Bouzingo: the Gathering of the Poets

The boy was aged about eighteen, Pale and pensive, Weary and frail in appearance. He could have been Goethe's Werther, Senancour's Obermann Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero, Embraced by a generation, And about whom Sainte-Beuve said: "Rene, c'est moi." Tortured by a new mal du siecle, He sought refuge In the Club Bouzingo. Two young poets, One dark, the other fair, Drifted past. The first, Whose black hair Hung in ringlets over his shoulders, Wore a small pointed beard, Black velvet tails, A white linen shirt Loosely fastened at the neck By a thin pink taffeta tie; The second wore a tight coat That opened onto a silk crimson waistcoat And a lace jabot, white trousers With blue seams, And a wide-brimmed black hat, and In one of his hands He carried a long thin pink-coloured pipe. They were soon joined By some of their dandified companions. The music had stopped playing, and The poet-leader in cape and gloves, Dark and pomaded With a Theophile Gautier moustache, Took to the stage, Where he proceeded to declaim Selections from his subversive verses To delirious cheers, As if sedition was imminent; Only the boy-poet remained silent, His pale cheeks Soaked by the freshest tears. "Apres nous, le deluge," He said under his breath, "Our leader preaches revolution But provides no solution As to the fate of coming generations, Should the infant be cast out With the bath water that is so filthy In his sight That, intent on doing right, Gives no thought to the future, Nor to what might supplant The society he claims to despise." The boy was aged about eighteen Pale and pensive Weary and frail in appearance. He could have been Goethe's Werther, Senancour's Obermann Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero, Embraced by a generation, And about whom Sainte-Beuve said: "Rene, c'est moi." Tortured by a new mal du siecle, He sought refuge From the Club Bouzingo. (The origins of "Bouzingo: The Gathering of the Poets" lie in an unfinished tale, possibly dating from around 1979.)