by Alain-Fournier, Henri; Costello, Anthony; Howell, Anthony
A parasol
Of satin.
A stain of red,
A breeze to seize
Your hat in.
Through hot shade
A fleeting glint
Of emerald.
All’s fresh out here
And on the breeze
The merest hint
Of coastal trees.
A burning though
At noon,
A running tide,
A lighthouse too –
So Isabelle,
You have no need
Merely to dream
Of being freed.
I THINK OF THOSE
I think of those who remain
Frail and brown in their drawing rooms
At the grey hour
The lamps already lit …
Those little dresses and dishevelled silks …
Our girls.
I think of later hours,
The slow tollings of departure
Urging steps towards the sea,
And the tears that rise
To fill those lucid eyes.
THE GRIEFS OF SUMMER
Sunday
The curtains are drawn at desolate junctions …
The fresh? They’ve abandoned their spinning, gone outside
For the freshness and the gaiety of far-off greenery …
… Somewhere inside, a sobbing piano …
*
This morning too, because it’s summer now,
One thought to have seen them smiling in white.
Already, this morning, the bells have rung out
Because of course it’s Sunday …
*
Sunlit despair of these desolate afternoons,
Dust … silence … glimmer of dead gaiety.
Days of lowered curtains, sad as any winter!
… And mournfulness here, and exhaustion, and the notes
Of that piano, somewhere, the sob of the forgotten.
ADOLESCENTS
(To Monsieur M. Maeterlinck)
‘And seek quietly
With your bloodied hands for what grates on you in the dark.’
About that hill, made drunk with spring,
Having sensed for far too long the dreaming pines
And watched them darken far from town
We went down … in the evening … into spring.
We were twenty then, in our thousands.
Our love-sobs strayed across the town.
*
We had crossed each threshold with its arbour,
And brushed against that dear old soul,
The keeper of the path, the hamlet’s lullaby
And reader of the dances in the hearth at eventide.
With villages quietly breathing as
We fell to the gathering of the branches …
*
The glory of the sunset is soon spent,
And in the valley, there is too much moonlight.
The town has gone out, and we go now, less fleet,
Our soles full of holes from the gravel.
Through weeping woods, unsung by any doves,
We stride towards our death with bleeding feet.
*
Hello there! My heart has lost sight of the troupe.
My heart, it’s as cold as the moon alone on the moor.
Who’s going to show me my route for the dawn?
Who will come to carry down the linen and the lavender?
Along the roads, the carts tonight were bell-like drops
Of shaken light. They’re gone now from the moor,
And no Samaritan comes past, as maybe came before.
*
Hello there! Something towers here:
Its shadow wafts across the moor:
A mystery that’s there before the dawn!
And in my heart and with each hand
(I find good roads across this land,
How crisp the tone of bells on this new route!
How crisp the tone, when singing of the dawn!)
– And in my heart and in each hand,
In the dusk before dawn, all over the moor,
More lavender found than ever before.
Thrilling the blood, and in each hand
Your marvellous hair, my Melisande!
THE SHOWER
‘a tuft of flowers that trembles with tears.’
(A. Samain)
The rain brings the children inside as if routed.
The night is slow and fresh with the silence of roads.
In the garden, drop by drop, my heart pours itself out.
She is so discrete and pure, but do I dare
Take the risk of loving her? Lovely, please don’t delay!
Just come and open the gate one damp evening in May.
*
Timidly, with fingers you mistrust, which tremble now,
You will push it open a little, delighted
By love and by freshness, but with an iota of fright.
The lilacs are heavy with rain at the gate;
Who knows if these, inclining, full of what to declare,
Will quite be able to stop themselves weeping onto your hair?
*
You’ll wander gently down the length of the borders
Picking out flowers to put wherever you may
And make of my shivery feelings, a bouquet;
Be careful, though, when crossing to the spot
Where the weeds, tonight, betray a strange allure,
Where the weeds are maddened, dying of their dreams …
What if you were to wet your little feet!
*
The high jinks, they’re all done,
The mad weeds fast asleep.
