APOLLINAIRE POEMS

Classic Poetry Series

Guillaume Apollinaire

- 37 poems -

Publication Date:

2012

Publisher:

PoemHunter.Com - The World's Poetry Archive

http://www.PoemHunter.com

www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2

Guillaume Apollinaire (26 August 1880 – 9 November1918)Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki, known as GuillaumeApollinaire was a French poet, playwright, short story writer, novelist, andart critic born in Italy to a Polish mother.

Among the foremost poets of the early 20th century, he is credited withcoining the word Surrealism and writing one of the earliest works describedas surrealist, the play The Breasts of Tiresias (1917, used as the basis for a1947 opera). Two years after being wounded in World War I, he died in theSpanish flu pandemic of 1918 at age 38.

Biography

Born Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki and raised speakingFrench, among other languages, he emigrated to France and adopted thename Guillaume Apollinaire. His mother, born Angelica Kostrowicka, was aPolish noblewoman born near Navahrudak (now in Belarus). Apollinaire'sfather is unknown but may have been Francesco Flugi d'Aspermont, a SwissItalian aristocrat who disappeared early from Apollinaire's life. Apollinairewas partly educated in Monaco.

Apollinaire was one of the most popular members of the artistic communityof Montparnasse in Paris. His friends and collaborators in that period includedPablo Picasso, <ahref="http://www.poemhunter.com/gertrude-stein/">Gertrude Stein</a>,Max Jacob, André Salmon, Marie Laurencin, <ahref="http://www.poemhunter.com/andre-breton/">Andre Breton</a>,André Derain, Faik Konica, Blaise Cendrars, <ahref="http://www.poemhunter.com/pierre-reverdy/">Pierre Reverdy</a>,Alexandra Exter, <ahref="http://www.poemhunter.com/jean-cocteau/">Jean Cocteau</a>, ErikSatie, Ossip Zadkine, Marc Chagall and Marcel Duchamp. In 1911, he joinedthe Puteaux Group, a branch of the cubist movement.

On September 7, 1911, police arrested and jailed him on suspicion ofstealing the Mona Lisa, but released him a week later. Apollinaire thenimplicated his friend Pablo Picasso, who was also brought in for questioningin the art theft, but he was also exonerated.

He fought in World War I and, in 1916, received a serious shrapnel wound tothe temple. He wrote Les Mamelles de Tirésias while recovering from thiswound. During this period he coined the word surrealism in the programnotes for Jean Cocteau and Erik Satie's ballet Parade, first performed on 18May 1917. He also published an artistic manifesto, L'Esprit nouveau et les



poètes. Apollinaire's status as a literary critic is most famous and influentialin his recognition of the Marquis de Sade, whose works were for a long timeobscure, yet arising in popularity as an influence upon the Dada andSurrealist art movements going on in Montparnasse at the beginning of thetwentieth century as, "The freest spirit that ever existed."

The war-weakened Apollinaire died of influenza during the Spanish Flupandemic of 1918. He was interred in the Le Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris.

In 1900 he wrote his first pornographic novel, Mirely, ou le petit trou pascher, which was eventually lost. Apollinaire's first collection of poetry wasL'enchanteur pourrissant (1909), but Alcools (1913) established hisreputation. The poems, influenced in part by the Symbolists, juxtapose theold and the new, combining traditional poetic forms with modern imagery. In1913, Apollinaire published the essay Les Peintres cubistes on the cubistpainters, a movement which he helped to define. He also coined the termorphism to describe a tendency towards absolute abstraction in the paintingsof Robert Delaunay and others.

In 1907, Apollinaire wrote the well-known erotic novel, The Eleven ThousandRods (Les Onze Mille Verges). Officially banned in France until 1970, variousprintings of it circulated widely for many years. Apollinaire never publiclyacknowledged authorship of the novel. Another erotic novel attributed to himwas The Exploits of a Young Don Juan (Les exploits d'un jeune Don Juan), inwhich the 15-year-old hero fathers three children with various members ofhis entourage, including his aunt. The book was made into a movie in 1987.

Shortly after his death, Calligrammes, a collection of his concrete poetry(poetry in which typography and layout adds to the overall effect), and moreorthodox, though still modernist poems informed by Apollinaire's experiencesin the First World War and in which he often used the technique of automaticwriting, was published.

In his youth Apollinaire lived for a short while in Belgium, mastering theWalloon dialect sufficiently to write poetry through that medium, some ofwhich has survived.

Works:

Poetry

Le bestiaire ou le cortège d’Orphée, 1911Alcools, 1913Vitam impendere amori', 1917Calligrammes, poèmes de la paix et de la guerre 1913-1916, 1918(published shortly after Apollinaire's death)Il y a..., 1925Julie ou la rose, 1927Ombre de mon amour, poems addressed to Louise de Coligny-Châtillon,1947Poèmes secrets à Madeleine, pirated edition, 1949Le Guetteur mélancolique, previously unpublished works, 1952Poèmes à Lou, 1955Soldes, previously unpublished works, 1985Et moi aussi je suis peintre, album of drawings for Calligrammes, from aprivate collection, published 2006

Prose

Mirely ou le Petit Trou pas cher, 1900"Que faire?",Les Onze Mille Verges ou les amours d'un hospodar, 1907L'enchanteur pourrissant, 1909L'Hérèsiarque et Cie (short story collection), 1910Les exploits d’un jeune Don Juan, 1911La Rome des Borgia, 1914La Fin de Babylone - L'Histoire romanesque 1/3, 1914



