Lassitude

With sweetness, with sweetness, with sweetness!

Calm this feverish rapture a little, my charmer.

Even at its height, you see, sometimes, a lover

Needs the quiet forgetfulness of a sister.

Be languid: make your caresses sleep-bringers,

Like your cradling gazes and your sighs.

Ah, the jealous embrace, the obsessive spasm,

Aren’t worth a deep kiss, even one that lies!

But you say to me, child: in your dear heart of gold

Wild desire goes sounding her cry.

Let her trumpet away, she’s far too bold!

Put your brow to my brow, your hand on my hand,

Make me those promises you’ll break by and by,

Let’s weep till the dawn, my little firebrand!

-o0o-

The new poetry blog
My Poetry Digest
is now online
mypoetrydigest.blogspot.com

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Wish

Ah! Fond speech! And the first mistresses!

Hair’s gold, eyes’ blue, the flower of the flesh,

Then, in the scent of the dear body’s mesh

The shy spontaneity of caresses!

How far away now is all that lightness

And all that innocence! Ah, backwards yet,

From black winter fled, to the Springtime of regret,

From my disgust, my boredom, my distress.

So I’m alone now, here, sad and alone,

Sad and desperate, chilled as are the old,

Poor as an orphan with no elder sister.

O for a woman in love, tender and mild,

Sweet, pensive, dark, and always astonished,

Who now and then kisses your brow like a child.

-o0o-

After Three Years

Opening the narrow rickety gate,

I went for a walk in the little garden,

All lit up by that gentle morning sun,

Starring each flower with watery light.

Nothing was changed. Again: the humble arbour

With wild vines and chairs made of rattan…

The fountain as ever in its silvery pattern,

And the old aspen with its eternal murmur.

The roses as then still trembled, and as then

The tall proud lilies rocked in the wind.

I knew every lark there, coming and going.

I found the Veleda statue standing yet,

At the end of the avenue its plaster flaking,

– Weathered, among bland scents of mignonette.

Veleda (Velleda) was a German priestess-prophet, celebrated by Maindron’s 1843/44 marble sculpture, much copied as a garden ornament.

-o0o-

Nevermore

Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn

Makes the thrush fly through colourless air,

And the sun casts its monotonous glare

On the yellowing woods where the north winds hum.

We were alone, and walking in dream,

She and I, hair and thoughts wind-blown.

Then, turning her troubling gaze on me,

‘Your loveliest day?’ in her voice of fine gold,

Her voice, with its angel’s tone, fresh, vibrant, sweet.

I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet,

And kissed her white hand with devotion.

– Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have!

And how charming the murmured emotion

Of a first ‘yes’ let slip from lips that we love!

A Paul Verlaine poem will be added here every day

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