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[Image: Le Mime Debureau : 'Pierrot Voleur', par Nadar, 1854]

 

The character of Pierrot comes to us from antiquity. Some sources trace his existence back 4000 years to present day Turkey in Asia Minor. He is, perhaps, most well-known as a stock character from the Italian Commedia dell’arte. He is the ‘son of the moon’; a white-faced, sad clown, eternally hopeful, but doomed by Love and Fate. Among the various characters of the Commedia dell’arte, he is the only monochrome character, while all the others have all of the full and radiant colors of Life, he remains garbed only in black and white. Night has no use for colors. Night’s goddess, the Moon, is a jealous empress, and will admit no other colors, save her own silvery white beams.

 

 

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[Image: ‘Tête de Méduse’, 1618: Peter-Paul Rubens]

 

[Image: ‘A Visit to the Slaughterhouse’, circa 1880: artist unknown.]

 

It has been said that the only difference between a parasite and a predator is its scale. The objective of either organism is the same: each must profit from consuming the host/prey; whole, or in part. In this way, the leech and the vampire are essentially ‘siblings’ (hats off to Isidore Lucien Ducasse, of course, for pointing the way in this matter in multiple instances); each creature is prodigious in its own way. But parasitism and vampirism are both banal and purely functional at a certain level. Each organism is merely snacking upon, where available, its favorite treat. To reduce the matter even further, away from over-romanticized images of  Nosferatu (who certainly evokes both parasite and vampire, visually) and Béla Lugosi, we come now to the realm of homeopathic medicine and diet, as conducted in Victorian times, by a happy junket to the nearest slaughterhouse, where the drinking of blood from freshly killed cows and steers was offered for its ‘obvious health benefits’; fresh, hot and served by the glassful to the public at large. The fad lasted some years. Truly, the ‘smoothie’ of more recent times with its ‘protein boost’ is but a pale imitation of the ‘genuine article’ as described below. So… sidle up to the nearest meat-hook and pick your ‘poison’, Slim…

 

 

( Original French and English translation of this Jean Lorrain classic. )

 

[Image: ‘Dying Rose Bouquet’ by Memphis Saltos, 2007]

 

John Barlas (1860 – 1914) who wrote under the pseudonym of Evelyn Douglas was a man of tragic and majestic proportions. Like a modern day Don Quixote, he tilted hard at the windmills of his day. Having been befriended by Oscar Wilde while attending Oxford, he later became associated with William Morris, and was even sponsored into the Rhymers’ Club by Ernest Dowson, no less. However, his emotions could be both intense and erratic, leading to a very unfortunate misadventure in 1891 in which he fired 3 shots from a revolver at the House of Commons from Westminster bridge, apparently to demonstrate his contempt for Parliament. Oscar Wilde bailed him out of jail, but Barlas proceeded on the same sort of downward spiral, as Dowson, Swinburne (whose work influenced Barlas greatly) and so many other young men of his generation had done. He spent most of his post jail life in Gartnavel asylum in Glasgow, where he died, it is speculated, from the complications of syphilis.

 

I find his poems to be an amalgam of the mournful, lovelorn work of John Dowland, mixed with the very best of the English Décadents. He is tasteful and always has an eye toward harmonious aesthetics within his poems, which makes them all the more devastating, considering their fatal tone.

 

 

 

XXXVI. "A cut rose set in water, poor sick wraith"

 

A cut rose set in water, poor sick wraith,

Survives a little while in hectic bloom,

A ghostly body in a living tomb:

E'en as a love-sick maid it lingereth

Feeding its passion with protracted death;

While through the very wound that wrought its doom

It draws unnatural nourishment: the room

Is long time fragrant with its dying breath.

How slow life droops away cut off from thee,

But cannot wither, though inch by inch it dies!

Torn cruelly from love's mutilated tree,

Through my heart's wound I drink what grief supplies

Of waterish sustenance, salt as the sea;

And all the night is heavy with my sighs.

 

John Barlas, (pseud. Evelyn Douglas), Love Sonnets, 1889.

