Friday, August 19, 2016

WINK! The translations of the sonnet.

Sonnet du Trou du Cul
Arthur Rimbaud et Paul Verlaine 1871-72
Obscur et froncé comme un œillet violet
Il respire, humblement tapi parmi la mousse
Humide encor d’amour qui suit la fuite douce
Des Fesses blanches jusqu’au cœur de son ourlet.

Des filaments pareils à des larmes de lait
Ont pleuré, sous le vent cruel qui les repousse,
À travers de petits caillots de marne rousse
Pour s’aller perdre où la pente les appelait.

Mon Rêve s’aboucha souvent à sa ventouse ;
Mon âme, du coït matériel jalouse,
En fit son larmier fauve et son nid de sanglots.

C’est l’olive pâmée, et la flûte caline ;
C’est le tube où descend la céleste praline :
Chanaan féminin dans les moiteurs enclos !

The Idole,
Sonnet of an Arsehole
Crouching and pleated like a violet/eyelet
It breathes, modestly nestled in the moss,
still moist with love's trail of gentle loss
flowing down snowy flanks to its flowery heart.

Trickles, like tears of milky rope,
are wept on the cruel wind that propels them
through the little clots of the russet fen
to be lost down the beckoning slope

My dreams kiss often its wet cup
My soul, jealouse of its ability to fuck
Made of it a nest of tears, a musky duct

It is the swooning date and the caressing flute
it is the tube where descends the celestial fruit
A feminine promised land in moistness shut

Translation by Adrienne Gaha 2016

The Idole,
Sonnet of an Arsehole
Obscur and creased like a violet carnation
He breathes, in humble crawl among the moss
Love moist following the soft escape
From white curves in the heart of its hem

Filaments resembling milky tears
Have wept under the cruel wind rebuking
Through small clots of reddish marl
To be later found lost in the slope calling

My Dream often clenched to its sucker
My soul, material coit jaleousing
Made him its fawn lacrum and its nest of sobbing

The olive is swooning and the flute caressing
The tube in which descends the celeste praline
Feminine canaan locked in moisture enclosure

Translation by Celine Jeanne 2016

Sonnet du Trou du Cul (redux)
Cryptic and creased this purple whorl,
Exhales, hidden humble amongst airy moss
Still damp from soft flights of love
Pale orbs tilting into the lips of its heart.

Milky tears as filaments
Wept, the cruel wind impels them away
Across the small earthy clumps,
To lose themselves where the dunes' slopes beckon.

My dream has oft supped at this lacuna;
My soul jealous of such corporeal exchange,
Wild tears in this nest of wails.

An olive swooning, a beckoning flute
The rush where descends a celestial treat:
Over-flowing feminine banquet, in secret musty cellars!

Translation by Gabrielle Longmate 2016

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