Paul Verlaine Poetry

In That Cafe Crowded with Fools We Stood

In that cafe crowded with fools we stood
Just us two for the hideous turpitude
of liking men; they never thought, the cunts.
We sat on their dim-witted innocence
Their standard loves, their tiny gold rules
While holding to our principles and tools
We swung and parried to our heart's content
Veiled in a cloud on peaceful pipes had sent
Like Zeus and Hera in their nebulous bed
Till our two Punch noses glad and red
Wiped by our fingers with delightful squeezed
Under our table jetted great white sneezes.

Moonlight

Your soul is like a painter's landscape where charming masks in shepherd mummeries are playing lutes and dancing with an air of being sad in their fantastic guise. Even while they sing, all in a minor key, of love triumphant and life's careless boon, they seem in doubt of their felicity, their song melts in the calm light of the moon, the lovely melancholy light that sets the little birds to dreaming in the tree and among the statues makes the jets of slender fountains sob with ecstacy.
-- translated by C. F. MacIntyre

Pensionnaires

The one was fifteen years old, the other sixteen
And they both slept in the same little room.
It happened on an oppressive
September eve--
Fragile things! blue-eyed with cheeks of ivory.
To cool their frail bodies each removed
Her dainty chemise fresh with the perfume of amber.
The younger raised her hands and bent backwards,
And her sister, her hands on her breasts, kissed her.
Then fell on her knees, and, in a frenzy,
Grasped her limbs to her cheek, and her mouth
Caressed the blonde gold within the grey shadows:
And during all that time the younger counted
On her darling fingers the promised waltzes,
And, blushing, smiled innocently.
--translated by Francois Pirous

Parsifal

Parsifal has overcome the gently babbling daughters
Who'd distract him to desire; despite fleshly delight
That might lure the virgin youth, the temptation
To love their swelling breasts and gentle babble;
He has vanquished fair Womankind, of subtle heart,
Her tender arms outstretched and her throat pale;
From harrowing Hell, he now returns triumphant,
Bearing a heavy trophy in his boyish hands,
With the spear that pierced the Saviour's side!
He who healed the King shall be himself enthroned,
As priest-king and guardian of the sacred treasure.
In golden robe he worships that sign of grace,
The pure vessel in which shines the Holy Blood. -
And, o those children's voices singing in the dome!

Related Posts by Categories

Widget by Simran