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Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt Quand chantent les aras dans les forêts natales Abatis de pihis Il y a un poème à faire sur l'oiseau qui n'a qu'une aile Nous l'enverron en message téléphonique Truamatisme géant Il fait couler les yeux Voilà une jolie jeune fille parmi les jeunes Turinaises Le pauvre jeune homme se mouchait dans sa cravate blanche Tu soulèveras le rideau Et maintenant voilà que s'ouvre la fenêtre Araignées quand les mains tissaient la lumière Beauté pâleur insondables violets Nous tenterons en vain de prendre du repos On commencera à minuit Quand on a le temps on a la liberté Bignorneaux Lotte multiples Soleils et l'Oursin du couchant Une vielle paire de chaussures jaunes devant la fenêtre Tours Les Tours ce sont les rues Puits Puits ce sont les places Puits Arbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondes Les Chabins chantent des airs à mourir Aux Chabines marrones Et l'oie oua-oua trompette au nord Où le train blanc de neige et de feux nocturnes fuit l'hiver O Paris Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New-York et les Antilles Le fenêtre s'ouvre comme une orange Le beau fruit de la lumière
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine Et nos amours Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne La joie venait toujours après la peine. Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure Les mains dans les mains restons face à face Tandis que sous Le pont de nos bras passe Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante L'amour s'en va Comme la vie est lente Et comme l'Espérance est violente Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure Passent les jours et passent les semaines Ni temps passé Ni les amours reviennent Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Dans la Haute-Rue à Cologne Elle allait et venait le soir Offerte à tous en tout mignonne Puis buvait lasse des trottoirs Très tard dans les brasseries borgnes Elle se mettait sur la paille Pour un maquereau roux et rose C'était un juif il sentait l'ail Et l'avait venant de Formose Tirée d'un bordel de Changaï Je connais des gens de toutes sortes Ils n'égalent pas leurs destins Indécis comme feuilles mortes Leurs yeux sont des feux mal éteints Leurs coeurs bougent comme leurs portes
Le pré est vénéneux mais joli en automne Les vaches y paissant Lentement s'empoisonnent Le colchique couleur de cerne et de lilas Y fleurit tes yeux sont comme cette fleur-la Violatres comme leur cerne et comme cet automne Et ma vie pour tes yeux lentement s'empoisonne Les enfants de l'école viennent avec fracas Vêtus de hoquetons et jouant de l'harmonica Ils cueillent les colchiques qui sont comme des mères Filles de leurs filles et sont couleur de tes paupières Qui battent comme les fleurs battent au vent dément Le gardien du troupeau chante tout doucement Tandis que lentes et meuglant les vaches abandonnent Pour toujours ce grand pré mal fleuri par l'automne
J'ai cueilli ce brin de bruyère L'automne est morte souviens-t'en Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre Odeur du temps Brin de bruyère Et souviens-toi que je t'attends
Mon verre est plein d'un vin trembleur comme une flamme Ecoutez la chanson lente d'un batelier Qui raconte avoir vu sous la lune sept femmes Tordre leurs cheveux verts et longs jusqu'à leurs pieds Debout chantez plus haut en dansant une ronde Que je n'entende plus le chant du batelier Et mettez près de moi toutes les filles blondes Au regard immobile aux nattes repliées Le Rhin le Rhin est ivre où les vignes se mirent Tout l'or des nuits tombe en tremblant s'y refléter La voix chante toujours à en râle-mourir Ces fées aux cheveux verts qui incantent l'été Mon verre s'est brisé comme un éclat de rire
Under Mirabeau Bridge runs the Seine And our loves Must I remember them Joy came always after pain Let arriving night explain Days fade I remain Arm in arm let us stay face to face While below The bridge at our hands passes With eternal regards the wave so slow Let arriving night explain Days fade I remain Love goes like this water flows Love goes Like life is slow And like hope is violent Let arriving night explain Days fade I remain The days passed and the weeks spent Not times past Nor loves sent return again Under Mirabeau bridge runs the Seine
ZONE In the end you are tired of this ancient world Shepherd oh Eiffel Tower the herd of bridges is bleating this morning You've had enough of living in Greek and Roman antiquity Here even the cars look antique Only religion has stayed new religion Has stayed simple like the hangars at Port-Aviation You alone in Europe are not ancient oh Christianity The most modern European is you Pope Pius X And shame keeps you whom the windows are watching From entering a church and going to confession this morning You read the flyers catalogues posters that shout out There's the morning's poetry and as for prose there are the newspapers There are 25 cent tabloids full of crimes Celebrity items and a thousand different headlines This morning I saw a pretty street whose name I forget New and clean it was the sun's herald Executives workers and beautiful stenos Cross it four times a day from Monday morning to Saturday evening In the morning the siren moans three times An angry bell barks at noon The inscriptions on the signs and walls The billboards the notices squawk like parrots I love the charm of this industrial street In Paris between the Rue Aumont-Thiéville and the Avenue des Ternes There's the young street and you're still just a little boy Your mother dresses you only in blue and white You're very pious and along with your oldest friend René Dalize You like nothing better than the rituals of the Church It is nine o'clock the gas is low and blue you sneak out of the dormitory You pray all night in the school's chapel While in eternal adorable amethyst depths The flaming glory of Christ revolves forever It's the beautiful lily we all cultivate It's the torch with red hair