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Showing posts with label French Poets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French Poets. Show all posts

Thursday, 18 September 2025

Poet of the Month 104: JOSEPH D'ARBAUD

 

 

 
JOSEPH D'ARBAUD

1874 – 1950

 

 

 

 

 

RÉVERIE D'UN GARDIAN

[MUSINGS OF A HERDSMAN] 

 

 

 

Where are the clear light of the

  dawn and the gallop

Of horses neighing in the wind

  of the morning?

The fire throws onto the shining

  pewter of the dresser

Its soft warmth and the

  reflection of the flame.

 

The cat, asleep on my knees, is

purring;

  Listening to the flutter of the

wind amongst the brands,

  I think of all the fruits that I

have crushed in my mouth,

  I sit thinking of all the paths on

which I have gone astray.

 

My youth has gone as went the

  swallows

When they saw the mists come

  towards them above the sea

And the bowl is cracked and

  the wine is bitter

And in the failing body the soul

  sits solitary.

 

There was a time when in the

  little streets with white walls

Proudly I galloped in the

  midday heat,

Lance in hand the belt

  above the haunches.

 

There was a time when we left 

  the corrals at the break of day.

The girls clustering round the

  doors of the cabins

With their clear laughter wished

  us their good-days.

 

But, grave, rolled in our woollen

  burnouses,

In the breath of the dawn we

  pressed the bulls along

The rising sun shining on their

  horns.

 

Pride of the strong, swelling

  pride of the chieftains,

Thirst of the conqueror swooping

  down on conquered towns…

All these years were ours when we

  galloped before the door.

 

A-gallop, invincible, we swept

  into the arena

And the girls from the balconies

  clapped their hands for us.

 

Then when came evening

  before the calm of the night

Erect in our stirrups we drove

  out of that oval

Pressing before us the panting bulls

 

And the blood of the horses

  bathed our spurs.

 

 

 

 

Exact date of composition unspecified

Published some time between 1918 – 1950

 

 

 

 Translator unknown

but possibly

FORD MADOX FORD 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Use the link below to read more poems (translated into English) by Provençal poet and author JOSEPH D'ARBAUD:

 

 

 

 

https://www.jfbrun.eu/occitanpoetry/occitanpoetry_darbaud.htm 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You might also enjoy:

 

 

 

Poet of the Month 004: FORD MADOX FORD

 

 

 

Poet of the Month 050: FORD MADOX FORD

 

 

 

Poet of the Month 082: BERTOLT BRECHT

 

 

Friday, 11 October 2024

Poet of the Month 095: NADIA BEN SLIMA

 

 


NADIA BEN SLIMA

 c 2017

 

 

 

 

 

UNFATHOMABLE

 


When will you understand?

you are not what you fear

and fears do not appear

that make souls mute

troubles that you repaint 

of a naïve anguish

are not worth the intention

promised by your virtue 


 

The flowers suddenly have

the scent of your fear

and when you remember yourself

sorrow awakens

You make of it a home

ramparts of nothingness

When will you understand?

you are very much what pleases you



 

 

2016


Translated [very loosely] by

BR

 

 

see below for original French text





 

Born in 1980 in the Moselle region of France, Nadia Ben Slima spent her childhood and most of her adult life in Lorraine, Alsace and Franche-Comté in the east of the country.  She now lives in the northern city of Lille.  Drawn as much to science as she is to literature, Ben Slima has recently focused her energies on pursuing a scientific career, putting her passion for poetry on hold for the time being.

 

 

 

 

Use the link below to read more poems (only in French) by NADIA BEN SLIMA:

 

 

 

https://www.poetica.fr/categories/nadia-ben-slima/




 

 

 

You might also enjoy:



 

Poet of the Month 083: NGUYEN PHAN QUE MAI



 

Poet of the Month 044: ANTONIN ARTAUD



 

Poet of the Month 023: VICTOR HUGO





 

 

 

ABYSSAL

 

 

Quand comprendas-tu?

tu n'es pas ce que tu crains

et les peurs ne revêtent

que les âmes muette

les peines que tu repeins

d'une angoisse ingénue

ne valent pas le dessein

promis par ta vertu

 

 

Les fleurs ont soudain

le parfum de ta peur

et quand tu te souviens

s'agite le chagrin 

tu en fais ta demeure

des remparts de riens

Quand comprendras-tu?

tu es bien ce qui te plaît



2016

 

 

Thursday, 6 June 2024

Poet of the Month 092: SAMUEL BECKETT

 

 

SAMUEL BECKETT, c 1938


 

 

