n’entrent pas.» Dans votre palais Je suis enfermée Que me voulez-vous, petites fées? N’ai-je pour vous, près des fontaines, Cueilli la verveine et le serpolet? «Nous avons froid.» Voici mon souffle, voici mes doigts. Etes-vous réchauffées? Et que demandez-vous encore? «Ton âme, Cette petite flamme d’or.» La voici; je vous la donne, Et prenez mon coeur aussi. «Nous avions froid, tu nous as réchauffées, Nous avions faim, tu nous as rassasiées, Et tu nous as donné ton âme. Veux-tu, en échange, Des robes couleur de l’arc-en-ciel, Comme des ailes, des robes tissues D’azur et de lune?» Non, je veux rester nue, Comme les fleurs, et comme les anges.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “We would give you, if you will, Treasures unknown still Hidden below ground In caverns dire: The precious stones. Some shine in our hair, Like night moths Of azure and of fire.” No, I scorn those underground things. “Would you have eyes that shine like the dawn, In darkness?” No, I seek only that which flies away, In brightness. “Would you be changed, Into a bird, a butterfly, Into a flame, Into a flower, a ray of light?” Allow my soul To be free as you are, Like the breeze, like fire, Which flares where it will And yields not even to God. “It will be granted, your guileless desire, Your delightful desire; Daughter of mankind, be ever free, Even of God. In the unseen, Our songs, our dances, ’round you will twine; Step by step; trace by trace, We will glide into the space, Where you will be. Open now, gate of moonlight, Fence of haze, And magic ring, For now is reborn that odious light, Which already on earth, the rooster does sing.”
Charles Van Lerberghe «Nous te donnerons, si tu veux, Les trésors futurs cachés sous la terre, En des grottes obscures: Ce sont les pierres. Il en brille dans nos cheveux, Comme des phalènes D’azur et de feu.» Non, je dédaigne les choses souterraines. «Veux-tu des yeux qui soient comme l’aube Dans l’obscurité?» Non, je cherche ce qui se dérobe Dans la clarté. «Veux-tu que nous te changions En un oiseau, un papillon, En une flamme, En une fleur, en un rayon?» Donnez à mon âme D’être libre comme vous, Comme les airs, comme le feu, Qui souffle où il veut, Et n’obéit pas même à Dieu. «Qu’il soit accompli le voeu ingénu, Le voeu adorable! Fille humaine, sois libre, Même de Dieu. Dans l’invisible, Nos chants et nos danses vont te suivre. Trace à trace, et pas à pas, Nous serons dans l’espace Où tu seras. Ouvre-toi, porte de lune, Enceinte de brume, Cercle enchanté, Car voici que renaît l’odieuse lumière, Que déjà sur la terre Le coq a chanté.»
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “The wave is shivering . . .” The wave is shivering, a silken length of Mourning drapery, unwinding in the night, The deep wave, mute and black, Where the moon suddenly casts its shine. The moon draws forth from the deeps Long frail flowers, so pale, That rise, unfurl, and hail The cold orb of intangible splendor. Mysteriously opened, Like a deadly omen, Upon the wave and the moon, they place Their white candlesticks, slender and pale. And it seems to me from beyond life, Yet, close to my side, That some strange being is spying on me, Invisible in the light.
“The radiant fruit of gold shimmers . . .” “The radiant fruit of gold Shimmers, swaying in the shadows, Gleaming between the rustling leaves, A waiting treasure, long foretold. It has grown ripe only for you, Lovely and savoring of paradise, For what rose could rival its fairness? Veiled by their wings The sleeping angels dream . . .
Charles Van Lerberghe “L’onde tremble comme une moire de ténèbre” L’onde tremble comme une moire De ténèbre à travers la nuit, L’onde profonde, sourde et noire, Où tout à coup la lune luit. Du fond des eaux la lune attire De pâles, longues, frêles fleurs, Qui montent, s’ouvrent et se mirent Dans son impalpable splendeur. Mystérieusement écloses, Comme un mortel pressentiment, Dans l’onde et la lune elles posent Leurs longs et pâles flambeaux blancs. Il semble, au delà de la vie, Et cependant à mon côté, Que quelque être étrange m’épie, Invisible dans la clarté.