the wind can't blow out It's the pale rosy son of the grieving mother It's the tree always leafy with prayers It's the paired gallows of honor and eternity It's the star with six branches It's God who dies on Friday and comes back to life on Sunday It's Christ who climbs to the sky better than any pilot He holds the world record for altitude Apple Christ of the eye Twentieth pupil of the centuries he knows how to do it And changed into a bird this century like Jesus climbs into the air Devils in their depths raise their heads to look at him They say he's copying Simon Magus in Judea They shout if he's so good at flying let's call him a fugitive Angels gyre around the handsome gymnast Icarus Enoch Elijah Apollonius of Tyana Hover around the first airplane They scatter sometimes to let the ones carrying the Eucharist pass Those priests that are forever ascending carrying the host Finally the plane lands without folding its wings And the sky is full of millions of swallows Crows falcons owls come in full flight Ibises flamingos storks come from Africa The Roc Bird made famous by storytellers and poets Soars holding in its claws Adam's skull the first head The eagle swoops screaming from the horizon And from America the little hummingbird comes From China the long agile peehees have come They have only one wing and fly in pairs Now here's the dove immaculate spirit Escorted by the lyre-bird and the spotted peacock The phoenix that self-engendering pyre For an instant hides all with its burning ash Sirens leaving the dangerous straits Arrive singing beautifully all three And all eagle phoenix peehees from China Hang out with the flying Machine Now you're walking in Paris all alone in the crowd Herds of buses amble by you mooing The anguish of love tightens your throat As if you were never going to be loved again If you lived in the old days you would enter a monastery You are ashamed when you catch yourself saying a prayer You make fun of yourself and your laughter crackles like the fire of Hell The sparks of your laughter gild the abyss of your life It is a painting hung in a dark museum And sometimes you go look at it close up Today you're walking in Paris the women have turned blood-red It was and I wish I didn't remember it was at the waning of beauty Surrounded by fervent flames Our Lady looked at me in Chartres The blood of your Sacred Heart drenched me in Montmartre I am sick from hearing blissful phrases The love I suffer from is a shameful sickness And the image that possesses you makes you survive in insomnia and anguish It is always near you this image that passes Now you're on the shores of the Mediterranean Under the lemon trees that are in flower all year long You go boating with some friends One is from Nice there's one from Menton and two from La Turbie We look with dread at the octopus of the deep And among the seaweed fish are swimming symbols of the Savior You are in the garden of an inn just outside of Prague You feel so happy a rose is on the table And you observe instead of writing your story in prose The Japanese beetle sleeping in the heart of the rose Terrified you see yourself drawn in the agates of Saint Vitus You were sad enough to die the day you saw yourself You look like Lazarus thrown into a panic by the daylight The hands on the clock in the Jewish district go counter-clockwise And you too are going slowly backwards in your life Climbing up to Hradcany and listening at night To Czech songs being sung in taverns Here you are in Marseilles in the middle of watermelons Here you are in Coblenz at the Giant Hotel Here you are in Rome sitting under a Japanese medlar tree Here you are in Amsterdam with a young woman you think is beautiful she is ugly She is engaged to a student from Leyden There they rent rooms in Latin Cubicula Locanda I remember I spent three days there and just as many in Gouda You are in Paris getting interrogated They're arresting you like a criminal You made some miserable and happy journeys Before you became aware of lies and of age You suffered from love at twenty and at thirty I've lived like a madman and I've wasted my time You don't dare look at your hands anymore and all the time I want to cry Over you over the women I love over everything that's terrified you Your tear-filled eyes watch the poor emigrants They believe in God they pray the women breast-feed the children They fill the waiting-room at the St. Lazaire station with their smell They have faith in their star like the Magi They hope to earn money in Argentina And go back to their country after making their fortune One family is carrying a red eiderdown the way you carry your heart The eiderdown and our dreams are equally unreal Some of these emigrants stay here and put up at the Rue des Rosiers or the Rue des Ecouffes in hovels I've seen them often at night they're out for a breath of air in the street And like chess pieces they rarely move They are mostly Jews the wives wearing wigs Sit still bloodless at the back of store-fronts You're standing in front of the counter at a sleazy bar You're having coffee for two sous with the down-and-out At night you're in a big restaurant These women aren't mean but they do have their troubles All of them even the ugliest has made her lover suffer She is a Jersey policeman's daughter Her hands that I hadn't seen are hard and chapped I feel immense pity for the scars on her belly I humble my mouth now to a poor hooker with a horrible laugh You are alone morning is approaching Milkmen clink their cans in the streets Night withdraws like a half-caste beauty Ferdine the false or thoughtful Leah And you drink this alcohol burning like your life Your life that you drink like an eau-de-vie You walk towards Auteuil you want to go home on foot To sleep surrounded by your fetishes from the South Seas and from Guinea They are Christs in another form and from a different creed They are lower Christs of dim expectations Goodbye Goodbye Sun neck cut from Alcools, 1913 Translation copyright Charlotte Mandell