FRENCH / FRANCESE Laeti et errabundi

FRENCH / FRANCESE
Paul Verlaine
Laeti et errabundi
Les courses furent intrépides
(Comme aujourd'hui le repos pèse !)
Par les steamers er les rapides.
(Que me veut cet at home obèse ?)
Nous allions - vous en souvient-il,
Voyageur où ça disparu? Filant légers dans l'air subtil,
Deux spectres joyeux, on eût cru !
Car les passions satisfaites
Insolemment outre mesure
Mettaient dans nos têtes des fêtes
Et dans nos sens, que tout rassure,
Tout, la jeunesse, l'amitié,
Et dans nos coeurs, ah ! que dégagés
Des femmes prises en pitié
Et du dernier des préjugés,
Laissant la crainte de l'orgie
Et le scrupule au bon ermite,
Puisque quand la borne est franchie
Ponsard ne veut plus de limite.
Entre autres blâmables excès
Je crois que nous bûmes de tout,
Depuis les plus grands vins français
Jusqu'à ce faro, jusqu'au stout,
En passant par les eaux-de-vie
Qu'on cite comme redoutables.
L'âme au septième ciel ravie,
Le corps, plus humble, sous les tables.
Des paysages, des cités
Posaient pour nos yeux jamais las ;
Nos belles curiosités
Eussent mangé tous les atlas.
Fleuves et monts, bronzes et marbres.
Les couchants d'or, l'aube magique,
L'Angleterre mère des arbres,
Fille des beffrois, la Belgique,
La mer, terrible et douce au point, Brochaient sur le roman très cher
Que ne discontinuait point
Notre âme - et quid de notre chair?... -
Le roman de vivre à deux hommes
Mieux que non pas d'époux modèles,
Chacun au tas versant des sommes
De sentiments forts et fidèles.
L'envie aux yeux de basilic
Censurait ce mode d'écot :
Nous dinions du blâme public
Et soupions du même fricot.
La misère aussi faisait rage
Par des fois dans le phalanstère :
On ripostait par le courage,
La joie et les pommes de terre.
Scandaleux sans savoir pourquoi,
(Peut-être que c'était trop beau)
Mais notre couple restait coi
Comme deux bons porte-drapeau,
Coi dans l'orgueil d'être plus libres
Que les plus libres de ce monde,
Sourd aux gros mots de tous calibres,
Inacessible au rire immonde.
Nous avions laissé sans émoi
Tous impédiments dans Paris,
Lui quelques sots bernés, et moi
Certaine princesse Souris,
Une sotte qui tourna pire...
Puis soudain tomba notre gloire,
Tels, nous, des maréchaux d'empire
Déchus en brigands de la Loire,
Mais déchus volontairement !
C'était une persmission,
Pour parler militairement,
Que notre séparation,
Permission sous nos semelles,
Et depuis combien de campagnes !
Pardonnâtes-vous aux femelles ?
Moi, j'ai peu revu ces compagnes,
Assez toutefois pour souffrir.
Ah, quel coeur faible que mon coeur !
Mais mieux vaut souffrir que mourir
Et surtout mourir de langueur.
On vous dit mort, vous. Que le Diable
Emporte avec qui la colporte
La nouvelle irrémédiable
Qui vient ainsi battre ma porte !
Je n'y veux rien croire. Mort, vous,
Toi, dieu parmi les demi-dieux !
Ce qui le disent sont des fous.
Mort, mon grand péché radieux,
Tout ce passé brûlant encore
Dans mes veines et ma cervelle
Et qui rayonne et qui fulgore
Sur ma ferveur toujours nouvelle !<
Mort tout ce triomphe inouï
Retentissant sans frein ni fin
Sur l'air jamais évanoui
Que bat mon coeur qui fut divin !
Quoi, le miraculeux poème
Et la toute-philosophie,
Et ma patrie et ma bohème
Morts ? Allons donc ! tu vis ma vie !
