Evening Harmony (Harmonie du Soir)

The time has come when trembling on its bough
Every flower fumes its scent;
Sounds and smells twist the evening firmament;
Melancholy waltz and languorous vertigo!

Every flower fumes its scent;
The violin shakes like a heart full of woe;
Melancholy waltz and languorous vertigo!
The sky is sad and fine like an enshrinement.

The violin shakes like a heart full of woe;
A tender heart that hates the void, black and spent!
The sky is sad and fine like an enshrinement.
The sun has drowned in its blood, thick and slow

A tender heart that hates the void, black and spent!
The lustrous past gathers up every echo!
The sun has drowned in its blood, thick and slow
Your memory glitters in me resplendent!

Evening Harmony (Harmonie du Soir) –draft

Here comes the time when trembling on its bough
Every flower fumes its scent
Sounds and smell twist the evening firmament
Waltz melancholic and languorous vertigo

Every flower fumes its scent
The violin shudders like a heart full of woe
Waltz melancholic and languorous vertigo
The sky is sad and lovely like an enshrinement

The violin shudders like a heart full of woe
A tender heart that hates the void, black and spent
The sky is sad and lovely like an enshrinement
The sun has drowned in its congealing gore

A tender heart that hates the void, black and spent
The luminous past gathers up every spoor
The sun has drowned in its congealing gore
Your memory glitters in me resplendent

The End of the Day (La Fin de la journée)

Under a sky that’s pallid and dim
Peevish life jumps and squirms for no reason
Impudent, noisy and heavy of limb,
Until, softly, upon the horizon:

Voluptuous night starts to reclaim,
Soothing everything, even starvation,
Canceling everything, even shame,
“At last,” the poet’s incantation.

“My mind, no less than my spine
So ardently yearns for repose;
My heart full of gloomy design

I recline on my back and I doze
Within your soft curtains enclosed
O refreshing shadows, ever blind!”

[Original poem here.]

The Artists’ Death (La Mort des artistes)

How many times must I shake my rattle
And kiss your low brow, you cheerless lampoon?
To stab at the heart of your mystical prattle,
How many wasted spears have I thrown?

We’ll consume our souls in artful connivance,
And we will bring ruin to ramparts severe
Before we will witness that grandest contrivance
We yearn for detestably, drowning in tears

Some there are who before idols never have trembled
These sculptors condemned and marked with disgrace
Always off pounding their brow and breast

Their one and only hope, strange and dark Temple!
Is that death, like a soaring new sun ordained
Will nourish and grow the flowers of their brains!

[Original poem here.]

The Strange Man’s Dream (Le Rêve d’un Curieux)

Do you share my exquisite torment
“Oh strange man,” do they say of you too?
– I was going to die. While in my lovesick soul a torrent
Of lust mixed with horror, a most peculiar brew;

Great anguish and hope mingled without care.
The more the sands ran down the fatal glass,
The more my torture was delectably rare;
As my heart was ripped from the familiar world at last.

I was a child eager for a farce to be played,
Hating the curtain as one hates a barricade…
Finally the cold truth was disclosed:

I died without suspense, and the terrible dawn
Enveloped me. –- Is that all? Is that how it goes?
The curtain was lifted and I just continued on.

[Original poem here.]

The Paupers’ Death (La Mort des pauvres)

It is death that consoles us, that keeps us teeming
The purpose of life, and our only warrant
We drink its elixir, wasted and steaming
For heart to march on, though wishing we weren’t

All through the storm, through frost and sleet
It’s the one beacon in our bleak assay
The tavern inscribed in our sacred writ
Where we eat, sleep, and sit and the end of the day.

It’s an Angel who holds in his magnetic hands
Sleep and the blessing of rapturous dreams
Who makes up the bed of the naked and poor

It’s the glory of the Gods, the mystical manor,
The pauper’s purse and his ancient regime
To heavens unknown, death is the open door!

[Original poem here.]

The Lovers’ Death (La Mort des Amants)

Soft perfumes will fill our beds
Our couches will be deep as tombs,
On every cupboard overhead,
Exotic flowers in full bloom

Combusting in their final blaze,
Our hearts will burn like two great signal fires,
As they reflect their gleaming rays
In both our minds, like double mirrors.

One evening made of mystic blue and rose,
We’ll with a single lightning flash dispose,
A final howl, burdened with farewell;

And later sneaking through the open frame,
An angel will restore, with tender spell,
The tarnished mirrors and exhausted flame.

[Original poem here.]