 

Beauty after Death

(Translation dedicated to Lady Shannon Valerian)

 

Ἔρως (Eros)/ θάνατος (Thanatos)

Amors/Mors

Love/Death

 

…an unbroken continuum, perhaps…

 

Each of us will pass from one side to the other, and so will the beloved of each of our hearts, eventually...

 

 One might gaze from the realm of the living at the treasured visage of one’s beloved dead; recently departed. But one gazes through a mirror darkly at this too dear body. To die is to decay, in flesh at least. But can simple chemistry produce an alchemy of so convincing and compelling a force, that even the flesh of the deceased loved-one can endure uncorrupted within the tomb, just as their memory remains forever radiant and vital within our hearts? To embalm is to deny Death its payment of flesh, and to keep forever within Love’s grasp our dear departed companion.

 

La Morte Embaumée

 

À Joseph Carriès.

 

 

( Original French version... )

 

 

 

The Belovèd Embalmed

 

 

 

( English translation... )

 

 

[Image : Pablo Picasso, The Absinthe Drinker (Femme ivre se fatigue). 1902]

 

 

Buveuse d’Absinthe

 

C’est bon de humer frais la liqueur assassine,

D’user beaucoup de temps à s’endormir un peu

Et, comme un meurtrier patient qui lésine,

De mesurer les coups et de s’en faire un jeu.

 

Très blanche sous son grand chapeau de mousseline

Les coudes secs au marbre où sa main tremble un peu,

Elle boit doucement, dévorante et câline,

Et c’est tout à fait beau quand elle clôt les yeux.

 

La nuit s’accroche aux marronniers de la terrasse.

Mais, sensible aux vers dont son rêve s’embarrasse,

La buveuse d’absinthe entr’ouvre lentement

 

Sa bouche rouge où tremble la plus glauque étoile

Et la nuit maternelle a couvert son front pâle

Du voile qui s’éploie sur la mort des amants.

 

 

André Salmon, Les Féeries, 1907.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Woman Drinking Absinthe

 

 

It is good to coolly inhale the murderous liqueur, 

To use much of the time to get a little sleep 

And, like a patient, yet stingy murderer, 

To measure each shot and make a little game out of it. 

 

Quite white under her big muslin hat, 

Dry elbows on the marble table-top where her hand trembles a little, 

She drinks gently; devouring, fondling, 

And everything is completely beautiful when she shuts her eyes. 

 

The night clings to the chestnut trees on the terrace. 

But, aware of the verses with which her dream weighs itself down, 

The woman drinking absinthe slowly half-opens 

 

Her red mouth where the dullest star trembles

And maternal night has covered her pale forehead 

With the very veil that spreads itself over the death of lovers.

 

 

André Salmon, Fairies, 1907.

[Traduction Anglaise : Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008]

 

[Image: ‘Head of Orpheus’ detail, Gustave Moreau, 1865]

 

 

During the Victorian era, there was a renewed pining for the simplicity of pagan times (albeit, very idealized and revised by the Victorians themselves). This was particularly true of Algernon Charles Swinburne and others within his circle. It was imagined that in the Classical world, one could satisfy one’s desires guilt-free, and pleasure was a flower that grew in great profusion; plucked by one and all at their merest whim. The complexities and labyrinthine moral protocols of the 19’th century were burdensome to many, but were the only officially sanctioned modes of social behavior. The siren’s song of simpler pagan times grew slowly louder, only to crest in the 1960’s and 1970s.

 

If one were to attempt to personify the pagan era, several entities come to mind; Pan, Dionysius, Bacchus, etc., but to express the beauty, purity, fertility and seductiveness of Nature herself, one must invoke the name of Venus / Aphrodite / Cypris. She alone remains elemental; Mother of all; Desire and satisfaction; in short, she is the much sought-after ‘Home’.

