by Various
O Mémoire Combien de races qui forlignent
Des Tyndarides aux vipères ardentes de mon bonheur
Et les serpents ne sont-ils que les cous des cygnes
Qui étaient immortels et n’étaient pas chanteurs
Voici ma vie renouvelée
De grands vaisseaux passent et repassent
Je trempe une fois encore mes mains dans l’Océan
Voici le paquebot et ma vie renouvelée
Ses flammes sont immenses
Il n’y a plus rien de commun entre moi
Et ceux qui craignent les brÛlures
Descendant des hauteurs où pense la lumière
Jardins rouant plus haut que tous les ciels mobiles
L’avenir masqué flambe en traversant les cieux
O Memory How many corrupted races From the Tyndarides1 to the fiery vipers of my bliss And are snakes not merely the necks of swans That were immortal and did not sing And now my life is renewed Great vessels pass and pass again Once more I dip my hands into the Ocean
Here is the liner and my renewed life Its flames are prodigious There is nothing more in common between me And those who fear the burns
Descending from the heights where light thinks Gardens wheeling higher than all the shifting skies The masked future blazes across the heavens
Nous attendons ton bon plaisir ô mon amie
J’ose à peine regarder la divine mascarade
Quand bleuira sur l’horizon la Désirade
Au-delà de notre atmosphère s’élève un théâtre
Que construisit le ver Zamir sans instrument
Puis le soleil revint ensoleiller les places
D’une ville marine apparue contremont
Sur les toits se reposaient les colombes lasses
Et le troupeau de sphinx regagne la sphingerie
A petits pas Il orra le chant du pâtre toute la vie
Là-haut le théâtre est bâti avec le feu solide
Comme les astres dont se nourrit le vide
We await your pleasure O my beloved
I hardly dare look at the divine masquerade
When Desirade1 will loom blue on the horizon
Beyond our atmosphere rises a theatre built by the worm Shamir2 without tools Then the sun returned to shine upon the squares Of a coastal town that appeared upstream On the roofs the weary doves were resting
And the sphinx flock returns to the sphinxfold On tiptoe He will hearken all his life to the song of the shepherd Up there the theatre is built with solid fire Like the stars that feed the void
Et voici le spectacle
Et pour toujours je suis assis dans un fauteuil
Ma tête mes genoux mes coudes vain pentacle
Les flammes ont poussé sur moi comme des feuilles
Des acteurs inhumains claires bêtes nouvelles
Donnent des ordres aux hommes apprivoisés
Terre
O Déchirée que les fleuves ont reprisée
J’aimerais mieux nuit et jour dans les sphingeries
Vouloir savoir pour qu’enfin on m’y dévorât
And here now is the spectacle And I sit for ever in an armchair My head my knees my elbows a hollow pentacle Flames have sprouted on me like leaves
Inhuman actors luminous new beasts Give orders to tamed mankind O Earth Torn asunder and stitched together by the rivers
I would prefer night and day in the sphinxfolds To seek knowledge so that I might at last be devoured there
Nuit rhénane
Mon verre est plein d’un vin trembleur comme une flamme
Ecoutez la chanson lente d’un batelier
Qui raconte avoir vu sous la lune sept femmes
Tordre leurs cheveux verts et longs jusqu’à leurs pieds
Debout chantez plus haut en dansant une ronde
Que je n’entende plus le chant du batelier
Et mettez près de moi toutes les filles blondes
Au regard immobile aux nattes repliées
Le Rhin le Rhin est ivre où les vignes se mirent
Tout l’or des nuits tombe en tremblant s’y refléter
La voix chante toujours à en râle-mourir
Ces fées aux cheveux verts qui incantent l’été
Mon verre s’est brisé comme un éclat de rire
Rhenish Night
My glass is filled with a wine that quivers like a flame Listen to the slow song of a ferryman That tells of seeing seven women in the moonlight Twisting their long green hair down to their feet
Stand up sing louder while you dance a roundelay That I may hear no longer the ferryman’s song And place beside me all the golden-haired girls With motionless gazes and tightly coiled plaits
The Rhine the Rhine is drunk where the vines find their image All the gold of night falls quivering in its reflection there The voice is still singing itself into a death rattle Of those fairies with green hair who cast a spell on summer
My glass has shattered like a burst of laughter
Liens
Cordes faites de cris
Sons de cloches à travers l’Europe
Siècles pendus
Rails qui ligotez les nations
Nous ne sommes que deux ou trois hommes
Libres de tous liens
Donnons-nous la main
Violente pluie qui peigne les fumées
Cordes
Cordes tissées
Câbles sous-marins
Tours de Babel changées en ponts
Araignées-Pontifes
Tous les amoureux qu’un seul lien a liés
Bonds
Cords made of shouts
Ringing of bells across Europe Centuries hanging
Rails binding the nations We are no more than two or three men Free from all bonds Let us join hands
Violent rain combing the smoke Cords Woven cords Undersea cables Towers of Babel changed into bridges Spider-Pontiffs All the lovers bound by a single bond
D’autres liens plus ténus
Blancs rayons de lumière
Cordes et Concorde
J’écris seulement pour vous exalter
O sens ô sens chéris
Ennemis du souvenir
Ennemis du désir
Ennemis du regreté
Ennemis des larmes
Ennemis de tout ce que j’aime encore
Other more tenuous bonds White beams of light Cords and Concord
