golempoem

Video kudos to Satterthwaite0

Paul Verlaine (b. 30 March 1844)

They told me, Francis Hinsley, they told me you were hung
With red protruding eye-balls and black protruding tongue;
I wept as I remembered how often you and I
Had laughed about Los Angeles and now ’tis here you’ll lie;
Here pickled in formaldehyde and painted like a whore,
Shrimp-pink incorruptible, not lost nor gone before.

–Evelyn Waugh, The Loved One

COUVRE-FEU

Que voulez-vous la porte était gardée
Que voulez-vous nous étions enfermés
Que voulez-vous la rue était barrée
Que voulez-vous la ville était matée
Que voulez-vous elle était affamée
Que voulez-vous nous étions désarmés
Que voulez-vous la nuit était tombée
Que voulez-vous nous nous sommes aimés.

—Paul Éluard

CURFEW
What did you expect the door was guarded
What did you expect we were locked in
What did you expect the street was barred
What did you expect the city was in check
What did you expect it was starving
What did you expect we were disarmed
What did you expect the night had fallen
What did you expect we were in love.

Translation by Lloyd Alexander

Photo credit: Tunnel of Love by idatewe

PROVIDE, PROVIDE
The witch that came (the withered hag)
To wash the steps with pail and rag,
Was once the beauty Abishag,

The picture pride of Hollywood.
Too many fall from great and good
For you to doubt the likelihood.

Die early and avoid the fate.
Or if predestined to die late,
Make up your mind to die in state.

Make the whole stock exchange your own!
If need be occupy a throne,
Where nobody can call you crone.

Some have relied on what they knew;
Others on simply being true.
What worked for them might work for you.

No memory of having starred
Atones for later disregard,
Or keeps the end from being hard.

Better to go down dignified
With boughten friendship at your side
Than none at all. Provide, provide!

–Robert Frost (b. 26 March 1874)

Photo credit: R. Frost in Snow by misterbisson

INNOMMÉ TOUJOURS . . .
Innommé toujours est le monde, hors de nous
la vasque où le saule prend racine, où le cerf
vient boire, hors de nous l’axe qui joint les vertèbres,
hors de nous la glande florale, et la chevelure
qui tombe du miroir au sommet.

-Robert Marteau

UNNAMED ALWAYS . . .
Unnamed always is the world, outside of us
the basin where the willow takes root, where the stag
comes to drink, outside of us the axis that joins the verterbrae,
outside of us the floral gland and the long hair
that falls from the mirror at the zenith.

Translation by Louis Simpson

Photo credit: Mirror shot by delviking

Video kudos: aleeNL

…Vogon poems?

Because we can! Here’s what the Vogon poem generator wrote for me:

See, see the tiny sky
Marvel at its big phlegm depths.
Tell me, Bertilak, do you
Wonder why the rhinoceros ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel wobbly.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your fragdilious facial growth
That looks like
A pudding.
What’s more, it knows
Your schrod potting shed
Smells of a little green knight.
Everything under the big tiny sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm sturgeons.–

Памяти М. А. Булгакова

Вот это я тебе взамен могильных роз,
Взамен кадильного куренья;
Ты так сурово жил и до конца донес
Великолепное презренье.

Ты пил вино, ты, как никто, шутил
И в душных стенах задыхался,
И гостью страшную ты сам к себе впустил
И с ней наедине остался.

И нет тебя, и все вокруг молчит
О скорбной и высокой жизни,
Лишь голос мой, как флейта, прозвучит
И на твоей безмолвной тризне.

О, кто поверить смел, что полоумной мне,
Мне, плакальщице дней погибших,
Мне, тлеющей на медленном огне,
Всех потерявшей, все забывшей, -

Придется поминать того, кто, полный сил,
И светлых замыслов, и воли,
Как будто бы вчера со мною говорил,
Скрывая дрожь предсмертной боли.

—Анна Ахматова

Mарт 1940, Фонтанный Дом

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NOTRE DAME

Where a Roman judge framed laws for alien folk
A basilica stands, original, exulting,
Each nerve stretched taut along the light cross vaulting,
Each muscle flexing, like Adam when he first woke.

If you look from outside you grasp the hidden plan:
Strong saddle-girth arches watchfully forestall
The ponderous mass from shattering the wall
And hold in check the bold vault’s battering ram.

A primal labyrinth, a wood past men’s understanding,
The Gothic spirit’s rational abyss,
Brute strength of Egypt and a Christian meekness,
Thin reed beside oak and the plumb line everywhere king.

Stronghold of Notre Dame, the more my attentive eyes
Studied your gigantic ribs and frame
Then the more often this reflection came:
From cruel weight, I too will someday make beauty rise.

–Osip Mandelstam

Translation by Robert Tracy

Photo credit: Inside Notre Dame by BiLK_Thorn

Video kudos:  dishlexicman