Laeti et errabundi
Le corse furono intrepide
(come pesa oggi il riposo!)
tra steamers e rapidi
(che vuole da me quest'obeso at home?).
Andavamo - ve ne ricordate,
viaggiatore scomparso chissà dove? filando leggeri nell'aria sottile
come due spettri gioiosi!
Poiché le passioni appagate
insolentemente oltre ogni misura
riempivano di feste le nostre teste
e i sensi, che tutto rassicura,
tutto, la giovinezza, l'amicizia
e i nostri cuori, ah quanto liberi
dalle donne commiserate
e dall'ultimo dei pregiudizi,
lasciando il timore dell'orgia
e lo scrupolo al buon eremita
perché, varcata la soglia,
Ponsard (1) non ammette limiti.
Tra altri biasimevoli eccessi,
credo che bevemmo di tutto,
dai più gran vini francesi
al faro, allo stout,
passando per le acqueviti
considerate terribili,
l'anima rapita al settimo cielo,
il corpo, più umile, sotto i tavoli.
Paesaggi, città
posavano per i nostri occhi instancabili;
le nostre belle curiosità
avrebbero mangiato ogni atlante.
Fiumi e monti, bronzi e marmi,
i tramonti d'oro, l'alba magica,
l'Inghilterra, madre degli alberi,
e il Belgio figlio di torrioni,
il mare, terribile e insieme dolce,
ricamavano sull'amato romanzo
cui non lasciava tregua
la nostra anima - e quid nella nostra carne?...
il romanzo di vivere in due uomini
meglio che sposi modello,
ciascuno versando nel mucchio somme
di affetti forti e fedeli.
L'invidia dagli occhi di basilisco
censurava quel modo di quotarsi:
pranzavamo di biasimo pubblico
e cenavamo con la stessa pietanza.
Talvolta anche la miseria
infuriava nel falansterio:
si reagiva col coraggio,
la gioia e le patate.
Scandalosi senza sapere perché
(forse era troppo bello)
la nostra coppia restava serena
come due bravi portabandiera,
serena nell'orgoglio d'essere più liberi
dei più liberi di questo mondo,
sorda ai paroloni di ogni calibro,
inaccessibili al riso immondo.
Avevamo lasciato senza commozione
a Parigi ogni impedimento,
lui qualche sciocco sbeffeggiato, e io
una certa principessa Sorcio (2),
una scema che finì anche peggio...
Poi, ad un tratto, la nostra gloria cadde,
e noi, da marescialli dell'Impero
decaduti a briganti della Loira,
ma decaduti di nostra volontà!
Fu come una licenza,
per dirla militarmente,
la nostra separazione,
licenza sotto le suole delle scarpe,
e dopo quante campagne!
Avete perdonato alle femmine?
Io, ho rivisto poco quelle compagne,
abbastanza però per soffrirne.
Ah, che debole cuore il mio cuore!
Ma è meglio soffrire che morire
e soprattutto morire di languore.
Dicono che siete morto. Il Diavolo
si porti chi la diffonde
la notizia irreparabile
che batte alla mia porta!
Non voglio crederci. Morto, voi,
tu, dio tra i semidei!
Sono pazzi quelli che lo dicono.
Morto, il mio grande peccato radioso
tutto quel passato che ancora brucia
nelle mie vene e nel mio cervello
e che risplende e sfolgora
sul mio sempre nuovo fervore!
Morto tutto quel trionfo inaudito
che risuonava senza freno né fine
sul motivo mai svanito
scandito dal mio cuore che fu divino.
Ma come! il poema miracoloso
e l'omni-filosofia,
e la mia patria e la mia bohème
morti? Ma andiamo! tu vivi la mia vita
(1) Allusione ad un verso di Ponsard, autore di Charlotte Corday "Quand la borne est franchie, il
n'est plus de limite!"
(2) Mathilde, moglie di Verlaine, così chiamata in un biglietto che il poeta le scrisse da Bruxelles, il
22 luglio 1872
Paul Verlaine
Vers pour être calomnié
Ce soir je m'étais penché sur ton sommeil.