 

 

ASCENSION

 

 

through the thin partition

that day when the child

prodigal in his way

returned to his family

I hear the voice

she is moved she comments

on the football world cup

 

still too young

 

at the same time through the open window

directly from the air

dully

the gathering of the faithful 

 

blood spurted abundantly 

onto the sheets onto the scented sweetpeas onto her man

with his disgusting fingers he closed the lids

of the large green astonished eyes

 

she prowls lightly

above my airy tomb

 

 

 

[1938] 

 

 

 

Translated (very loosely) by

BR

 

 

 

See below for original French text

 

 

 

 

 

This poem, included in a letter sent to his literary agent George Reavey in June 1938, is Beckett's reflection on the death of his cousin and lover Peggy Sinclair.  Peggy was his first love and her death, at the age of twenty-two, on 3 May 1933 from the lung disease tuberculosis had a profound effect on the young, ill and then unemployed Irishman — someone still struggling to recover from the recent, equally traumatizing death of his father.  

 

Written on or around Ascension Day to commemorate the fifth anniversary of Peggy's tragic passing, Ascension was described by Seàn Lawlor and John Pilling, the editors of the 2012 Critical Edition of Beckett's Collected Poems, as 'a particularly striking, and even shocking poem.'  

 

It is certainly a poem haunted by Peggy's ghost and shows Beckett coming as close as he arguably ever did in his work to directly addressing the feelings of grief her loss inspired in him.  But there are also the 'shockingly' prosaic elements of the radio playing, the announcer giving details of the 1933 World Cup and Peggy herself commenting on them, perhaps with her dying breath.  Reference is also made to her fiancée, a German named Heiner Starcke, who may well have been there at the end to close her eyes with his 'disgusting' fingers.  (This may have been a reference to the blood that 'spurted abundantly' from her dying body and landed on Starcke's hands.)  The final lines speak of unrest, with the dead girl — or at least her memory — 'prowling' around the 'tomb' which is the room Beckett is writing in and that he views, in some sense, as being his own tomb as well.

 

 

 

 

Use the link below to visit the website of Irish playwright, novelist and poet SAMUEL BECKETT (1906-1989):



https://www.samuel-beckett.net/

 

 

 

 

 

 

You might also enjoy:

 

 

Poet of the Month 085: KAY BOYLE

 

 

Poet of the Month 056: TS ELIOT

 

 

Poet of the Month 005: FRANÇOIS VILLON

 

 

 

 

 

 

ASCENSION

 

 

à travers la mince cloison

ce jour où un enfant

prodigue à sa façon

rentra dans sa famille

j'entends la voix

elle est émue elle commente

la coupe du monde de football

 

toujours trop jeune

 

en même temps par la fenêtre ouverte

par les airs tout court

sourdement

la houle des fidèles 


son sang gicla avec abondance

sur les draps sur les pois de senteur sur son mec

de ses doigts dégôutants il ferma les paupières

sur les grands yeux verts étonnés


elle rôde légère

sur ma tombe d'air




[1938]

 

  

Thursday, 4 April 2024

The Write Advice 194: ANDRÉ BRETON

 

Put yourself in as passive, or receptive, a state of mind as you can.  Forget about your genius, your talents, and the talents of everyone else.  Keep reminding yourself that literature is one of the saddest roads that leads to everything.  Write quickly, without any preconceived subject, fast enough so that you will not remember what you’re writing and be tempted to re-read what you have written.

 

Manifesto of Surrealism (1924) 

 

 

 

 

 

Use the link below to read about the life and work of French surrealist writer and poet ANDRÉ BRETON (1896–1966): 

 

 

https://www.artnet.com/artists/andr%C3%A9-breton/

 

 

 

 

You might also enjoy:

 

 

The Write Advice 172: ANDRÉ GIDE

 

 

The Write Advice 158: ANDRÉ MAUROIS

 

 

The Write Advice 125: FRANÇOISE SAGAN

 

 

Thursday, 21 December 2017

Poet of the Month 044: ANTONIN ARTAUD



ANTONIN ARTAUD
c 1925








 
LOVE WITHOUT RESPITE

 
 
This triangle of thirsty water
this road without signposts
Madame, and the sight of your masts
on this sea where I drown
 

The messages of your hair
the broadsides from your lips
this storm which carries me away
in the wake of your eyes.
 

This final shadow, on the shore
Where life takes respite, and the wind,
And the horrible standing about
of the crowd on my route.
 

When I lift my eyes toward you
one could say that the earth trembles,
and the fires of love come to resemble
the caresses of your spouse. 
 