Les Trois Don Juan - L'Histoire romanesque 2/3, 1915Le poète assassiné, 1916La femme assise, 1920Les Épingles (short story collection), 1928

Plays

Les Mamelles de Tirésias, play, 1917La Bréhatine, screenplay (collaboration with André Billy), 1917Couleurs du temps, 1918Casanova, published 1952

Articles

Le Théâtre Italien, illustrated encyclopedia, 1910Pages d'histoire, chronique des grands siècles de France, chronicles, 1912Méditations esthétiques. Les peintres cubistes, 1913La Peinture moderne, 1913L'Antitradition futuriste, manifeste synthèse, 1913Case d'Armons, 1915L'esprit nouveau et les poètes, 1918Le Flâneur des Deux Rives, chronicles, 1918



Annie

Sur la côte du TexasEntre Mobile et Galveston il y aUn grand jardin tout plein de rosesIl contient aussi une villaQui est une grande rose

Une femme se promène souventDans le jardin toute seuleEt quand je passe sur la route bordée de tilleulsNous nous regardons

Comme cette femme est mennoniteSes rosiers et ses vêtements n'ont pas de boutonsIl en manque deux à mon vestonLa dame et moi suivons le même rite.




Autumn Crocuses

The meadow is poisonous but pretty in the autumnThe cows that graze there are slowly poisonedMeadow-saffron the colour of lilac and of shadowsUnder the eyes grows there your eyes are like those flowersMauve as their shadows and mauve as this autumnAnd for your eyes' sake my life is slowly poisoned

Children from school come with their commotionDressed in smocks and playing the mouth-organPicking autumn crocuses which are like their mothersDaughters of their daughters and the colour of your eyelidsWhich flutter like flowers in the mad breeze blown

The cowherd sings softly to himself all aloneWhile slow moving lowing the cows leave behind themForever this great meadow ill flowered by autumn




Autumn Ill

Autumn ill and adoredYou die when the hurricane blows in the roseriesWhen it has snowedIn the orchard treesPoor autumnDead in whiteness and richesOf snow and ripe fruitsDeep in the skyThe sparrow hawks cryOver the sprites with green hair the dwarfsWho’ve never been lovedIn the far tree-linesthe stags are groaningAnd how I love O season how I love your rumblingThe falling fruits that no one gathersThe wind the forest that are tumblingAll their tears in autumn leaf by leafThe leavesYou pressA crowdThat flowsThe lifeThat goes




C’est Lou Qu’on La Nommait

Il est des loups de toute sorteJe connais le plus inhumainMon cœur que le diable l’emporteEt qu’il le dépose à sa porteN’est plus qu’un jouet dans sa main

Les loups jadis étaient fidèlesComme sont les petits toutousEt les soldats amants des bellesGalamment en souvenir d’ellesAinsi que les loups étaient doux

Mais aujourd’hui les temps sont piresLes loups sont tigres devenusEt les Soldats et les EmpiresLes Césars devenus VampiresSont aussi cruels que Vénus

J’en ai pris mon parti RouveyreEt monté sur mon grand chevalJe vais bientôt partir en guerreSans pitié chaste et l’œil sévèreComme ces guerriers qu’Epinal

Vendait Images populairesQue Georgin gravait dans le boisOù sont-ils ces beaux militairesSoldats passés Où sont les guerresOù sont les guerres d’autrefois




Clotilde

The anemone and flower that weepshave grown in the garden plainwhere Melancholy sleepsbetween Amor and DisdainThere our shadows linger toothat the midnight will dispersethe sun that makes them dark to viewwill with them in dark immerseThe deities of living dewLet their hair flow down entireIt must be that you pursueThat lovely shadow you desire




Hotels

The room is freeEach for himselfA new arrivalPays by the monthThe boss is doubtfulWhether you’ll payLike a topI spin on the wayThe traffic noiseMy neighbour grossWho puffs an acridEnglish smokeO La VallièreWho limps and smilesIn my prayersThe bedside tableAnd all the companyin this hotelknow the languagesof BabelLet’s shut our doorsWith a double lockAnd each adorehis lonely love




Hunting Horns

Our story’s noble as its tragiclike the grimace of a tyrantno drama’s chance or magicno detail that’s indifferentmakes our great love patheticAnd Thomas de Quincey drinkingOpiate poison sweet and chasteOf his poor Anne went dreamingWe pass we pass since all must passOften I’ll be returningMemories are hunting horns alaswhose note along the wind is dying




In the Sante

I

Before I got into my cellI had to strip my body bareI heard an ominous voice say WellGuillaume what are you doing here

Lazarus steps into the groundNot out of it as he was bidAdieu Adieu O singing roundOf years and girls the life I led

II

I'm no longer myself in here I knowI'm number fifteen in the eleventh Row

The sunlight filters downward through The panesAnd on these lines bright clowns alight Like stains

They dance under my eyes while my Ears followThe feet of one whose feet above Sound hollow

III

In a bear-pit like a bearEvery morning round I trampRound and round and round and roundThe sky is like an iron clampIn a bear-pit like a bearEvery morning round I tramp

In the next cell at the sinkSomeone lets the water runWith his bunch of keys that clinkLet the goaler go and comeIn the next cell at the sinkSomeone lets the water run