 

With the fall of pagan Rome, so too was Venus banished from her temple and cast beneath the soil, only to fecundate it secretly and patiently, awaiting a new, and much longed-for, ‘Golden Age’…

 

Mors Veneris

 

 

La fleur des yeux est morte au jardin de ton corps,

Et les grands lys des bras et les glaïeuls des lèvres

Et les pourpres raisins de ton grand corps sont morts

Au beau jardin, les raisins clairs sont morts au vent du Nord.

 

Les cormorans des soirs d’octobre ont laissé choir

Leur deuil de plume à plume au jardin de la joie ;

Immensément, ont laissé choir leur deuil de soir

Sur les chemins du beau jardin d’espoir.

 

Tant d’échos morts ! Et mortes tant de voix !

Et deuil ! – au loin sur l’horizon de cendre rouge

Des arbres crient au ciel leurs branchages en croix :

Miserere par les grands soirs et les grands bois !

 

Sois doucement l’ensevelie au jardin clair

-- Vénus – des pâles lys des bras et des glaïeuls des lèvres

Et des vignes rouges du soir – mais que dans l’air

Persiste à s’élargir l’odeur immense de ta chair.

 

Tes épaules pures et la guerrière ardeur

De ta tête, debout sur elles

Intimidaient le temps mortel et tes prunelles

Définissaient l’éternité de la splendeur.

 

Tes mains douces comme du miel vermeil,

Cueillaient divinement aux espaliers de l’heure

Les fruits riches du jour à son éveil,

Ta chevelure était un buisson de soleil,

 

Ton torse avec ses feux de clarté ronde

Tendait un firmament d’ardeur vers le désir

Et par dessous tes bras noués sur leur plaisir

Le rythme de tes seins rythmait l’ordre du monde.

 

Sois doucement l’ensevelie et la perdue

Au jardin mort, parmi les bois et les parfums,

Avec, sur ton sommeil, la douceur suspendue

D’une rose d’automne et d’ouragan tordue.

 

 

Émile Verhaeren, publiée dans La Plume, 1 Janvier 1891.

 

 

 

 

Mors Veneris

(The Death of Venus)

 

The flower of eyes is dead within the garden of your body,

And the great lilies of arms and the gladioli of lips

And the purple grapes of your grand body are dead

Amid the beautiful garden, the bright grapes are dead from the North wind.

 

The cormorants of October evenings have let fall

Their grief feather by feather in the garden of Joy;

Immensely, have let fall their sorrow at nightfall

On the pathways of the lovely garden of Hope.

 

So many dead echoes! And how dead the voice!

And mournful! On the distant horizon of red ash

Trees cry out to heaven with their crossed branches:

Miserere played by great dusks and vast woods!

 

Let her be gently buried in the garden bright

-- Venus – of pale lily arms and gladioli lips

And red vines of evening – But in the air

The immensity of your skin’s scent persists and expands.

 

Your pure shoulders and the healing ardour

Of your head, stand before them

Intimidating mortal Time and the pupils of your eyes

Define the eternity of splendour.

 

Your sweet hands as of vermillion honey,

Gather divinely from the trellises of the hour

The rich fruits of day’s dawning,

Your tresses were a mantle of the sun,

 

Your torso with its rounded, fiery light

Extended a firmament of ardour toward Desire

And beneath your supporting arms, to their delight,

The swaying of your breasts gave rhythmic order to the world.

 

Gently they gathered her and lost her

In a dead garden, among the woods and perfumes,

With, above your slumber, the floating sweetness

Of a rose autumnal and a twisted hurricane.

 

 

Émile Verhaeren, published in La Plume, 1 January 1891.

[Traduction Anglaise : Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / D. Bathybius, 2008]

 

 

[Image: Le Rideau Cramoisi (The Crimson Curtain), Félicien Rops, 1879 :

Illustration for Les Diaboliques, by Jules Barbey-d’Aurevilly, 1874]

 

The role of scent in lovemaking becomes more and more understood, thanks to the science of biochemistry and the discovery of pheromones and other such olfactory biological agents.  A woman, all by herself, and without the aid of any artificial scent, has a plethora of her own perfumes; each region, each zone of her body can claim its own unique perfume which is the province and possession of that particular woman exclusively. What man would fail to know the scent of his beloved mate’s cheek, her throat, her wrists, her lips…, and hers alone? He would immediately know his beloved by using his sense of smell, even in the dark. Our scents bind us together, and intertwine in our bedchambers, forming a sensual olfactory symphony that we, as lovers, produce only for the two of us. 