“«Il luit dans l’ombre, le beau fruit . . .” «Il luit dans l’ombre, Le beau fruit d’or, Il luit comme un trésor Entre ces feuilles. C’est pour toi qu’il a mûri, Le beau fruit du paradis. Quelles roses lui sont pareilles? Voilés de leurs ailes, Les anges sommeillent . . .
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets And now the night has come, Not one star rises in the sky; Oh! nothing But the lightest touch Of your lips . . . Who could see? The mild evening breezes caress it as well. Hear as my song Whispers in your ear, Draw near and gather. The angels drift in their dreams . . .”
“Be absolved by my decree . . .” Be absolved by my decree Of all treachery And of all malice, O my lovely Serpent, and glide In peace, a sinuous sunbeam Among these roses. For it was you who taught me the truth, The original secrets of the earth, The mystery of all created things, O spirit of light, Bright spirit of fire! For it was you who made me an equal of God. O my beautiful Serpent, glide Among my lilies and rove Through the roses of my springtime; Be crowned with bright gold and clothed With emeralds, topaz, and with diamonds!
Charles Van Lerberghe Voici que la nuit vient, Pas une étoile ne se lève. Oh! rien Qu’un effleurement De tes lèvres . . . Qui peut savoir? Le souffle du soir le touche bien. Écoute ma chanson; Elle murmure à ton oreille: Approche et cueille. Les anges sommeillent . . .»
“Sois absous par ma bouche . . .” Sois absous par ma bouche De toute trahison Et de toute malice, Mon beau Serpent, et glisse En paix, comme un rayon, Parmi ces roses. Tu m’as appris la belle vérité. Tu m’as appris le secret de la terre Et l’énigme des choses, Esprit de lumière, Clair esprit de feu! Toi par qui je devins une égale de Dieu. Glisse, ô mon beau Serpent, Parmi mes lys, et rôde Entre les roses de mes printemps; Sois couronné d’or clair et vêtu d’émeraudes, De topazes et de diamants!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “Dove! Dove! Enchanted Dove, . . .” Dove! Dove! Enchanted Dove That sways around me, Why are you afraid, white dove? Hear my voice, dove, my sister. From the resonant branches Descend in my dance, Descend upon my heart, dove of love! And I dance and I sing and I dance once more, I dance nude, dazzled and splendid, Like a serpent in the high grass. I dance and I rage in the air, Like a flame from hell. I dance bewinged, quivering and wild, In the depth of the living whirlwind, Whirling in the current that devours me, The whirlwind in which I descend. I dance until sated, With soul drunken, staggering, With the wine of dance, And with the wine of my blood.
“But how to understand and how to name you . . .” But how to understand and how to name you, O my ever-changing angels, transforming yourselves ceaselessly You, in whom there is nothing that remains, Immutable in itself, one entire day, one single hour? Emerged from some golden unity, strange and vague, You are born to perish and to flourish once again In shapes more shifting than dreams. You, Breath, you bound forth and become a Sound, And you, Sound, a flame, and you, Flame, a dawn. And the air is laden with flowers that are not yet, But have already opened into a sky aglow with rays.
Charles Van Lerberghe “Colombe! Colombe! Colombe enchantée . . .” Colombe! Colombe! Colombe enchantée Qui te balances autour de moi, Pourquoi as-tu peur, colombe blanche? Écoute ma voix, colombe, ma soeur. Entre les branches descends dans ma danse, Descends sur mon coeur, colombe d’amour! Et je danse et je chante, et danse encore. Je danse nue, éblouie et superbe, Comme un serpent dans les hautes herbes. Je danse et rampe dans les airs, Comme une flamme de l’enfer. Je danse ailée, frémissante et sonore, Au fond du tourbillon vivant, Du tourbillon qui me dévore, Du tourbillon où je descends. Je danse jusqu’à ce que j’en sois lasse, L’âme enivrée et chancelante Du vin de la danse, Et du vin de mon sang.