IV

How bored I am between bare wall and wall Whose colour pales and pines



A fly on the paper with extremely small Steps runs across these lines

What will become of me O God Who know My pain Who gave it meHave pity on my dry eyes and my pallor My chair which creaks and is not free

And all these poor hearts beating in this prison And Love beside me seatedPity above all my unstable reason And this despair which threatens to defeat it

V

How long these hours take to goAs long as a whole funeral

You'll mourn the time you mourned you knowIt will be gone too soon like allTime past too fast too long ago

VI

I hear the noises of the cityIn the turning world beyond meI see a sky which has no pityAnd bare prison walls around me

The daylight disappears and nowA lamp is lit within the prisonWe're all alone here in my cellBeautiful light Beloved reason




Je pense à toi

Je pense à toi mon Lou ton cœur est ma caserneMes sens sont tes chevaux ton souvenir est ma luzerne

Le ciel est plein ce soir de sabres d'éperonsLes canonniers s'en vont dans l'ombre lourds et prompts

Mais près de toi je vois sans cesse ton imageTa bouche est la blessure ardente du courage

Nos fanfares éclatent dans la nuit comme ta voixQuand je suis à cheval tu trottes près de moi

Nos 75 sont gracieux comme ton corpsEt tes cheveux sont fauves comme le feu d'un obusqui éclate au nord

Je t'aime tes mains et mes souvenirsFont sonner à toute heure une heureuse fanfareDes soleils tour à tour se prennent à hennirNous sommes les bat-flanc sur qui ruent les étoiles.




La Chanson Du Malaime

Un soir de demi-brume à LondresUn voyou qui ressemblait àMon amour vint à ma rencontreEt le regard qu'il me jetaMe fit baisser les yeux de honte

Je suivis ce mauvais garçonQui sifflotait mains dans les pochesNous semblions entre les maisonsOnde ouverte de la mer RougeLui les Hébreux moi Pharaon

Qui tombent ces vagues de briquesSi tu ne fus pas bien aiméeJe suis le souverain d'EgypteSa sœur-épouse son arméeSi tu n'es pas l'amour unique.




La Jolie Rousse

Me voici devant tous un homme plein de sensConnaissant la vie et de la mort ce qu'un vivant peutconnaîtreAyant éprouvé les douleurs et les joies de l'amourAyant su quelquefois imposer ses idéesConnaissant plusieurs langagesAyant pas mal voyagéAyant vu la guerre dans l'Artillerie et l'InfanterieBlessé à la tête trépané sous le chloroformeAyant perdu ses meilleurs amis dans l'effroyable lutteJe sais d'ancien et de nouveau autant qu'un homme seulpourrait des deux savoirEt sans m'inquiéter aujourd'hui de cette querreEntre nous et pour nous mes amisJe juge cette longue querelle de la tradition et de l'inventionDe l'Ordre et de l'Aventure

Vous dont la bouche est faite à l'image de celle de DieuBouche qui est l'ordre mêmeSoyez indulgents quand vous nous comparezA ceux qui furent la perfection de l'ordreNous qui quêtons partout l'aventure

Nous ne sommes pas vos ennemisNous voulons vous donner de vastes et étranges domainesOù le mystère en fleurs s'offre à qui veut le cueillirIl y a là des feux nouveaux des couleurs jamais vuesMille phantasmes impondérablesAuxquels il faut donner de la réalitéNous voulons explorer la bonté contrée énorme où tout se taitIl y a aussi le temps qu'on peut chasser ou faire revenirPitié pour nous qui combattons toujours aux frontièresDe l'illimité et de l'avenirPitié pour nos erreurs pitié pour nos péchés

Voici que vient l'été la saison violenteEt ma jeunesse est morte ainsi que le printempsO Soleil c'est le temps de la Raison ardenteEt j'attendsPour la suivre toujours la forme noble et douceQu'elle prend afin que je l'aime seulementElle vient et m'attire ainsi qu'un fer l'aimantElle a l'aspect charmantD'une adorable rousse

Ses cheveux sont d'or on diraitUn bel éclair qui dureraitOu ces flammes qui se pavanentDans les rose-thé qui se fanent

Mais riez riez de moiHommes de partout surtout gens d'ici



Car il y a tant de choses que je n'ose vous direTant de choses que vous ne me laisseriez pas direAyez pitié de moi.




L'Adieu

J'ai cueilli ce brin de bruyèreL'automne est morte souviens-t'enNous ne nous verrons plus sur terreOdeur du temps Brin de bruyèreEt souviens-toi que je t'attends




Le Pont Mirabeau

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la SeineEt nos amoursFaut-il qu'il m'en souvienneLa joie venait toujours après la peine.