 

Note: It is an unfortunate contemporary cultural fact that the armpits (of women in particular) have been designated as places that are ‘off limits’. Thanks to Madison Avenue’s efforts in the ‘50s and ‘60s to convince us that we are all secretly offending others by hidden foul smells that only Proctor & Gamble can remove or mask with their products, obscures the fact that a woman’s natural pheromones emanate from this place and others, and are a key component of sexual attraction and seduction for our sense of smell. It has worked just fine as a vital component of our mating system for several million years. Our scents are a powerful non-verbal communication that can entice like no other. If a woman is ‘clean’ as defined by her own personal hygienic standards, there is no need to fear the point where her lithe arms join her luxurious and redolent torso…

 

Encens Féminins

 

La femme est un riche encensoir

Aux multiples encens qui fument

Doucement quand tombe le soir

Dans les alcôves qu’ils parfument.

 

Son corps offre de chers banquets

A nos fringales de narines

En pamoison à ces bouquets

Imprégnés d’effluves marines,

 

Car Vénus sortant de la mer

Sut garder au fond de son être

Comme un ressouvenir amer

Du grain du sel qui la fit naître…

 

Sur l’onde opaque des cheveux

Un fumet puissant appareille

Et vogue – portant les aveux

Murmurés en fièvre à l’oreille.

 

Dans la nuque sont embusqués,

Parmi les poils follets qui frisent,

Des essaims d’arômes musqués

Dont les intimités nous grisent.

 

Sur la bouche aux charmes secrets

La myrrhe, le benjoin et l’ambre

Epandent leurs souffles discrets

Sous lesquels le baiser se cambre.

 

La gorge nue a des parfums

Pleins de subtiles chatteries

Où les Amours, d’amour défunts,

Raniment leurs plumes flétries.

 

Mais parmi toutes ces senteurs

Les plus capiteuses sont celles

Qui nichent leurs esprits chanteurs

Aux creux crespelé des aisselles…

 

La femme est un riche encensoir

Aux multiples encens qui fument

Doucement quand tombe le soir

Dans les alcôves qu’ils parfument.

 

 

Théodore Hannon, Rimes de Joie, 1884.

 

Feminine Incense

 

 

Woman is a rich censer 

Where multiple incenses smoke 

Gently when evening falls 

In the alcoves which her presence perfumes. 

 

Her body offers rich banquets 

To the hungers of our nostrils 

Which swoon to these bouquets 

Impregnated with exhalations oceanic, 

 

For Venus -- having left the sea 

Knows how to keep at the depths of her being

A bitter remembrance

Of the grain of salt from which she was born… 

 

On the opaque wave of tresses 

A powerful aroma gets under way 

And sets sail - carrying confessions 

Whispered feverishly to the ear. 

 

Upon the back of the neck lay snares, 

Among the confused hairs that curl, 

dwell swarms of musky aromas 

Whose intimacies make us blanch. 

 

On the mouth lay secret charms 

Myrrh, Benzoin and amber 

Expand their subtle breaths 

Under which their kiss arches back upon itself.  

 

The naked throat has perfumes 

Full of subtle coaxings 

Where Loves, dead loves,

Can resuscitate their withered feathers. 

 

But among all these scents 

The headiest are those 

That nestle their singing spirits 

In the curl-covered hollows of the armpits…

 

Woman is a rich censer 

Where multiple incenses smoke 

Gently when evening falls 

In the alcoves which her presence perfumes. 

 

 

Théodore Hannon, Rhymes of Delight, 1884.

[Traduction Anglaise: Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008]

 

[Image: 'Istar' par Fernand Khnopff, 1888].

The experience of the brothel is dependent upon 2 forces being in equilibrium:

1. The gullibility of the male customer (or his 'desire for illusion/fantasy', to put it a little more poetically).
2. The craft and skill-in-seduction of the courtesan.