I write only to exalt you O senses O precious senses Enemies of memory Enemies of desire
Enemies of regret Enemies of tears Enemies of all that I still love
Fête
A André Rouveyre
Feu d’artifice en acier
Qu’il est charmant cet éclairage
Artifice d’artificier
Mêler quelque grâce au courage
Festivity
For André Rouveyre
Steely pyrotechnics How enchanting this illumination is An artificer’s artifice To mix a certain grace with courage
Deux fusants
Rose éclatement
Comme deux seins que l’on dégrafe
Tendent leurs bouts insolemment
IL SUT AIMER
quelle épitaphe
Un poète dans la forêt
Regarde avec indifférence
Son revolver au cran d’arrêt
Des roses mourir d’espérance
Il songe aux roses de Saadi
Et soudain sa tête se penche
Car une rose lui redit
La molle courbe d’une hanche
L’air est plein d’un terrible alcool
Filtré des étoiles mi-closes
Les obus caressent le mol
Parfum nocturne où tu reposes
Mortification des roses
Two time-shells A rose-pink bursting Like two unfastened breasts Offering their taut tips with insolence HE KNEW HOW TO LOVE what an epitaph
A poet in the forest Gazes with indifference at His revolver wi
th its safety catch Roses dying of hope
He dreams of the roses of Saadi And suddenly his head sinks down For a rose evokes for him once more The soft curve of a hip
The air is filled with a terrible alcohol Filtered through the half-closed stars The shells caress the mellow Nocturnal fragrance in which you lie Mortification of the roses
Visée
A Madame René Berthier
Chevaux couleur cerise limite des Zélandes
Des mitrailleuses d’or coassent les légendes
Je t’aime liberté qui veilles dans les hypogées
Harpe aux cordes d’argent ô pluie ô ma musique
L’invisible ennemi plaie d’argent au soleil
Et l’avenir secret que la fusée élucide
Entends nager le Mot poisson subtil
Les villes tour à tour deviennent des clefs
Le masque bleu comme met Dieu son ciel
Guerre paisible ascèse solitude métaphysique
Enfant aux mains coupées parmi les roses oriflammes
Aim
For Madame René Berthier
Cherry coloured horses boundary of the Zealanders Golden machine guns croak out legends I love you liberty in your subterranean vigil Silver-stringed harp O rain O my music The invisible enemy a silver wound in the sunlight And the secret future illumined by the rocket Hear the Word swim subtle fish The cities one by one become keys The blue mask as God dons his sky Peaceful war asceticism metaphysical solitude A child with its hands cut off among the rose-pink banners
La jolie rousse
Me voici devant tous un homme plein de sens
Connaissant la vie et de la mort ce qu’un vivant peut connaître
Ayant éprouvé les douleurs et les joies de l’amour
Ayant su quelquefois imposer ses idées
Connaissant plusieurs langages
Ayant pas mal voyagé
Ayant vu la guerre dans l’Artillerie et l’Infanterie
Blessé à la tête trépané sous le chloroforme
Ayant perdu ses meilleurs amis dans l’effroyable lutte
Je sais d’ancien et de nouveau autant qu’un homme seul pourrait des deux savoir
Et sans m’inquiéter aujourd’hui de cette guerre
Entre nous et pour nous mes amis
Je juge cette longue querelle de la tradition et de l’invention
De l’Ordre et de l’Aventure
The Pretty Redhead
Here I stand in the sight of all a man full of awareness Knowing life and what a living man can know of death Having experienced the pains and joys of love Having made his ideas now and then command respect Knowing several languages Having travelled quite a bit Having seen the war in Artillery and Infantry Wounded in the head trepanned under chloroform Having lost his best friends in the hideous struggle I know of the ancient and the new as much as one man alone can know of both And without troubling myself now about this war Between ourselves and for ourselves my friends I speak judgement on this long quarrel between tradition and innovation Between Order and Adventure
Vous dont la bouche est faite à l’image de celle de Dieu
Bouche qui est l’ordre même
Soyez indulgents quand vous nous comparez
A ceux qui furent la perfection de l’ordre
Nous qui quêtons partout l’aventure
Nous ne sommes pas vos ennemis
Nous voulons vous donner de vastes et d’étranges domaines
Où le mystère en fleurs s’offre à qui veut le cueillir
Il y a là des feux nouveaux des couleurs jamais vues
Mille phantasmes impondérables
Auxquels il faut donner de la réalité
Nous voulons explorer la bonté contrée énorme où tout se tait
Il y a aussi le temps qu’on peut chasser ou faire revenir
Pitié pour nous qui combattons toujours aux frontières
De l’illimité et de l’avenir
Pitié pour nos erreurs pitié pour nos péchés
You whose mouths are made in the image of God’s mouth A mouth which is order itself Be indulgent when you compare us with those who were the perfection of order We who seek adventure everywhere
We are not your enemies We want to give you vast and strange domains Where flowering mystery offers itself to all who wish to gather it There are new fires there colours never yet seen A thousand unfathomable phantasms To which we must give reality
We want to explore goodness a vast land where all is mute And then there is time which can be banished or recalled Pity for us whose combat is always on the frontiers Of the limitless and of the future Pity for our errors pity for our sins
Voici que vient l’été la saison violente