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heureLes jours s'en vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à faceTandis que sousLe pont de nos bras passeDes éternels regards l'onde si lasse


L'amour s'en va comme cette eau couranteL'amour s'en vaComme la vie est lenteEt comme l'Espérance est violente


Passent les jours et passent les semainesNi temps passéNi les amours reviennentSous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine




Les Colchiques

Le pré est vénéneux mais joli en automneLes vaches y paissantLentement s'empoisonnentLe colchique couleur de cerne et de lilasY fleurit tes yeux sont comme cette fleur-laViolatres comme leur cerne et comme cet automneEt ma vie pour tes yeux lentement s'empoisonne

Les enfants de l'école viennent avec fracasVêtus de hoquetons et jouant de l'harmonicaIls cueillent les colchiques qui sont comme des mèresFilles de leurs filles et sont couleur de tes paupièresQui battent comme les fleurs battent au vent dément

Le gardien du troupeau chante tout doucementTandis que lentes et meuglant les vaches abandonnentPour toujours ce grand pré mal fleuri par l'automne




Les Fenêtres

Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurtQuand chantent les aras dans les forêts natalesAbatis de pihisIl y a un poème à faire sur l'oiseau qui n'a qu'une aileNous l'enverron en message téléphoniqueTruamatisme géantIl fait couler les yeuxVoilà une jolie jeune fille parmi les jeunes TurinaisesLe pauvre jeune homme se mouchait dans sa cravate blancheTu soulèveras le rideauEt maintenant voilà que s'ouvre la fenêtreAraignées quand les mains tissaient la lumièreBeauté pâleur insondables violetsNous tenterons en vain de prendre du reposOn commencera à minuitQuand on a le temps on a la libertéBignorneaux Lotte multiples Soleils et l'Oursin du couchantUne vielle paire de chaussures jaunes devant la fenêtreToursLes Tours ce sont les ruesPuitsPuits ce sont les placesPuitsArbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondesLes Chabins chantent des airs à mourirAux Chabines marronesEt l'oie oua-oua trompette au nordOù le train blanc de neige et de feux nocturnes fuit l'hiverO ParisDu rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurtParis Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New-York et les AntillesLe fenêtre s'ouvre comme une orangeLe beau fruit de la lumière




Mareye

Mareye était très douce étourdie et charmanteMoi je l'aimais d'Amour m'aimait-elle, qui sait?Je revois parfois à la lueur tremblotanteDes lointains souvenirs cet Amour trépassé.

Sur ma bouche je sens celle de mon amanteJe sens ses petites mains sur mon front glacéSes mains dont doucement elle me caressaitSes rares mains de sainte pâle ou bien d'infante

Mon amante d'antant dans quels bras t'endors-tuPendant l'hiver saison d'amour où les vents pleurentOù les amants ont froid où les passants se meurent

Sous les tristes sapins meurent en écoutantLes elfes rire au vent et corner aux rafales?Songes-tu quelquefois quand les nuits sont bien pâlesQue telles nos amours sont mortes les étoiles?




Marie

Vous y dansiez petite filleY danserez-vous mère-grandC'est la maclotte qui sautilleToutes les cloches sonnerontQuand donc reviendrez-vous Marie

Les masques sont silencieuxEt la musique est si lointaineQu'elle semble venir des cieuxOui je veux vous aimer mais vous aimer à peineEt mon mal est délicieux

Les brebis s'en vont dans la neigeFlocons de laine et ceux d'argentDes soldats passent et que n'ai-jeUn cœur moi ce cœur changeantChangeant et puis encor que sais-je

Sais-je où s'en iront tes cheveuxCrépus comme mer qui moutonneSais-je où s'en iront tes cheveuxEt tes mains feuilles d'automneQui jonchent aussi nos aveux

Je passais au bord de la SeineUn livre ancien sous le brasLe fleuve est pareil à ma peineIl s'écoule et ne tarit pasQuand donc finira la semaine.




Marizibill

Dans la Haute-Rue à CologneElle allait et venait le soirOfferte à tous en tout mignonnePuis buvait lasse des trottoirsTrès tard dans les brasseries borgnes

Elle se mettait sur la paillePour un maquereau roux et roseC'était un juif il sentait l'ailEt l'avait venant de FormoseTirée d'un bordel de Changaï

Je connais des gens de toutes sortesIls n'égalent pas leurs destinsIndécis comme feuilles mortesLeurs yeux sont des feux mal éteintsLeurs coeurs bougent comme leurs portes




Mirabeau Bridge

Under Mirabeau Bridge the river slips away And lovers Must I be remindedJoy came always after pain

The night is a clock chiming The days go by not I

We're face to face and hand in hand While under the bridges Of embrace expireEternal tired tidal eyes


Love elapses like the river Love goes by Poor life is indolentAnd expectation always violent


The days and equally the weeks elapse The past remains the past Love remains lostUnder Mirabeau Bridge the river slips away





Moonlight

Mellifluent moon on the lips of the maddenedThe orchards and towns are greedy tonightThe stars appear like the image of beesOf this luminous honey that offends the vinesFor now all sweet in their fall from the skyEach ray of moonlight’s a ray of honeyNow hid I conceive the sweetest adventureI fear stings of fire from this Polar beethat sets these deceptive rays in my handsAnd takes its moon-honey to the rose of the winds




One Evening

An eagle descends from this sky white with archangelsAnd you sustain meLet them tremble a long while all these lampsPray pray for meThe city’s metallic and it’s the only starDrowned in your blue eyesWhen the tramways run spurting pale fireOver the twittering birdsAnd all that trembles in your eyes of my dreamsThat a lonely man drinksUnder flames of gas red like a false dawnO clothed your arm is liftedSee the speaker stick his tongue out at the listenersA phantom has committed suicideThe apostle of the fig-tree hangs and slowly rotsLet us play this love out then to the endBells with clear chimes announce your birthSeeThe streets are garlanded and the palms advanceTowards thee




Palace

In deepest dream towards Rosemonde's palaceMy barefoot brain inclined for the eveningLike a naked king the walls are wakingBeaten flesh and fresh-cut roses