   
 
 
 
 
The Umbilicus of Limbo
 
1925



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Translated (with difficulty) by  
 
BR

 
 
 
 
see end of post for original French text






 
 
 
 
Use the links below to read about the life and work of French dramatist, actor, poet and theatrical theorist ANTONIN ARTAUD (1896–1948) and more of his poems (in French) on the free poetry site Un Jour Un Poème:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
Use this link to hear the song Antonin Artaud by 1980s UK goth-rock pioneers BAUHAUS.  The lyrics (by DAVID J) are highly reminiscent of the poet's own work and are certainly worth reading for that reason alone:
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
You might also enjoy:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 






ANTONIN ARTAUD 
c 1947






 
L'AMOUR SANS TRÊVES


 
 
Ce triangle d’eau qui a soif
cette route sans écriture
Madame, et le signe de vos mâtures
sur cette mer où je me noie
 

Les messages de vos cheveux
le coup de fusil de vos lèvres
cet orage qui m’enlève
dans le sillage de vos yeux.
 

Cette ombre enfin, sur le rivage
où la vie fait trêve, et le vent,
et l’horrible piétinement
de la foule sur mon passage.
 

Quand je lève les yeux vers vous
on dirait que le monde tremble,
et les feux de l’amour ressemblent
aux caresses de votre époux.
 



 
 
 
L'Ombilic des limbes
 
 1925
 
 
 

Thursday, 25 December 2014

Poet of the Month 023: VICTOR HUGO



VICTOR HUGO
1853





 
 
 
EXILE


 
 
If I could see, oh my homeland,
Your almond trees and your lilacs,
And tread upon your verdant grass,
Alas !


 
If I could, –– but, oh my father,
oh my mother, I cannot, ––
Take for my bed your stone,
Alas !


 
In the cold coffin which encloses you,
If I could speak softly there,
My brother Abel, my brother Eugène,
Alas !


 
If I could, oh my dove,
And you, mother, who flew away,
If I could kneel on your tomb,
Alas !


 
Oh, towards the solitary star,
I would raise these arms of mine!
As I would kiss the earth,
Alas !


 
Far from you, oh deaths that I cry,
From the black waves I hear the knell;
I would like to flee, but here I remain,
Alas !


 
Still fate, hidden in the shadows,
Deceives itself if, counting my footsteps,
It believes this gloomy old walker
Is weary of life.


 
 
 
? 1855


 
 
 
Translated by 
 
BR





 

Victor Marie Hugo – the writer who, more than any other, would come to embody the republican spirit and political idealism of nineteenth century France was born in the city of Besançon, capital of the eastern Franche-Comté region, on 28 February 1802.  The son of a general who served unsuccessfully as a provincial governor in Italy and Spain under Napoleon I, Hugo grew up largely under the influence of his Catholic and staunchly Royalist mother, with much of his early work reflecting her beliefs in the teachings of the Church and the natural supremacy of France's dethroned Bourbon monarchy.  So great was the influence his mother exerted on Hugo that he waited a full year after she died to marry his 'secret' fiancée, a Parisian neighbor named Adèle Foucher whom he'd known since childhood and who would, in time, go on to bear him five children.  The 1843 death of his eldest daughter, nineteen year old Léopoldine, as the result of a boating accident in Normandy would haunt him for the rest of his life and inspire what are probably his two best-known poems, the elegies Demain dés l'aube [Tomorrow in the Dawn] and À Villequier [At Villequier, the town where his daughter died].

 

Hugo began his literary career as a poet, publishing his first volume of verse Odes et poésies diverses [Odes and Various Poems] in 1822.  While these early poems were impressive enough to secure their twenty year old author a pension from the newly-restored King Louis XVIII it was not until his fourth collection Odes et Ballades [Odes and Ballads] appeared in 1826 that he truly consolidated his position as the nation's leading lyric poet.  By this time Hugo had also published two novels, neither of which contained the strong political element that would become so evident in the works – Notre-Dame de Paris (1831) and Les Misérables (1862) among them – for which he's chiefly remembered today outside France

 

It would take the poet's 1841 election to L'Academie Française [The French Academy] to make a recognizable political figure of him, with his subsequent elevation to a peerage by King Louis-Philippe seeing him become an impassioned speaker in the French parliament on issues ranging from child welfare to education reform to the abolition of the death penalty.  Still a conservative monarchist at heart, it would take the December 1851 seizing of power by his one-time political ally Napoleon III to transform him into an anti-monarchist radical.  He called the new self-styled 'Emperor' a traitor to France and fled from Paris to Brussels (with the help of his lover, the renowned actress Juliette Drouet) in the hope of escaping arrest, soon relocating to the British-held island of Jersey when it became apparent that Belgian authorities were reluctant to displease their larger, more powerful neighbor by granting him permanent political asylum.  His stay in Jersey ended in 1856 when he signed his name to an article in an emigré newspaper which poked fun at a visit the reigning British monarch Queen Victoria had recently made to Paris.  After this, Hugo and his family were forced to flee again to the nearby Channel Island of Guernsey –– the island that would remain their home for the next fifteen years. 

