rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

To Follow Days

July sneaked up on me this year. June's end came and I forgot to note that the full moon I saw was the month's second. I don't know where my attention was. I don't know where it is. I keep thinking I keep missing deadlines, but I don't know what deadlines I have. It's merely delusion, probably brought on by fried brain, the summer heat being allowed to surround my head.

That's one of the problems with air—that one when in it is exposed to other things that are in it (and one's alternative to being in it is not pleasant at all, no.) It's not so bad when it's just odors, such as that released by the skunk who of late has nightly sprayed someone or something hereabout. Odors, unless their source is persistent, soon dissipate. But heat lasts and lasts (by day at least) when July has arrived. July lasts and lasts, too, for thirty more days. July is a bitch and then there's August.

But rather than just grouse I've made iced tea and will soon go out into evening's cooling air and listen to the birds sing their evening songs. The insectoid rhythm section will be much diminished though, the crickets being going away these nights, and thus reminding me that time eventually devours summer. Summer and crickets and I have that in common. Sooner or later, everything's going to get cooled.

Over at greatpoets a contretemps broke out following somebody posting one of the not-best translations of one of a certain surrealist poet's not-best poems. I have one of that poet's poems I think better than the not-best one in question, and in a translation I'd say was not half bad. Look!

Sunday Verse


by Robert Desnos

Everything was as if in a childlike picture.
The moon wore an opera hat whose eight reflections bounced on the surface of the ponds,
A ghost in a well-tailored shroud
Smoked a cigar at the window of its apartment,
On the last floor of a castle keep
Where the omniscient rook told cats their fortune.
There was the child in her nightgown lost in snowy paths
From having searched her shoes for the silk fan and the high-heeled pumps.
There was the fire on which, immense,
The firemen's shadows were outlined.
But, above all, there was the running thief, a big sack on his back,
On the moon-bleached road,
Escorted by the barking dogs in the sleeping villages
And by the cackling of suddenly roused chickens.
I am not rich, said the ghost shaking off the ash from his cigar, I am not rich
But I'll bet you a hundred bucks
He'll go far if he keeps at it.
Vanity, all is vanity, replied the rook.
And so's your sister! said the cats.
My sister has beautiful jewels and beautiful spiders
In her castle of night.
A numberless crowd of servants
Comes every night to carry her to bed.
For breakfast she gets sweetmeats, dog-grass, and a small bugle
To blow into.
The moon laid its tall hat on the earth.
And that made a thick night
Where the ghost melted like a sugar cube in coffee.
The thief kept looking for his lost way
And finally fell asleep
And nothing remained beyond the earth
But a smoke-blue sky where the moon rubbed its forehead with a sponge
And the lost child who marched into the stars.
Here is your pretty fan
And your dancing shoes
Your grandmother's bodice
And lipstick for your lips.
You can dance among the stars
You can dance for the beautiful ladies
And cross ranges of heavenly roses
From which one falls each night
To reward the sleeper who had the best dream.
Put your shoes on and lace up your stays
Put one of these roses on your bodice
And some pink on your lips
And now flutter your fan
So that on earth there may still be
Nights to follow the days
Days to follow the nights.

–translated by Glauco Cambon

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