The scents of the paths are fading,
And you can come, my welcome one.
All evening, wisely, you will go down the allée,
Warm with love, with petals and dew in your way.
You’ll rest your elbows over the brook of my heart,
Unbind your gatherings, flower by flower,
Innocent jasmine, pansies proud from the bower,
And the whole evening’s humid, scented dark
Bursting with springtime, showers and delight,
Will be embellished on this peaceful stretch:
Sprigs and flowers turning as they roll towards the night.
TALE OF THE SUN AND THE ROAD
(To a little girl)
There’s a little more shade in the squares
Beneath their chestnut trees,
There’s a little more sun beating down now on the road.
In ranks of two, a wedding passes by
On this stifling afternoon − a long bridal procession
In all its country finery, remarked upon by everyone.
Look how lost in the midst of it all are the children,
Their fears and upsets ignored.
I think about the One, and one little boy who resembles me.
A light spring morning, under the aspens,
Mild sky scented with dog roses.
He is alone, although he’s been invited,
And at this summer wedding he says to himself,
‘What if they place me in line next to her,
The lovely one who makes me whimper in my bed?’
(Mothers, do you wonder of an evening,
About the tears, the sadness, the passions of your children?)
‘I’ll wear my big white hat made of straw,
My arm may be touched by the lace of her sleeve,’
As I dream her dream in my Sunday best.
‘What a love-filled summer’s day we’ll see!
She’ll be sweetly leaning, on my arm.
I’ll take little steps – I’ll hold her parasol
And softly say to her, “Mademoiselle …”
But firstly, well, in the evening, perhaps,
If we’ve walked a long way, if the evening is fresh,
&nb
sp; I will dare take her hand, I will hold it so tight.
I will speak the truth until I’m out of breath,
And closely now, without the need to fret,
I will say words so tender
That her eyes will go all wet,
And with none to eavesdrop, she will answer …’
Thus it is I dream, as my current glances fall
On a mundane groom together with his bride,
Such as one views on any baking noon,
Poised above the steps of a town hall
Then spilling out to music onto the blinding street,
Trailing several couples en cortège,
All in their first-time outfits;
Dream, in the dust of this processional affair,
Where two by two go by, the girls with their noses in the air,
Girls in their white, with lace-embroidered sleeves,
And the boys from the big cities, maladroit,
Gripping gauche bouquets of artificial flowers;
I dream about those small forgotten boys;
Panicked, placed last minute with no one in particular;
Dream about the village boys, those impassioned lads
Jostled at a rhythmic pace in these absurd parades;
– Of others caught up in the rhythmical process, confident
And pulled along, heading for a liveliness
Which loves to make a noise, peal without a purpose.
– Of the very smallest – going up and down the rows,
Who can’t find their mummies, and one above all
Who looks just like me, like me. More and more,
Above all else, it’s him I see, as the sun heats up for joy;
This boy who has lost to that dusty wind that blows,
His nice new hat, of crisp silk-banded straw,
And I see him on the road, chasing after it,
And lost to the march past of belles with their beaus
Runs after it – despite their jeers – runs after it, blinded
By the sun, and by the dust and by his tears.
ON THE GREAT GREY ROAD
‘I am closer to you in the dark’
(Pelléas et Mélisande, act IV, scene 3)
On that great grey road
To which we have been led by our two byways
Here we are, both caught by shower and storm and night.
With no shelter in sight.
We’ll have to take to the ruts,
Seek from these detours the initial lights
Of some far-off land …
We’ll have to head on, hand in hand,
Travelling the grey months,
Lost among the major roads in front of us,
At night …
*
We can’t read the edges of those roads,
We can’t read them because of the night,
Because of the starless night, because of the downpour.
*
And before this, we went on, oh so blindly confident,
Pleased with the way things were going, pleased with our lives,
As if we were two little children
On the village street, beneath a great umbrella.
*
We’ll take a chance, the two of us, a shadow at a step,
And never blame each other for the night, in the wood,
For the night on our tracks, the night where things get lost.