 

It was during Hugo's time on Guernsey that he wrote, completed or published the majority of the works for which he's now chiefly celebrated, including the poetry collections Les Contemplations [Contemplations] (1856), Les Chansons des rues et des bois [Songs of the Streets and the Forests] (1865) and La Legende des siecles [The Legend of the Ages] (1877), the novels Les Misérables (1862), Les Travailleurs de la mer [The Workers of the Sea] (1866), L'Homme qui rit [The Man Who Laughed] (1869) and Quatre-Vingt-Treize [Ninety-Three] (1874) as well as the book-length literary study William Shakespeare (1864).  In addition to his literary work, Hugo also produced many political pamphlets among them the lacerating Napoleon le Petit [Napoleon the Small] (1852) – which continued his fierce criticism of the 'treacherous' behavior of Napoleon III.  These works were smuggled into France and secretly distributed to every city and town, their popularity confirming Hugo's status as the country's most beloved artist and most influential exile –– a status some believe may have prompted the Emperor to grant what became a general amnesty to all political exiles in 1859.  

 

Hugo, however, did not return to France until Napoleon III was deposed and the French Third Republic was officially proclaimed on 4 September 1870.  Upon his return to Paris, he was instantly elected to serve in the nation's newly-convened National Assembly as well as in its Senate, maintaining his seats in both throughout the ensuing Franco-Prussian War and the widespread hardship caused by Prussia's decision to blockade the capital.  Food became so scarce as the blockade continued that Hugo, along with his fellow citizens, was forced to eat the animals housed in the Paris Zoo and, when these ran out, to dine on what, in his diary, he enigmatically classified as 'the unknown.'  

 

Famous as he was, Hugo failed to regain his seat in the National Assembly when he stood for reelection to it in 1872.  This disappointment was quickly followed by the institutionalizing of his remaining daughter Adèle (his wife, for whom the girl had been named, had died in 1868) and the deaths of both his sons.  The writer himself lived for another thirteen years and, despite suffering a mild stroke in 1876, even served as a Senator again –– a term that was considered a failure due to his inability to make any serious headway on the issue of introducing practical and permanent social reform.  He died, from pneumonia, on 22 May 1885, his state funeral becoming one of the largest France has ever seen, with an estimated two million people following his casket through the streets of Paris from the Arc de Triomphe to its final resting place in the Panthéon.  

 

In 1926, the poet was recognized as one of the three 'major saints' of what was then the newly-created Cao Dai religion of Vietnam.

 

 

 

 

Use the link below to download many works by French poet, novelist and political activist VICTOR HUGO:

 

 

http://www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/h#a85

 

 

 

 

 

You might also enjoy:

 

 
Poet of the Month 005: FRANÇOIS VILLON

 

 

 
Poet of the Month 017: CAASHA LUL MOHAMUD YUSUF

 

 

 
Poet of the Month 016: WB YEATS





 
 
 
EXIL

 
 
 
Si je pouvais voir, ô patrie,
Tes amandiers et tes lilas,
Et fouler ton herbe fleurie,
Hélas !


 
Si je pouvais, - mais, ô mon père,
O ma mère, je ne peux pas, –
Prendre pour chevet votre pierre,
Hélas !


 
Dans le froid cercueil qui vous gêne,
Si je pouvais vous parler bas,
Mon frère Abel, mon frère Eugène,
Hélas !


 
Si je pouvais, ô ma colombe,
Et toi, mère, qui t'envolas,
M'agenouiller sur votre tombe,
Hélas !


 
Oh ! vers l'étoile solitaire,
Comme je lèverais les bras !
Comme je baiserais la terre,
Hélas !


 
Loin de vous, ô morts que je pleure,
Des flots noirs j'écoute le glas ;
Je voudrais fuir, mais je demeure,
Hélas !


 
Pourtant le sort, caché dans l'ombre,
Se trompe si, comptant mes pas,
Il croit que le vieux marcheur sombre
Est las.


 
 
 
? 1855