“Mais comment vous comprendre . . .” Mais comment vous comprendre et comment vous nommer O mes Anges mouvants, vous, qui vous transformez Sans cesse, vous, en qui il n’est rien qui demeure Immuable en soi-même, un jour, une seule heure? Sortis de quelque étrange et vague unité d’or, Vous naissez pour mourir et pour connaître encor, En apparences plus changeantes que des songes. Toi, Souffle, tu t’élances et deviens un Son, Et toi, Son, une flamme, et toi, Flamme, une aurore, Et l’air est plein de fleurs qui ne sont pas encore, Et déjà ne sont plus qu’un ciel plein de rayons.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “I crossed the ardent forest . . .” I crossed the ardent forest where the foliage, Like a flame, bent to my step, Where the blaze then closed around me. No one. All is still. A wall of stone, A gaping doorway, a space that reveals The other land shimmering in another light. There nothing breathes. Lone, beneath the sun, An endless pathway of willows, which sweep their Tired branches along the sleep-laden sand. All things spellbound with a strange somnolence, Where light and shade, like the air, remain motionless. Evening is no more, beyond the threshold. Elsewhere, tolls the magic hour, when all is clothed In blue twilight, that flows from stars Upon my sacred groves. Here, the relentless sun, Which beams forever an unwavering light. And yet, what calm delight reigns In this radiant silence, this untouched Solitude. Within this dwelling-place, nothing of life. No bird, in this stifling air, Could unfurl its weightless wings or let fall The star of its agile claw upon the sand. Not a whisper floating on the gentle wind could pass The threshold where all expires. The mute flowers of paradise, even they, Clustered, must halt, stunned, For it is carved in the threshold of stone: Other Land. There, all noise dies out; even my voice trembles, Leaps back, frail, as soon as it touches the space. And over there, it is, my angels say, That Death invisibly wanders in this divine realm; And that is the way where life, obscurely, ventures forth. .......... What does it matter! Here, they are so sweet, my quiet dreams. They look just like the ones that appear in the night, When all is at rest, when my joyous heart lifts me Even above Eden, and I am On high, in the dark, miraculous sky, the pathway Of the stars. All has grown heavy. I sleep. My feet are weighted in their own shining snow.
Charles Van Lerberghe “J’ai traversé l’ardent buisson . . .” J’ai traversé l’ardent buisson dont le feuillage, Comme une flamme, s’est ouvert sur mon passage, Et dont l’embrasement s’est refermé sur moi. Personne. Tout est calme. Une enceinte de pierre, Une porte béante, un espace où l’on voit Un autre monde luire en une autre lumière. Rien n’y respire plus. Seule, sous le soleil, Une allée infinie, et des saules qui laissent Sur le sable dormant traîner leurs branches lasses. Toutes choses au fond d’un étrange sommeil, Et l’ombre et la clarté, comme l’air, immobiles. Ainsi, le soir n’est plus au delà de ce seuil. Ailleurs, c’est l’heure merveilleuse où tout se voile Du crépuscule bleu qui tombe des étoiles Sur mes bosquets heureux. Ici, le grand jour seul Qui rayonne à jamais d’une lumière égale. Et pourtant quel divin et doux apaisement Dans ce silence pur, et cette virginale Solitude! En ces lieux plus rien qui soit vivant. Pas un oiseau qui dans cet air irrespirable Ait ouvert ses ailes légères ou laissé L’étoile de ses pieds agiles sur le sable. Pas une haleine qui, dans la brise, ait passé Ce seuil où tout expire, où jusqu’aux fleurs muettes Du paradis, en foule, interdites, s’arrêtent; Car il est inscrit sur ce seuil de pierre: Ailleurs. Là, tombent tous les bruits, là, ma voix même a peur, Et recule aussitôt qu’elle touche l’espace; Et c’est par là, disent mes anges, que la Mort, En ce divin royaume, invisiblement passe, Et par là que la vie, obscurément, en sort. .......... Qu’importe! Ils sont si doux, ici, mes calmes rêves. Ils ressemblent à ceux qui viennent dans la nuit, Quand tout repose, quand mon coeur heureux m’élève Au-dessus de l’Eden lui-même, et que je suis, Là-haut, dans le ciel sombre et merveilleux, la sente Des étoiles: Tout s’est appesanti; je dors. Mes pieds s’enfoncent dans leur neige étincelante.