The courtesan must 'read' her customer; his desires, fears, hopes, idiosyncrasies. The more skillfully she does this, the more that he succumbs to this contrived illusion; built with the bricks of his libido and cemented with the glue of seduction and suggestion.

But beware ! Once Eros has sated itself and begins to slumber, Thanatos, the omnivore, comes to feed upon the remains of Love's dying embers; lovers, Eros and all...

Nox

 

O la superbe, ô la lugubre créature !

Pour quel jeu sombre et par quel caprice immoral,

Mis-tu, Hasard, artiste obscène et magistral,

Sous ce sein de Paros un cœur de pourriture ?

 

Le corps nu, vautré dans une infâme posture,

Morne, développant son torse sculptural,

Elle s’offrait, avec son amour sépulcral, --

Déesse à tout pourceau dénouant sa ceinture !

 

-- La femme dit : Allons ! dépêche-toi, mon cher !

Et l’autre – l’homme – alors sentit blêmir sa chair,

Comme au baiser visqueux d’un immonde automate…

 

Et pourtant elle eût dû m’aimer, en vérité : 

Car nous sommes tous deux de ton stigmate,

-- Et tous les deux ta proie, ô Bestialité.

 

 

Anonyme, publié dans ‘La Plume’, Janvier 1, 1891.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nox

 

O superb one, O lugubrious creature !

For what somber game, and by what immoral caprice,

Have you put Chance, obscene and magisterial artist,

Beneath this breast of Parian marble in which lay a heart of rottenness?

 

The naked body, sprawled in a posture infamous,

Gloomy, extending her torso sculptural,

She offers herself, with her love sepulchral –

Goddess to every swine that loosens her belt !

 

The woman says: ‘Come on! Hurry up, Darling!’

The other – the man – now senses her skin’s pallor

Viscous like the kiss of a shameless automaton…

 

Yet, she must love me, truly :

For both of us are murdered by your stigmata,

-- and both of us your prey, O Bestiality.

 

Anonymous, published in ‘La Plume’, January 1, 1891.

[Traduction Anglaise: Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008]

 

 

[Image: 'Awakening from the Opium', A. Matignon, 1911]

The author of the poem appearing below had always idolized Oscar Wilde, but regretted never having made his acquaintance. The fact that the two men never met was probably for the best, since the Baron Jacques d’Adelswärd-Fersen, would have shocked and scandalized Mr. Wilde to the point of fatal apoplexy (not unlike another royal personage who actually had met Wilde (and with similar results); Count Eric von Stenbock, but more of him in a future entry…!). You see, the Baron had been arrested on more than one occasion for arcane hobbies like administering a clandestine, opium-fueled Black Mass for young boys who had curiously forgotten to clothe themselves; a soirée which the local gendarmerie was very unhappy to have caught wind of, to say the least...

Eventually, after many more capers of this type, the Baron banished himself to what he called his Capri. It will be recalled that the Isle of Capri was first made famous by the Emperor Tiberius Caesar, who fashioned the entire island into what is likely to have been the first Erotic/Debauchery-oriented theme park in history. It is said that Tiberius felt that he could temporarily divest himself of the cares and burdens of being a Caesar by watching the very unusual activities that his highly trained staff regaled him with. Dwarves, hermaphrodites, prodigies, monsters and other teratological beings besported themselves before his throne, as he leered in appreciation of their refined and discriminating ‘talents’.

When asked what it was like to rule Rome, and thus, the known world, Tiberius said from Capri (and I paraphrase) “He who wishes to rule Rome must learn how to ride on the back of a voracious wolf by holding onto its ears alone. If you lose your grip, even for the briefest of moments, all is lost.” History records that the reign of Tiberius was followed by the gentle and sober rule of Gaius Germanicus Caesar, also called 'Caligula'. Tee Hee!