Tout ton corps dormait chaste sur l'humble lit,
Et j'ai vu, comme un qui s'applique et qui lit,
Ah ! j'ai vu que tout est vain sous le soleil !
Qu'on vive, ô quelle délicate merveille,
Tant notre appareil est une fleur qui plie !
O pensée aboutissant à la folie !
Va, pauvre, dors ! moi, l'effroi pour toi m'éveille.
Ah ! misère de t'aimer, mon frêle amour
Qui vas respirant comme on respire un jour !
O regard fermé que la mort fera tel !
O bouche qui ris en songe sur ma bouche,
En attendant l'autre rire plus farouche !
Vite, éveille-toi. Dis, l'âme est immortelle ?
Poem to Be Aspersed
I leaned above your sleep's oblivion
chaste body slumbering on the humble bed,
and saw, as when one broods on what he's read,
I saw that all is vain beneath the sun!
What delicate miracle, to live, to be!
So much our pomp is like the flowers that break.
Oh, thought that borders on insanity!
Sleep on, poor heart, my fear keeps me awake.
Ah, misery of this love for one so weak
whose breathing now is like the final breath!
Oh, the eyes closed as by the touch of death!
Oh, mouth that laughs in dream on my mouth, half
awaiting what other more ferocious laugh!
Quick! Is the soul immortal? Waken! Speak!
Versi per essere calunniato
Questa sera m'ero chinato sul tuo sonno.
Tutto il tuo corpo dormiva casto sull'umile letto.
E vidi, come uno che legge e che riflette,
ah! ho veduto che tutto è vano sotto il sole!
Che si esista, oh delicato miracolo,
tant'è il nostro splendere un fiore che gualcisce.
Oh pensiero che sconfina nella follia!
Misero, dormi! Me, tiene desto una pena per te.
Ah! sfortuna d'amarti mio fragile amore
che respiri come si spirerà, un giorno!
O immobile sguardo, che tale farà la morte!
O bocca che nel sonno ride sulla mia bocca,
nell'attesa d'un altro riso più truce!
Presto, svegliati. Di', l'anima non muore?
ENGLISH / INGLESE
Walt Whitman
Native moments--when you come upon me--ah you are here now,
Give me now libidinous joys only,
Give me the drench of my passions, give me life coarse and rank,
To-day I go consort with Nature's darlings, to-night too,
I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight
orgies of young men,
I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers,
The echoes ring with our indecent calls, I pick out some low person
for my dearest friend,
He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate, he shall be one condemn'd by
others for deeds done,
I will play a part no longer, why should I exile myself from my companions?
O you shunn'd persons, I at least do not shun you,
I come forthwith in your midst, I will be your poet,
I will be more to you than to any of the rest.
Walt Whitman
Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these
are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real
something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem)
as from my present point of view, and might prove (as of course they
would) nought of what they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely
changed points of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by my
lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me
by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason
hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I
require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity
beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
Walt Whitman
Recorders ages hence,
Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior, I will tell you what to say of me,
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover,
The friend the lover's portrait, of whom his friend his lover was fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him, and freely
pour'd it forth,
Who often walk'd lonesome walks thinking of his dear friends, his lovers,
Who pensive away from one he lov'd often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night,
Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov'd might secretly be indifferent to him,
Whose happiest days were far away through fields, in woods, on hills, he and another wandering
hand in hand, they twain apart from other men,
Who oft as he saunter'd the streets curv'd with his arm the shoulder of his friend, while the arm of
his friend rested upon him also.
Walt Whitman
I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions,
But really I am neither for nor against institutions, (What indeed have I in common with them? or
what with the destruction of them?)
Only I will establish in the Mannahatta and in every city of these States inland and seaboard,
And in the fields and woods, and above every keel little or large that dents the water,
Without edifices or rules or trustees or any argument,
The institution of the dear love of comrades.