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets How alike they look, those two golden roads! Perhaps they are one and the same, but seen From the confines of sleep and of life. How I long to see myself from over there, standing Pale and tired, leaning on this doorsill, encircled By these flowers whose fragrance wreathes my dreams. How strange all things here must seem, Ever restless, in a ceaseless uproar Of foliage, wind, and waves! The dread Of living is so strong, over there; so smiling The hope of rejoining the luminous void! Or is it a mirage? Dare I stretch out my hand? . . . Oh God! The hand I draw back is cold and dead. It gleams like a rose of frost, For having just for a moment, near that door, Brushed the pale air and that unreal day! . . . What is it that sways over me, something Adrift, the shadow of a wing, Invisible above me, like an azure veil? Has something from the other land entered My soul? My eyes close, I stumble, I am tired, broken and I breathe in the drowsiness Of those dying roses, weary with sun, Whose fragrance but faintly rises toward me. How faraway is the very earth! . . . Where has it gone, the blue dance of the butterflies, Two of them, just now, on the threshold at play? Not a cloud in the sky that does not disappear In the serene clearness, the second it drifts past. My heart grows calm as well; all grows calm. I draw close. I approach the Unknown that lures And entwines me with caresses, with chains Of flowers . . . That word which I feared to say, I have said. It sings out. Listen. Did you Hear it clearly? Then gently take my hand. ....................................
Charles Van Lerberghe Comme elles se ressemblent ces deux routes d’or! Peut-être est-ce une seule et la même, mais vue Des confins du sommeil et de ceux de la vie. Que je voudrais de là m’apercevoir debout, Pâle et lasse, accoudée à cette porte, sous Ces fleurs dont les parfums enveloppent mes songes. Que les choses ici doivent sembler étranges, Sans trêve et sans repos, et dans quelle rumeur De feuillages, de vents et de vagues! L’horreur De vivre est si profonde, là; si souriante La joie d’être rentré dans le néant divin! Ou n’est-ce qu’un mirage? Étendrais-je la main? . . . O Dieu! Ma main que j’en retire est froide et morte, Elle scintille comme une rose de gel, Rien que d’avoir, un seul instant, sous cette porte, Effleuré cet air pâle et ce jour irréel! . . . Qu’est-ce donc qui s’étend, comme l’ombre d’une aile Invisible sur moi, comme un voile azuré? Quelque chose de l’autre monde est-il entré Dans mon âme? Mes yeux se ferment, je chancelle. Je suis si lasse et si brisée, et j’ai sommeil De ces mourantes roses lasses de soleil, Dont les parfums vers moi ne montent plus qu’à peine. Comme toute la terre elle-même est lointaine! . . . Où donc s’en sont allés ces deux papillons bleus Qui, tout à l’heure, sur ce seuil, jouaient tous deux? Il n’est pas un nuage au ciel qui ne s’efface Dans la sérénité divine dès qu’il passe. Mon coeur s’apaise aussi, tout s’apaise. Je viens. Je m’approche et je viens, Inconnu, qui m’attires Et m’enlaces avec ces caresses, ces liens De fleurs . . . Cette parole que je n’osais dire, Je l’ai dite. Elle chante. Écoute. L’as-tu bien Entendue? Alors, prends-moi doucement la main. ..........................................
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “O God, who could be there . . .” O God, who could be there In the absence beyond This door? Who has risen before Me, from dead dust And the void? Oh, speak fast! Don’t stare at me like that, In silence! I am afraid; Don’t stare at me with such eager eyes, My somber sister! Are you my soul? Are you my shade? Whoever you are, Go away, ghost! I don’t want to see you anymore . . . Oh, my very own angels, help me!