 

But, I digress…

 

The following poem relates to one of the paraphernalia of the opium smoking ritual of more than a century ago, the Yen Dong. This little brass or silver-plated lamp was required for igniting the prepared opium (chandu)  that had been placed inside of the opium pipe (Yen Tshung). Normally, a small amount of the chandu was kept within reach of the smoker in a small lacquer or ivory container called a Yen Hop (hence the English term for addicts of this type known as ‘Hop Heads’)’

 

Once the opium smoker begins their narcotic reverie, the last thing that they usually see before their eyes have completely closed, is the little lamp; sole source of light in a universally dark abyss.

 

A La Petite Lampe

 

Dans l'ombre verte et bleue, et nocturne, pareille

Aux grands paons oscellés de la forêt d'Angkor,

Tu es le seul rubis qui soit là, le lys d'or,

L'œil pur qui nous protège et l'esclave qui veille.

 

Tandis que notre orgueil au sacre s'émerveille

Et que les pavots noirs jonchent les miradors,

Quand l'âme du fumeur s'exhale de son corps

Et que toutes les mers chantent à nos oreilles,

 

Lorsque l'espoir, cabot fardé, sourit tout bas;

Lorsque nos vieux chagrins entrouvent leurs yeux las,

Qu'un sanglot vient aigrir leur pauvre bouche usée,

 

Te voici. flamme austère, o cygne virginal !...

Et brusquement je vois, dans ton miroir fatal,

Ma vie : cette Victoire aux deux ailes brisées!

 

Jacques d’Adelswärd-Fersen,

Hei Hsiang : Le Parfum Noir, 1921.

 

 

 

 

Beside the Little Lamp

 

In the blue-green shadow, evoking a nocturne like 

The grand swaying peacocks in the forests of Angkor, 

You are the only ruby that exists there, lily of gold, 

The pure eye that protects us and the slave who keeps watch. 

 

While our pride marvels at sacred things, 

And when black poppies are strewn from watchtowers, 

Then each smoker's soul exhales itself from their body, 

And all seas sing in our ears, 

 

When Hope, that garish ham, barely smiles; 

When our old griefs half-open their tired eyes, 

Like a sob that embitters their poor worn-out mouths, 

 

You are here, austere flame, oh virginal swan!... 

And suddenly I see, in your fatal mirror, 

My life: this Victory with two broken wings!

 

Jacques d’Adelswärd-Fersen,

Hei Hsiang : The Black Perfume, 1921.

(Traduction Anglaise: Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008).

[Image: ‘Porc’ from a series of Animals and Equivalent Men by Charles LeBrun (1619 – 1690)]

 

As mentioned before, it is the province of the adept ‘Flâneur’ to perceive not only a person’s general character (hopes, fears, vices, virtues, etc.) through careful observation while strolling the metropolitan trottoirs, but to actually dig even deeper into the fundamental bestial undercurrents that each passer-by would rather conceal than confront. Which animal would you be, by the way?

 

ANATOMIE

 

 

Dans la rue, au théâtre, au bal, je décompose

Les visages. Toujours j’y retrouve le Mal,

Qui sous les teints cuivrés, la graisse ou la chlorose

Découpe en grimaçant un profile d’animal.

 

La brute qui végète au fond de l’âme, impose

Au galbe lentement son rictus bestial ;

L’être humaine se dissout et se métamorphose

En chien, en bouc, en porc, en hyène, en chacal.

 

L’Avarice, le Vol, la Ruse et la Luxure,

Sous le faux vernis des civilisations

Trahissent lâchement notre ignoble nature :

 

Les muscles vigoureux et les carnations

Superbes font aux os d’inutiles toilettes,

Où transparaît l’horreur intime des squelettes.

 

Iwan Gilkin, (« La Nuit », 1987)

 

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

ANATOMY

 

 

In streets, theatres, balls, I deconstruct

Faces. Always I find Evil there.

In well-bronzed skins or pallid, all greasy are tucked

Unseen, a grimace and an animal’s stare.

 

The brute that vegetates in each soul’s depths imposes

Its presence slowly, on a curved rictus bestial;

The human essence dissolves itself and metamorphoses

Into dog, goat, pig, hyena or jackal.