You can see my thoughts immersed in rosesSmiling at the concert of the toadsThey are in the mood for cypress bedpostsThe sun is a broken mirror of the rose

What badly wounded bowman openedStigmata of palms on the windowpaneAt the white lamb's love-feast I have tastedResins that bitter the Cyprian wine

On the jagged lap of the lascivious kingIn the May-time of her age and finest frockMysterious Madame Rosemonde rollsHer little round eyes like a Hun

Lady of my thoughts your pearly assholeIs unrivalled by anything OrientalFor whom are you waitingDeepest dreams en route to the OrientAre my loveliest neighbors

Knock knock Come into the forecourt night is comingIn shadow the night-light is toasted tinselHang your heads by the hair on the hat-rackThe evening sky is aglimmer with pins

We entered the dining room our nosesCaught a whiff of grease and mucusOf twenty soup bowls three were urineThe king ate two poached eggs in bouillon

And then the scullions brought in the meat dishesA standing roast of thoughts deceased in my brainMy lovely still-born dreams in slices still bloodyAnd gamy little meatballs of memory

Dead for millennia now these thoughtsHad a flavorless taste of frozen mammothBones or visionaries danced out of ossuariesThe dance of death in the folds of my brain

And all those meats pronounced revelations But Holy Christ! A famished belly has no hearingThe guests continued their best mastications

Ah Holy Christ! cried out the rib-eyes



The huge pâtes the marrow and hot-potsTongues of fire o where is the pentecostOf my thoughts for all places nations and times




Pour Madeleine Seule

Lune candide vous brillez moins que les hanchesDe mon amourAubes que j'admire vous êtes moins blanchesAubes que chaque jourJ'admire ô hanches si blanches

Il y a le reflet de votre blancheur

Au fond de cet aluminium

Dont on fait des bagues

Dans cette zone où règne la blancheurO hanches si blanches.




Pour Y.B.

Bien qu'il me vienne en août votre quatrain d'avrilM'a gardé de tout mal et de toute blessureVotre douceur me suit durant mon aventureAu long de cet an sombre ainsi que fut l'an mil

Je vous remercierai s'il se peut je l'assureQuand nous aurons vaincu le Boche lâche et vilDont la vertu française a ressenti l'injure.




Rhénane d'Automne

Mon verre est plein d'un vin trembleur comme une flammeEcoutez la chanson lente d'un batelierQui raconte avoir vu sous la lune sept femmesTordre leurs cheveux verts et longs jusqu'à leurs pieds

Debout chantez plus haut en dansant une rondeQue je n'entende plus le chant du batelierEt mettez près de moi toutes les filles blondesAu regard immobile aux nattes repliées

Le Rhin le Rhin est ivre où les vignes se mirentTout l'or des nuits tombe en tremblant s'y refléterLa voix chante toujours à en râle-mourirCes fées aux cheveux verts qui incantent l'été

Mon verre s'est brisé comme un éclat de rire




Shadow

Here you are beside me againMemories of my companions killed in the warThe olive-branch of timeMemories that make only a single memoryAs a hundred skins make only a single coatAs these thousands of wounds make only a singlenewspaper articleImpalpable and ark presence who have assumedthe changing shape of my shadowan Indian on the watch through all Eternityshadow you creep beside mebut you do not hear me any moreyou will not know any more the divine poems I singbut I hear you still and see you stillDestiniesMultiple shadows may the sun preserve youYou who love me so much that you will never leave meAnd who dance in the sun without stirring the dustShadow ink of the sunSignature of my lightHolder of sorrowsA god that condescends.




The Bells

My gipsy beau my loverHear the bells above usWe loved passionatelyThinking none could see usBut we so badly hiddenAll the bells in their songSaw from heights of heavenAnd told it everyoneTomorrow Cyprien HenryMarie Ursule CatherineThe baker’s wife her husbandand Gertrude that’s my cousinWill smile when I go by themI won’t know where to hideYou far and I’ll be cryingPerhaps I shall be dying




The Bestiary: or Orpheus’s Procession

(Le Bestiaire ou Cortège d’Orphée)

Orpheus

Admire the vital powerAnd nobility of line:It’s the voice that the light made us understand hereThat Hermes Trismegistus writes of in Pimander.

The Tortoise

From magic Thrace, O delerium!My sure fingers sound the strings.The creatures pass to the soundsOf my tortoise, and the songs I sing.

The Horse

My harsh dreams knew the riding of youMy gold-charioted fate will be your lovely carThat for reins will hold tight to frenzy,My verses, the patterns of all poetry.

The Tibetan Goat

The fleece of this goat and evenThat gold one which cost such painTo Jason’s not worth a sou towardsThe tresses with which I’m taken.

The Serpent

You set yourself against beauty.And how many women have beenvictims of your cruelty!Eve, Eurydice, Cleopatra:I know three or four more after.

The Cat

I wish there to be in my house:A woman possessing reason,A cat among books passing by,Friends for every seasonLacking whom I’m barely alive.



The Lion

O lion, miserable imageOf kings lamentably chosen,Now you’re only born in a cageIn Hamburg, among the Germans.

The Hare

Don’t be fearful and lasciviousLike the hare and the amorous.But always let your brain weaveThe full form that conceives.