“Through the happiness of twilight . . .” Through the happiness of twilight, Who is it who sighs, what is the lament? Who has come to rest against my heart, Like a wounded bird? Is it a plaint of the earth? Is it a future voice, A voice from the past? To the point of anguish, I hear That sound in the silence. Island of forgetfulness, o Paradise! What cry rends tonight, Your voice that cradles me? What cry pierces Your bright circlet of flowers, And tears your lovely veil of mirth?
Charles Van Lerberghe “O Dieu qui donc est là . . .” O Dieu qui donc est là, Dans le vide, au delà De cette porte? Qui s’est levé, devant Moi, de la poussière morte Et du néant? O parle vite! Ne me regarde pas de la sorte, En silence! J’ai peur; Ne fixe pas ainsi sur moi tes yeux avides, Ma sombre soeur! Es-tu mon âme, Es-tu mon ombre? Qui que tu sois, Va-t’en, fantôme! Je ne veux plus te voir . . . O mes anges, à moi!
“Ce soir, à travers le bonheur . . .” Ce soir, à travers le bonheur, Qui donc soupire, qu’est-ce qui pleure? Qu’est-ce qui vient palpiter sur mon coeur, Comme un oiseau blessé? Est-ce une plainte de la terre, Est-ce une voix future, Une voix du passé? J’écoute, jusqu’à la souffrance, Ce son dans le silence. Ile d’oubli, ô Paradis! Quel cri déchire, cette nuit, Ta voix qui me berce? Quel cri traverse Ta ceinture de fleurs, Et ton beau voile d’allégresse?
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “Along the pale waters, in these valleys . . .” Along the pale waters, in these valleys, Silvered with moonlight and willows, In the blue twilight, two by two, A hand on a shoulder, Or alone, Slow shadows trail past: They are the souls. Strangers to the earth, they come, —By which paths of deep night And which heaths of asphodels?— Toward this star of Eden, For them The other world. Vainly, I beseech, while offering my arms: Are you happy? Not one of them answers. They do not understand. They pass silently, Wreathed in a pale smile; And from the heart of happiness, they sigh. Neither the roses and their aromas Nor these beautiful shores where grow The flower of the hyacinth and the flower of balm Have dispelled the vague fear And the bitterness of these souls; They suffered long ago. They are the Shadows and their shadows delight them . . . Be gentle to them, O Light, touch them gently, Suavity divine, Chalice, where the sky rests, Which they approach only in trembling, And with closed eyelids.
Charles Van Lerberghe “Au long des eaux pâles, dans ces vallées . . .” Au long des eaux pâles, dans ces vallées De lune et de saules argentées, Au bleu crépuscule, deux à deux, Une main sur l’épaule, Ou seules, De lentes Ombres se promènent: Ce sont les Ames. Étrangères à la terre, elles viennent, —Par quelles voies de nuit profonde Et quelles landes d’asphodèles?— Vers cette étoile de l’Eden, Où c’est pour elles L’autre monde. En vain je demande en leur tendant les bras: Etes-vous heureuses? Pas une d’elles qui réponde. Elles ne comprennent pas. Elles passent silencieuses, En un pâle sourire; Au sein du bonheur elles soupirent. Ni les roses et leurs aromes, Ni ces beaux rivages où croît La fleur de l’hyacinthe et la fleur du dictame, N’ont dissipé le vague effroi Et l’amertume de ces âmes; Elles ont souffert autre fois. Ce sont des Ombres; et l’ombre les enchante . . . Sois-leur douce, ô Lumière, touche-les doucement Suavité divine, Coupe où le ciel repose, Dont elles n’approchent qu’en tremblant, Et les paupières closes.