Et ma jeunesse est morte ainsi que le printemps
O Soleil c’est le temps de la Raison ardente
Et j’attends
Pour la suivre toujours la forme noble et douce
Qu’elle prend afin que je l’aime seulement
Elle vient et m’attire ainsi qu’un fer l’aimant
Elle a l’aspect charmant
D’une adorable rousse
Ses cheveux sont d’or on dirait
Un bel éclair qui durerait
Ou ces flammes qui se pavanent
Dans les roses-thé qui se fanent
Mais riez riez de moi
Hommes de partout surtout gens d’ici
Car il y a tant de choses que je n’ose vous dire
Tant de choses que vous ne me laisseriez pas dire
Ayez pitié de moi
Here comes the summer now the violent season And my youth has died just like the spring O Sun it is the time of burning Reason And I wait To follow it for ever the sweet and noble form She takes that I may love her alone She comes and attracts me as a magnet draws iron She has the enchanting appearance of a lovely redhead
Her hair is golden you’d take it for A beautiful prolonged lightning flash Or those flames dancing a proud pavane among the wilting tea-roses
But laugh laugh at me Men everywhere above all people here For there are so many things I dare not tell you So many things you would not let me say Have pity on me
Blaise Cendrars
(1887–1961)
A colourful and free-wheeling figure in the modernist movement, Cendrars was born Frédéric Sauser at La Chaux-de-Fonds in Switzerland. His pseudonym, briefly Braise Cendrart and then definitively Blaise Cendrars (suggesting burning coals, ashes and art), was adopted during a ‘second birth’ in Paris in 1907, after which he claimed that city as his birthplace. A kaleidoscopic pattern of legend and anecdote is difficult to separate from biographical fact, but his unstable adolescence was marked by a patchy education, voracious reading, bouts of drinking, strife with his father, and a bedroom-window escape to a series of train journeys around Germany and eventually through Russia as far as Siberia. An association with an itinerant jewel-pedlar and a love-affair with a terminally ill Russian girl were part of that experience, but the story that he performed on stage with Chaplin during a period in London in 1907–08 is probably wishful thinking. He returned to Russia from Paris in 1910, then travelled to America in 1911.
Surviving somehow on scant resources in New York in 1912, he suddenly produced a poem of major importance. ‘Pâques à New York’ was composed in a single night, beginning as he walked through the snow after attending a performance of Haydn’s ‘Creation’. When Cendrars returned to Paris, this long poem, in the form of Alexandrine but unpunctuated couplets, was to influence Apollinaire’s abandonment of punctuation in ‘Zone’.
The floodgates were open for Cendrars, and in the charged creative atmosphere of 1912–14 his output was prolific. His long free verse poem ‘Prose du Transsibérien et de la petite Jeanne de France’, with its unpunctuated and restless railway-train rhythms, continues the trajectory of Laforgue and is a landmark in the development of modern verse.
Its first edition of 150 copies was illustrated (though the word is p
erhaps inadequate) by the artist Sonia Delaunay. She and her husband Robert were close friends of Cendrars, and influenced his developing aesthetic of simultaneity. Her contribution to the ‘Prose du Transsibérien…’ consisted of strips, shapes and emotive swirls of colour both within and beside the text, complementing the words and enriching an already complex perspective (the first edition ran to more than six feet of folded text in multiple and dislocated type styles).
He joined the Foreign Legion in 1914, and lost an arm in the Champagne offensive. Typically, he turned this event into a myth, continuing to communicate with the absent limb. In the Second World War he was to be a war correspondent, having moved away from poetry in the mid-1920s into novels and chronicles.
Disliking the young Dadaists and Surrealists, Cendrars had left Paris in 1917 and resumed his pattern of continual travel and search for newness. He saw himself as a being in flux, always moving away from immobility in life and art, cultivating multiplicity, risk and contrast. The urge towards simultaneity of experience and observation produces poems of great visual immediacy, compression, and often a cinematic effect (he was indeed very interested in cinema, and worked for a time with Abel Gance). In words he borrowed from the Delaunays, his perception has its ‘windows open’ to an experience which is captured in a chopped, elastic, intense style. The ephemeral is not synthesized, but enjoyed for its own sake. This dynamic spontaneity, however, with its spatial and temporal freedom, is balanced by a paradoxical nostalgia that preserves an element of poignant lyricism.
The act of writing itself, implying stasis and confinement and the fixing of experience, is of course problematic for such an artist, and full of tension. For Cendrars writing is also like burning in a fire: ‘To write is to consume oneself… Writing is a fire that lifts up a great confusion of ideas and incinerates groups of images before reducing them to crackling embers and falling ashes. But the spontaneity of the fire remains mysterious. To write is to burn alive, but is also to be reborn from ashes.’