The Rabbit

There’s another cony I rememberThat I’d so like to take alive.Its haunt is there among the thymeIn the valleys of the Land of Tender.

The Dromedary

With his four dromedariesDon Pedro of AlfaroubeiraTravels the world and admires her.He does what I would ratherIf I’d those four dromedaries.

The Mouse

Sweet days, the mice of time,You gnaw my life, moon by moon.God! I’ve twenty eight years soon,and badly spent ones I imagine.

The Elephant

I carry treasure in my mouth,As an elephant his ivory.At the price of flowing words,Purple death!…I buy my glory.

Orpheus

Look at this pestilential tribe



Its thousand feet, its hundred eyes:Beetles, insects, liceAnd microbes more amazingThan the world’s seventh wonderAnd the palace of Rosamunde!

The Caterpillar

Work leads us to riches.Poor poets, work on!The caterpillar’s endless sighBecomes the lovely butterfly.

The Fly

The songs that our flies knowWere taught to them in NorwayBy flies who are they sayDivinities of snow.

The Flea

Fleas, friends, lovers too,How cruel are those who love us!All our blood pours out for them.The well-beloved are wretched then.

The Grasshopper

Here’s the slender grasshopperThe food that fed Saint John.May my verse be similar,A treat for the best of men.

Orpheus

His heart was the bait: the heavens were the pond!For, fisherman, what fresh or seawater catchequals him, either in form or savour,that lovely divine fish, Jesus, My Saviour?

The Dolphin

Dolphins, playing in the seaThe wave is bitter gruel.Does my joy sometimes erupt?Yet life is still so cruel.



The OctopusHurling his ink at skies above,Sucking the blood of what he lovesAnd finding it delicious,Is myself the monster, vicious.

The Jellyfish

Medusas, miserable headsWith hairs of violetYou enjoy the hurricaneAnd I enjoy the very same.

The Lobster

Uncertainty, O my delightsYou and I we goAs lobsters travel onwards, quiteBackwards, Backwards, O.

The Carp

In your pools, and in your ponds,Carp, you indeed live long!Is it that death forgets to freeYou fishes of melancholy?

Orpheus

The female of the Halcyon,Love, the seductive Sirens,All know the fatal songsDangerous and inhuman.Don’t listen to those cursed birdsBut Paradisial Angels’ words.

The Sirens

Do I know where your ennui’s from, Sirens,When you grieve so widely under the stars?Sea, I am like you, filled with broken voices,And my ships, singing, give a name to the years.

The Dove



Dove, both love and spiritWho engendered Jesus Christ,Like you I love a Mary.And so with her I marry.

The Peacock

In spreading out his fan, this bird,Whose plumage drags on earth, I fear,Appears more lovely than before,But makes his derrière appear.

The Owl

My poor heart’s an owlOne woos, un-woos, re-woos.Of blood, of ardour, he’s the fowl.I praise those who love me, too.

Ibis

Yes, I’ll pass fearful shadowsO certain death, let it be so!Latin mortal dreadful word,Ibis, Nile’s native bird.

The Ox

This cherubim sings the praisesOf Paradise where, with Angels,We’ll live once more, dear friends,When the good God intends.




The Gypsy

The gypsy knew in advanceOur two lives star-crossed by nightWe said farewell to her and thenfrom that deep well Hope beganLove heavy a performing bearDanced upright when we wantedAnd the blue bird lost his plumesAnd the beggars lost their AveWe knew quite well that we were damnedBut hope of love in the streetMade us think hand in handOf what the Gypsy did foresee




The Ninth Secret Poem

I worship your fleece which is the perfect triangle Of the GoddessI am the lumberjack of the only virgin forest O my EldoradoI am the only fish in your voluptuous ocean You my lovely SirenI am the climber on your snowy mountains O my whitest AlpI am the heavenly archer at your beautiful mouth O my darling quiverI am the hauler of your midnight hair O lovely ship on the canal of my kissesAnd the lilies of your arms are beckoning me O my summer gardenThe fruits of your breast are ripening their honey for me O my sweet-smelling orchardAnd I am raising you O Madeleine O my beauty above the earth Like the torch of all light




The Sign

I am bound to the King of the Sign of AutumnParting I love the fruits I detest the flowersI regret every one of the kisses that I’ve givenSuch a bitter walnut tells his grief to the showersMy Autumn eternal O my spiritual seasonThe hands of lost lovers juggle with your sunA spouse follows me it’s my fatal shadowThe doves take flight this evening their last one




The Skirt

Hallo Germaine that's a fine skirt you haveA fine skirt for a queen A cruel queenLet's feel the silk of it Silk from JapanAnd trimmed with wide lace made on no machine

Your skirt's a silken bell whose double clapperYour legs have struck the passing of my fanciesO Germaine now I ring it my breast heavingMy hands press down upon your willing haunches

Your bedroom O my bell is a fine belfryMy hands touch silk and seem to tear my earsThose pegs are gallows on which skirts are hangingThose hanging men are dazzling my eyes

Motionless as an owl the oil lamp watches




The White Snow

The angels the angels in the skyOne’s dressed as an officerOne’s dressed as a chef todayAnd the others singFine sky-coloured officerSweet Spring when Christmas is long goneWill deck you with a lovely sunA lovely sunThe chef plucks geeseAh! Snowfalls hissFall and how I missMy beloved in my arms