Walt Whitman
We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going—North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying—elbows stretching—fingers clutching,
Arm’d and fearless—eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning—sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming—air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach
dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.
Walt Whitman
When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol,
still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d,
And else when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy,
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the
ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and
saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy,
O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish’d me more, and the beautiful
day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend,
And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,
In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast – and that night I was happy.
Walt Whitman
In paths untrodden,
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
From all the standards hitherto publish’d—from the pleasures, profits, eruditions, conformities,
Which too long I was offering to feed my soul;
Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish’d—clear to me that my Soul,
That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices most in comrades;
Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,
Tallying and talk’d to here by tongues aromatic,
No longer abash’d—for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere,
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest,
Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,
Projecting them along that substantial life,
Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,
Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-first year,
I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men,
To tell the secret of my nights and days,
To celebrate the need of comrades.
James Fenimore Cooper Jr.
To a friend
Thy voice, as tender as the light
That shivers low at eve -Thy hair, where myriad flashes bright
Do in and outward weave -Thy charms in their diversity
Half frighten and astonish me.
Thy hands, that move above the keys
With eager touch and swift -Whereby thy mind, with magic ease
Doth into music drift -They fill me with a strange delight
That doth defy expression quite.
Thine eyes, that hold a mirth subdued
Like deep pools scattering fire -Mine dare not meet them in their mood,
For fear of my desire,
Lest thou that secret do descry
Which evermore I must deny.
Thy very quiet dignity
Thy silence, too, I love-Nay-- thy light word is destiny
Decreed in spheres above -My mind, my heart is bowed to thee,
And hard it is that I must flee.
Hard is the world that does not give
To every love a place;
Hard is the power that bids us live
A life bereft of grace Hard, hard to lose thy figure, dear,
My star and my religion here!
Hart Crane
Episode of Hands
The unexpected interest made him flush.
Suddenly he seemed to forget the pain,-Consented,--and held out
One finger from the others.
The gash was bleeding, and a shaft of sun
That glittered in and out among the wheels,
Fell lightly, warmly, down into the wound.
And as the fingers of the factory owner's son,
That knew a grip for books and tennis
As well as one for iron and leather,-As his taut, spare fingers wound the gauze
Around the thick bed of the wound,
His own hands seemed to him
Like wings of butterflies
Flickering in the sunlight over summer fields.
The knots and notches,--many in the wide
Deep hand that lay in his,--seemed beautiful.
They were like the marks of wild ponies' play,-Bunches of new green breaking a hard turf.
And factory sounds and factory thoughts
Were banished from him by that larger, quieter hand
That lay in his with the sun upon it.
and as the bandage knot was tightened
The two men smiled into each other's eyes.
GERMAN / TEDESCO
Hugo von Hofmannsthal
Einem der vorübergeht
Du hast mich an Dinge gemahnet
Die heimlich in mir sind,
Du warst für die Saiten der Seele
Der nächtige flüsternde Wind
Und wie das rätselhafte,
Das Rufen der atmenden Nacht,
Wenn draußen die Wolken gleiten
Und man aus dem Traum erwacht,
Zu blauer weicher Weite
Die enge Nähe schwillt,
Durch Zweige vor dem Monde
Ein leises Zittern quillt.
To one who passes by
You reminded me of things
that lie secretly within me,
you were for the strings of my soul
the nighttime whispering wind
and like the mysterious call
of the breathing night,
when clouds float outside
and we wake up from dream,
narrow boundaries swell
to a soft blue distance,
in the branches before the moon
a silent tremor wells.
A un passante
Tu mi hai riportato alla memoria cose
che sono in me segrete,
sei stato per le corde dell'anima
il sussurro notturno del vento
e come il misterioso richiamo
del respiro della notte,
quando fuori scorrono le nuvole
e ci destiamo dal sogno,
limiti angusti si dilatano
a morbide distanze azzurre,
fra i rami dinanzi alla luna
un tacito brivido sgorga.