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Lute : voyages II by Hart Crane on June 5—And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;
Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends
As her demeanors motion well or ill,
All but the pieties of lovers' hands.
And onward, as bells off San Salvador
Salute the crocus lustres of the stars,
In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,—
Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal,
Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.
Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours,
And hasten while her penniless rich palms
Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,—
Hasten, while they are true,—sleep, death, desire,
Close round one instant in one floating flower.
Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe.
O minstrel galleons of Carib fire,
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal's wide spindrift gaze toward paradise.
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on Invitation to the Voyage by Charles Baudelaire, on August 12, 2007Invitation to the Voyage
My child, my sister,
Think of the rapture
Of living together there!
Of loving at will,
Of loving till death,
In the land that is like you!
The misty sunlight
Of those cloudy skies
Has for my spirit the charms,
So mysterious,
Of your treacherous eyes,
Shining brightly through their tears.
There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.
Gleaming furniture,
Polished by the years,
Will ornament our bedroom;
The rarest flowers
Mingling their fragrance
With the faint scent of amber,
The ornate ceilings,
The limpid mirrors,
The oriental splendor,
All would whisper there
Secretly to the soul
In its soft, native language.
There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.
See on the canals
Those vessels sleeping.
Their mood is adventurous;
It's to satisfy
Your slightest desire
That they come from the ends of the earth.
— The setting suns
Adorn the fields,
The canals, the whole city,
With hyacinth and gold;
The world falls asleep
In a warm glow of light.
There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
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on Invitation to the Voyage by Charles Baudelaire, on August 12, 2007
L'invitation au voyage
L'invitation au voyage
Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur
D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
Des meubles luisants,
Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre;
Les plus rares fleurs
Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre,
Les riches plafonds,
Les miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
Tout y parlerait
À l'âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;
C'est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.
— Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
D'hyacinthe et d'or;
Le monde s'endort
Dans une chaude lumière.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
— Charles Baudelaire
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on Educating Gallus by Sextus Propertius, on August 3, 2007O sweet dream,
when I saw your first love:
witness,
there, to your tears!
O what sweet pleasure
for me to remember that night,
O the one so often summoned by my longing,
when I saw you dying, Gallus, in your girl’s arms, uttering words with long pauses!
Though sleep pressed on my weary lids,
and the Moon blushed,
drawn through mid-heaven,
I still could not draw back from your play,
there was so much ardour in your exchanges.
But, since you were not afraid to let me,
accept your reward for the joy of trust.
I’ve not only learnt to be silent about your pain, there is something greater in me,
my friend,
than loyalty. I can join parted lovers again,
and open a mistress’s reluctant door.
I can heal someone’s fresh wounds:
the power of my words is not slight.
Cynthia repeatedly taught me what one should look for or beware of: Love’s not been idle.
Beware of picking a fight with your girl
when she’s angry, don’t speak in pride,
don’t stay silent for long:
and if she requests something,
don’t say no with a frown on your face,
and don’t let kind words shower on you in vain.
She’ll come in a temper when she’s ignored,
and wounded
she won’t remember to drop her justified threats. But the more you are humble, and subject to love, the more you’ll enjoy a fine performance.
He’ll be able to endure one girl gladly,
who is never found wanting, or free of feeling.
Cynthia,
and you live in unveiled wantonness?
Did I expect to deserve this?
I’ll deal punishment,
faithless girl,
and my breeze will blow somewhere else.
I’ll find one of all the deceitful women
who wishes to be made famous by my song,
who won’t taunt me with such harsh ways:
she’ll insult you:
ah, so long loved, you’ll weep too late.
Now my anger’s fresh:
now’s the time to go:
if pain returns, believe me, love will be back.
The Carpathian waves
don’t change in the northerlies as fast,
or the black storm cloud,
in a shifting southwest gale,
as lovers’ anger alters at a word.
While you can take your neck from the unjust yoke. Then you won’t grieve at all,
except for the very first night:
all love’s evils are slight,
if you are patient.
But, by the gentle laws of our lady Juno,
mea vita, stop hurting yourself on purpose.
It’s not just the bull that hits
out with a curving horn at its aggressor,
even a sheep, it’s true, opposes an enemy.
I won’t rip the clothes off your lying flesh,
or break open your shut doors,
or tear at your plaited hair in anger,
or dare to bruise you with my hard fists.
Let some ignoramus look for quarrels
as shabby as these,
a man whose head no ivy ever encircled.
I’ll go write:
what your lifetime won’t rub out:
‘Cynthia, strong in beauty:
Cynthia light of word.’
Trust me, though you defy scandal’s murmur,
this verse,
Cynthia, will make you pale.