There Is

There is this ship which has taken my beloved back againThere are six Zeppelin sausages in the sky and with nightcoming on it makes a man think of the maggots from which thestars might some day be rebornThere is this enemy submarine slipping up beneath my loveThere are one thousand young pinetrees splintered by thebursting of the same shells falling around me nowThere is this infantryman walking by completely blinded bypoison gasThere is the obvious fact that all that is happening here washatched a long time ago in the intestinal trenches of NietzcheGoethe and the metaphysicians of the town of CologneThere is the obvious fact that I'm dying over a letter whichhas thus far been delayedThere are in my wallet various photos of my belovedThere are prisoners marching past with anxious facesThere is this artillery battery with its faithful servantshurrying among the gunsThere is the postmaster arriving at a trot on the road beneaththe single tree in silhouetteThere is according to rumor a spy who infiltrates somewherenear here invisible as the horizon as the horizon-blue Frenchuniform he has assumed for offensive purposes and in which heis now most effectively camouflagedThere is erect as any lily the bosom of my belovedThere is this captain anxiously awaiting the latest radiodispatch to reach us via transatlantic cableThere are at midnight these details of soldiers sawing planksfor coffinsThere are women somewhere in Mexico pleading with wild criesfor more indian corn and maizeThere is this Gulf Stream which is so warm and beneficialThere is this cemetery covered with crosses only fivekilometers awayThere are all these crosses everywhere this way that wayThere are paradisial persimmons growing on cactus-trees inAlgeriaThere are the long hands of my loveThere is this inkwell which I've made from a 150 mm shell Isaved from shootingThere is my calvary saddle left out in the rainThere are all these rivers blasted off their courses which willnever go back to their banksThere is the god of Love who leads me on so sweetlyThere is this German prisoner carrying his machine-gun acrosshis shouldersThere are men on earth who've never fought in the warThere are Hindus here who look with astonishment on theoccidental style of campaignThey meditate gravely upon those who've left this placewondering whether they'll ever see them againKnowing as they do what great progress we've made during this



particular war in the art of invisibility.




Twilight

Brushed by the shadows of the deadOn the grass where day expiresColumbine strips bare admiresher body in the pond insteadA charlatan of twilight formedBoasts of the tricks to be performedThe sky without a stain unmarredIs studded with the milk-white starsFrom the boards pale HarlequinFirst salutes the spectatorsSorcerers from BohemiaFairies sundry enchantersHaving unhooked a starHe proffers it with outstretched handWhile with his feet a hanging manSounds the cymbals bar by barThe blind man rocks a pretty childThe doe with all her fauns slips byThe dwarf observes with saddened poseHow Harlequin magically grows




Vitam Impendere Amori

(Vitam Impendere Amori: To Threaten Life for Love)

Love is dead within your armsDo you remember his encounterHe’s dead you restore the charmsHe returns at your encounter

Another spring of springs gone pastI think of all its tendernessFarewell season done at lastYou’ll return as tenderly

****

In the evening light that’s fadedWhere our several loves brush byYour memory lies enchainedFar from our shades that die

O hands bound by memoryBurning like a funeral pyreWhere the last black PhoenixPerfection comes to respire

Link by link the chain wears thinDeriding us your memoryFlies ah hear it you who railI kneel again at your feet

****

You’ve not surprised my secret yetAlready the cortège moves onBut left to us is the regretof there being no connivance none

The rose floats at the water’s edgeThe maskers have passed by in crowdsIt trembles in me like a bellThis heavy secret you ask now

****

Evening falls and in the gardenWomen tell their historiesto Night that not without disdainspills their dark hair’s mysteries

Little children little childrenYour wings have flown awayBut you rose that defend yourselfThrow your unrivalled scents away



For now’s the hour of petty theftOf plumes of flowers and of tressesGather the fountain jets so freeOf whom the roses are mistresses

****

You descended through the water clearI drowned my self so in your glanceThe soldier passes she leans downTurns and breaks away a branch

You float on nocturnal wavesThe flame is my own heart reversedColoured as that comb’s tortoiseshellThe wave that bathes you mirrors well

****O my abandoned youth is deadLike a garland fadedHere the season comes againOf suspicion and disdain

The landscape’s formed of canvassesA false stream of blood flows downAnd under the tree the stars glow freshThe only passer by’s a clown

The glass in the frame has crackedAn air defined uncertainlyHovers between sound and thoughtBetween ‘to be’ and memory

O my abandoned youth is deadLike a garland fadedHere the season comes againOf suspicion and disdain




Zone

At last you're tired of this elderly world

Shepherdess O Eiffel Tower this morning the bridges are bleating

You're fed up living with antiquity

Even the automobiles are antiquesReligion alone remains entirely new religionRemains as simple as an airport hangar

In all Europe only you O Christianism are not oldThe most modem European Pope Pius X it's youThe windows watch and shame has sealedThe confessionals against you this morningFlyers catalogs hoardings sing aloudHere's poetry this morning and for prose you're reading the tabloidsDisposable paperbacks filled with crimes and policeBiographies of great men a thousand various titles

I saw a pretty street this morning I forgot the nameNew and cleanly it was the sun's clarionExecutives laborers exquisite stenographersCriss-cross Monday through Saturday four times dailyThree times every morning sirens groanAt the lunch hour a rabid bell barksThe lettering on the walls and billboardsthe doorplates and posters twitters parakeet-styleI love the swank of that streetSituated in Paris between the rue Aumont-Thieville and the avenue des Ternes

