rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

A Brief Chill

Mars has revealed itself, trailing the waning moon. Tonight, its steady, red light has been a reminder of heat in a chilled air more suited to the cooler stars that flickered blue, or to the cold, pale light of the moon itself. Summer driven back for a few hours, the cricket's rhythm slowed, and little scent was coaxed from the jasmine's white blossoms. The woodpeckers wake and make sounds of complaint. All the clouds have fled. Nothing in the sky will moderate the sun once it rises. The cold night was an aberration. I close the windows and deny the gray light of morning.



Sunday Verse


Le Tombeau de Charles Baudelaire


by Stephane Mallarme


The buried temple reveals by the sewer's dark
sepulchral mouth slavering mud and rubies
abominably some idol of Anubis
all the muzzle flaming like a ferocious bark

or if the recent gas twists a squinting wick
that puts up with who knows what dubious
disgrace it haggardly lights an immortal pubis
whose flight depends on the streetlight to say awake

What dried wreaths in cities without evening
votively could bless as if could sit
vainly against the marble of Baudelaire

(in the veil that clothes the absent with shudderings)
this his Shade even a poison tutelar
ever to be breathed though we die of it.


-translated by C.F. MacIntyre




And an alternate translation....



The Tomb of Charles Baudelaire


The shrouded temple divulges through its sepulchral
Mouth a running drain of filth and ruby
Abominable as some Anubian idol
The whole snout aflame as a fierce barking.

Or as the recent gas-light twists the dubious wick
Wiped, one knows, of the suffered opprobrium
It lights up, haggard, an immortal pubis
Whose flight, after its reflection, stays out all night

What dry leaves in the cities without evening
Votive, will be able to bless as she who settles herself again
Vainly against the marble of Baudelaire

In the veil which circles her, absent, with shivering
She is his own Shade- a tutelary poison
Always to breathe though we perish by it.


-translation by Theodore Holmes
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