Marasme

(Doldrums)

This is my first attempt at a “serious” poem in French. It’s kind of a thematic bar-fight between Charles Baudelaire (l’Albatros) and Jacques Prévert (Pour faire le portrait d’un oiseau). The bar is owned by Sam Coleridge (The Rime of the Ancient Mariner) who is (thematically) warning them not to break any furniture. Herman Melville is there, too. He’s probably just witnessing dreamily.

Actually, you won’t see any of the fighters directly. You might get something different out of Marasme if you read the poems I’ve mentioned — and if you haven’t read “Rime”, where have you been for the last two and a quarter centuries? — but their ideas and images duke it out. If the poem doesn’t stand on its own, then it isn’t a very good poem. Or, as Jacques says: “If the bird doesn’t sing, it’s a bad sign.”

I hope this bird sings.

Marasme

Parfois, quand la mer dort, quand les voiles retombent vides
Comme un ventre affamé, le vaisseau songe au vent
Et l'hébétude accable l'équipage sans un guide,
Alors, un albatros fend le ciel lentement.

Regardez ! Les marins capturèrent l'oiseau blanc,
Ils le lièrent au pont tandis que les mouettes s'alarmaient,
Insensibles au destin du vieux maudit d'antan,
Ils le regardèrent alors que ses ailes luttaient. 

Tandis que les autres s'amusaient
recueilli et serein
dans le ventre du voilier
se tenait un marin 
–appelons-le Ismaël –
assis sur un baril,
et qui pour Noël
sculptait un jouet
pour sa fille – 
  quelque chose de simple -
  quelque chose de joli -
  quelque chose d'aimé -
  quelque chose de libre –
un oiseau de bois flotté blanchi
sans défaut ;
les ailes se formaient
sous son couteau.

Soudain, il entendit, d'au-dessus, une rumeur.
Alors, il jaillit de l'écoutille, voyant 
l'oiseau magnifique luttant, mais sans peur 
pour regagner les cieux, sa vraie demeure.
Puis Ismaël, sans un mot, la lame dans la main
coupa d'un coup les cordes qui le retenaient.
Il regarda l'oiseau s'élever au lointain
et se retourna pour reprendre sa sculpture.

Ils regardèrent l'oiseau disparaître au loin,
les marins éveillés, les honteux marins,
Ils reprirent leur travail sur les voiles de canevas –
et enfin, le vent se leva.

A rough translation -

Doldrums

Sometimes, when the sea sleeps; when the sails fall empty
Like the bellies of starvelings, the ship dreams of wind
And a stupor abandons the crew without a guide -
Then an albatross slowly splits the sky.

Look! The mariners have captured the white bird,
They have bound it to the deck while the gulls scream warnings,
Not thinking of the curse of the ancient mariner from long ago,
They watch while the wings struggle.

While the others amuse themselves,
calm and serene
in the belly of the vessel
there is a sailor 
– let's call him Ishmael -
seated on a barrel
and who for Christmas
was sculpting a toy
for his daughter:
   something simple -
   something pretty -
   something made with love -
   something free –
a bird of bleached driftwood,
flawless ;
the wings were forming
under his blade. 

Suddenly he heard, above decks, a ruckus.
At once he burst through the hatch seeing
the magnificent bird struggling, but without fear
to regain the skies, its true kingdom.
Then Ishmael, wordlessly, blade in hand,
with a single blow, cut the ropes that trapped it.
He watched the bird fly into the distance
and returned to finish his sculpture.

They watched the bird disappear into the distance,
the awakened sailors, the shamefaced sailors,
they went back to their work on the canvas sails
and at last, the wind returned.