And then I’ll say, ‘Come close to me, closer,’
Frightened of losing you now,
Since you have dared to accept my hand tonight
In the frightening dark, with timid fingers too.
So as not to be scared, you let me lead the way for you.
*
We’ll get side-tracked sometimes, you and I,
Sometimes find a puddle soaks our ankles;
Flurries of wind, rain and branches hold us up,
And blind our eyes. And we won’t want the rain
To last much longer, even if the rain is, in a sense,
The sole sad friend of those who find themselves
Thinking, wide awake, until the dawn,
Who, in bed, alone, with fevered hands,
Listen to it, soothed. They like the company
Of its faint moan across the sleeping plain,
Its rustling in the garden all night long.
*
We shall travel for such hours, for such hours across the plain
And by the end, by the end, exhausted, out of breath,
With heavy heart, you cannot, no, you cannot take another step.
But then it’s me, quite suddenly, who will take the load off you,
Your efforts now supported by my lilting stride
Which will be almost like happiness, only because
Now it simply has to be that I take you in my arms.
And then, and then, it has to be those distant ones,
Those first distant glimmers of a place
My tired eyes have searched for, all night long,
Begin to shine, at peace; all of a sudden
The reassuring lamps of village and farmhouse
Lamps of the evening and distant night-lights brighten,
With the entrance, somewhere, to a tavern, brilliance
Of a hostelry, into which I will bring you, my companion,
Into that tavern over there, where for the rest of the night
I will have your heart against my heart …
And there, in those coarse sheets with the smell of the country
About them, where we rest our sorely troubled limbs,
Musing on the tranquil goodness of the land,
And going through the night before, and all those frightful roads
– Your skin will be so soft and warm and scented,
The soft tissue of love, your so belovèd body.
The flesh, in which one sleeps, utterly consoling me, your comfort
Will make of those sheets the linen of churches, delicate,
Divine. Sheets of silk and the golden ones one wraps
Carefully around the holy chalices, meant for the blood of those
‘Saddened even unto death,’ who take the stage
At some late hour, marked but with a cross
Where, silently they’ve passed away, leaving just a drop
Of humble blood, which women may collect
– So that this precious blood, dripping from their feet
Into those cold chalices, dripping from their gaunt,
Exhausted faces – so that the blood of these Christs
Will drip with less distress and with less cold.
ROUND DANCE
‘We won’t go back to the wood,
They’ve cut down all the laurels’
The evening’s soft, the round is wild,
Give me your hands, you playful child,
Come and dance beneath the limes.
Your skirts fly off to distant climes,
The evening’s blue, my spirit wild,
So turn again beneath the limes! …
*
Let’s turn until the chill sets in,
Dancing here with ‘the lovely one’.
*
The poppet joins the turning round
The square is brown, the dance is blond,
The doorsteps listen to the sound.
My spirit is that little blond;
Of wanderlust we’re not so fond,
Let’s stay and dance this local round.
*
Dance until the chill sets in,
Turning here with ‘the lovely one’.
*
One more, before we’re told to stop.
Yes, before we’re all grown up,
Let’s dance and then we’ll go to sleep.
A last dance under the chestnut trees,
A last dance, turning as we please
Till dying brings us to our knees …
*
Till dyi
ng brings us to our knees.
FROM SUMMER TO SUMMER
(To a young girl
To a house
To Francis Jammes)
Awaited so
Through summers listless in each yard,
Summers which pour down their ennui in silence
Under the ancient sun of my afternoon
Made ponderous through silence,
By loners, lost in visions of love:
Loving beneath the wisteria, its shade
Gracing the yard of some peaceful house
Hidden beneath branches
Spread across my own distances
And my own infantile summers:
Those who dream of love or weep for childhood.
It is you, it is you who have come to me,
This afternoon which lies
Baking in its avenues,
Come with a white parasol
And with a look of surprise,
Quite solemn as well,
And a little bent over,
As in my childhood
You might be, beneath a white parasol.
And of course you’re surprised that,
Without planning to have come
Or intending to be blond,
You have suddenly found yourself