Here's the young street and you're still a babyDressed by your mother in blue and white onlyYou're very pious and with your oldest friend Rene DalizeNothing is more fun than Masses and Litanies

It's nine o'clock the gaslight is low you leave your bedYou pray all night in the school chapelMeanwhile an eternal adorable amethyst depthChrist's flamboyant halo spins foreverBehold the beautiful lily of worshipBehold the red-haired torch inextinguishableBehold the pale son and scarlet of the dolorous MotherBehold the tree forever tufted with prayerBehold the double gallows honor and eternityBehold the six-pointed starBehold the God who dies on Friday and rises on SundayBehold the Christ who flies higher than aviatorsHe holds the world's record for altitude

Christ pupil of the eye



Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuffAnd bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the skyDevils in the abyss look up to watchThey say this century mimics Simon Magus in JudeaIt takes a thief to catch a thief they cryAngels flutter around the pretty trapeze actIcarus Enoch Elijah Apollonius of TyanaHover as close to the airplane as they canSometimes they give way to other men hauling the EucharistPriests eternally climbing the elevating HostThe plane descends at last its wings unfoldedbursts into a million swallowsFull speed come the crows the owls and falconsFrom Africa ibis storks flamingoesThe Roc-bird famous with writers and poetsGlides Adam's skull the original head in its talonsThe horizon screams an eagle pouncingAnd from America there comes a hummingbirdFrom China sinuous peeheesWho have only one wing and who fly in couplesAnd here's a dove immaculate spiritEscorted by lyre-bird and shimmery peacock

Phoenix the pyre the self-resurrectedObscures everything ardently briefly with ashThe sirens abandon their perilous channelsEach one singing more beautifully arrivesEveryone eagle Phoenix Chinese peeheesEager to befriend a machine that flies

You are walking in Paris alone inside a crowdHerds of buses bellow and come too closeLove-anguish clutches your throatYou must never again be lovedIn the Dark Ages you would have entered a monasteryYou are ashamed to overhear yourself prayingYou laugh at yourself and the laughter crackles like hellfireThe sparks gild the ground and background of your lifeYour life is a painting in a dark museumAnd sometimes you examine it closely

You are walking in Paris the women are bloodsoakedIt was and I have no wish to remember it was the end of beauty

In Chartres from her entourage of flames Our Lady beamed at meThe blood of your Sacred Heart drenched me in MontmartreI'm sick of hearing blissful promisesThe love I feel is a venereal diseaseAnd the image possessing you in your pain your insomniaVanishes and it is always near you

And now you are on the Riviera



Under lemon trees that never stop bloomingYou are boating with friendsOne is from Nice one is from Menton two from La TurbieWe are staring terrified at giant squidAt fish the symbols of Jesus swimming through seaweed

You are in the garden at an inn outside of PragueYou are completely happy a rose is on the tableAnd instead of getting on with your short-storyYou watch the rosebug sleeping in the rose's heart

Appalled you see yourself reproduced in the agates of Saint VitusYou were sad near to death to see yourself thereYou looked as bewildered as LazarusIn the Jewish ghetto the clock runs backwardsAnd you go backwards also through a slow lifeClimbing the Hradchen listening at nightfallTo Bohemian songs in the singing taverns

You in Marseilles among the watermelons

Yu in Coblenz at the Hotel Gigantic

You in Rome beneath a Japanese tree

You in Amsterdam with a girl you find pretty who is uglyShe's engaged to marry a student from LeydenWhere you can rent rooms in Latin Cubicula locandaI remember spending three days there and three in Gouda

You are in Paris hauled before the magistrateYou are under arrest you are a criminal now

You went on sorrowful and giddy travelsIgnorant still of dishonesty and old ageLove afflicted you at twenty and again at thirtyI've lived like a fool and I've wasted my timeYou dare not look at your hands I want to weep all the timeOn you on the one I love on everything that frightened you

And now you are crying at the sight of refugeesWho believe in God who pray whose women nurse babiesThe hall of the train station is filled with the refugee-smellLike the Magi refugees believe in their starThey expect to find silver mines in the ArgentineAnd to return like kings to their abandoned countriesOne family carries a red eiderdown you carry your heartEiderdown and dreams are equally fantastic

Some of the refugees stay on in Paris settlingInto slums on the rue des Rosiers or the rue des EcouffesI have seen them often at dusk they breathe at their doorways



They budge from home as reluctantly as chessmenThey are chiefly Jewish the women wear wigsAnd haunt backrooms of little shops in little chairs

You're standing at the metal counter of some diveDrinking wretched coffee where the wretched live

You are in a cavernous restaurant at night

These women are not evil they are used-up regretfulEach has tormented someone even the ugliest

She is the daughter of a police sergeant from Jersey

Her hands I'd never noticed are hard and cracked

My pity aches along the seams of her belly

I humble my mouth to her grotesque laughter

You're alone when morning comesThe milkmen jingle bottles in the street

Night beautiful courtesan the night withdrawsFraudulent Ferdine or careful Leah

And you drink an alcohol as caustic as your lifeYour life you drink as alcohol

You walk to Auteuil you want to go on foot to sleepAt home among your South Sea and Guinean fetishesChrists of another shape another faithSubordinate Christs of uncertain hopes

Goodbye Goodbye

Sun cut throated



APOLLINAIRE POEMS

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