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets “I say, teach me who you are, Azrael . . .” I say, teach me who you are, Azrael, And the dark angel rose in the sky, Stretching his wide wings over me. The earth shuddered beneath an unknown breath, The chalices of trembling flowers closed, And the world was suddenly blotted from my sight. Yet, there were still things, As I heard the weightless crowd Of dark hours passing by. And, as if inside me, roses were growing. In the distance, spheres sang, Stars were living. When there was something like a dawn, And I saw once again Azrael’s great wings, Which closed and descended from the sky With all the immense night in them, He smiled as his fleeting shadow, Like a bird, pursued its customary song, Or an enchanted wave, immobile on the shore, Suddenly beat like a wild swan. And I saw a sunbeam, arrested on my hand, Tremble and gently resume its course.
“O death, dust of stars . . .” O death, dust of stars, Rise beneath my steps. Like a flame, maddened with wind, Come, somber breath, where I waver. Come, o sweet wave that shines In the darkness, Sweep me along inside your silent emptiness.
Charles Van Lerberghe “Apprends-moi, dis-je, qui tu es, Azraël . . .” Apprends-moi, dis-je, qui tu es, Azraël. Et l’ange sombre s’éleva dans le ciel, En étendant sur moi ses grandes ailes. La terre frissonna sous un souffle inconnu, Les corolles des fleurs tremblantes se fermèrent, Et le monde soudain s’effaca de mes yeux. Pourtant des choses étaient encore: J’entendais la foule légère Des heures obscures qui passaient, Et, comme en moi, des roses qui croissaient. Au loin chantaient des sphères, Des étoiles vivaient. Quand il se fit comme une aurore; Et’je revis les grandes ailes d’Azraël, Qui se fermaient et descendaient du ciel, Avec l’immense nuit en elles. Il souriait à son ombre éphémère. Un oiseau poursuivait sa chanson coutumière. Une vague enchantée, immobile au rivage, Tout à coup s’abattit, comme un cygne sauvage. Et je vis un rayon arrêté sur ma main, Frémir, et doucement reprendre son chemin.
“O mort, poussière d’étoiles . . .” O mort, poussière d’étoiles, Lève-toi sous mes pas! Viens, souffle sombre où je vacille, Comme une flamme ivre de vent! Viens, ô douce vague qui brilles Dans les ténèbres; Emporte-moi dans ton néant!
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an anthology of belgian symbolist poets It is in you that I wish to lie down, To extinguish and vanish, Death, longed for by my soul, Strong God, whom she awaits With songs and joyous sounds of love. Come and break me like a flower of foam A flower of sunlight riding the crest Of the waves, Stripped by the night, blotted by the shadows, Blossomed by space. And, as if from a golden amphora, A wine of flame and divine aroma, Pour out my soul Into your abyss, so it may embalm The somber earth, the breath of the dead.
Charles Van Lerberghe C’est en toi que je veux m’étendre, M’éteindre et me dissoudre, Mort, où mon âme aspire! Dieu fort qu’elle attend Avec des chants et des rires d’amour. Viens, brise-moi comme une fleur d’écume, Une fleur de soleil à la cime Des eaux, Que la nuit effeuille, que l’ombre efface, Et que l’espace épanouit. Et comme d’une amphore d’or Un vin de flamme et d’arome divin, Épanche mon âme En ton abîme, pour qu’elle embaume La terre sombre et le souffle des morts.
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BELGIAN FRANCOPHONE LIBRARY Edited by Donald Flanell Friedman As Belgium has become a center and focal point of the resurgent new Europe, the Belgian Francophone Library was founded at Peter Lang Publishing, New York, as a special series devoted to the rich and varied literature and cultural life of the French-speaking community in Belgium. The series will publish English translations of important works of Belgian Literature, as well as critical studies, principally in French and English, of Belgian literature, culture, and social history. It is the hope of series editor, Donald Flanell Friedman of Winthrop University, and the initial contributors to the series to broaden knowledge of the specificity, fascination, and enduring artistic contribution of this crossroads country. For additional information about this series or for the submission of manuscripts, please contact: Peter Lang Publishing Acquisitions Department 275 Seventh Avenue, 28th floor New York, New York 10001 To order other books in this series, please contact our Customer Service Department at: (800) 770-LANG (within the U.S.) (212) 647-7706 (outside the U.S.) (212) 647-7707 FAX
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