 

Greed, Thievery, Deceit and Lust,

Under civilization’s false veneer

Betrays each nature with disgust.

 

Yet muscles vigorous and complexions clear;

To bones are but useless raiment arrayed,

Concealing hidden horrors in mere skeletons unflayed.

 

 

Iwan Gilkin, La Nuit, 1897.

[Traduction Anglaise: Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2007].

 

 

Image: 'The Dead Mother': Egon Schiele, 1910.

Mutter (1913)
 
Ich trage dich wie eine Wunde 
auf meiner Stirn, die sich nicht schließt. 
Sie schmerzt nicht immer. Und es fließt 
das Herz sich nicht draus tot. 
Nur manchmal plötzlich bin ich blind und spüre 
Blut im Munde.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Mother (1913)
 
I carry you like a wound 
on my forehead, a wound that never closes. 
It doesn't always hurt. And it flows 
not  from some dead place, but from the very heart itself.
Only sometimes, suddenly, I am blind and feel 
the mouth bleed.

 

 

Gottfried Benn (1886 - 1956)

(Englische Übersetzung von Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008)

• Image: Romantic monument to local poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer in Parque de María Luisa, Seville, Spain.
• Photographer: Javier Mediavilla Ezquibela
• Post-Production PhotoShop: Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008.

 

Rima LII. Volverán las oscuras golondrinas...

Volverán las oscuras golondrinas
de tu balcón sus nidos a colgar,
y otra vez con el ala a sus cristales
jugando llamarán.

Pero aquellas que el vuelo refrenaban
tu hermosura y mi dicha a contemplar,
aquellas que aprendieron nuestros nombres...
Esas... no volverán!

Volverán las tupidas madreselvas
de tu jardín las tapias a escalar,
y otra vez a la tarde aún más hermosas
sus flores se abrirán.

Pero aquellas cuajadas de rocío
cuyas gotas mirábamos temblar
y caer como lágrimas del día...
Esas... ¡no volverán!

Volverán del amor en tus oídos
las palabras ardientes a sonar,
tu corazón de su profundo sueño
tal vez despertará.

Pero mudo y absorto y de rodillas,
como se adora a Dios ante su altar,
como yo te he querido... desengáñate,
nadie así te amara.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Rhyme LII. The dark-winged swallows will return...

The dark-winged swallows will return
to hang their nests beneath your eaves,
and before your windows once again
beckon with their wings;

but those whose flight restrained
your beauty and my joy to learn,
those who came to know our names...
those...will not return!

The twining honeysuckles will return
your garden walls to climb
and on another afternoon, more lovely still,
again their flowers will bloom;

but those with sparkling drops of dew,
which we'd watch trembling, yearn
and fall, like teardrops of the day...
those...will not return!

From love will come once more the sound
of burning words to ring;
your heart from within its soundest sleep
perhaps will rise again;

but mute, entranced and kneeling down
as if adoring God before His throne,
as I have loved you...accept the truth!
they will not love you so!

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1836 – 1870)

(Traducción Inglesa: Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008)

(Image:  Anonymous Artist with additional post-production PhotoShop jiggery-pokery by SSR / Dr.Bathybius, 2008)

The bodies of the males of the species Homo Sapiens have always struck me as very haphazardly assembled and inharmonious. However the females of this same species seem to have been fashioned with almost musical cadences in their contours; each curve leads to another and yet another, each in a different tempo, like the delicate alembics of a plucked guitar string changing its physical vibrations as each note either shortens or lengthens its frequency.

In Charles Baudelaire's poem 'The Giantess' ('La Géante'), he fantasizes about lying with a woman many times his own size, so that he might explore every valley, every high promontory as he would an exotic, yet belovèd landscape, full of mystery and unexpected pleasures. So too, has our author below: the Belgian André Fontainas, described his paramour's charms in terms of not only shape, but radiant light...

Adoration

Lys et roses, visage épanoui, chair fraîche,

Prunelles aux regards de feu si caressants,

Lèvres où le jour luit, palpitantes d'accents

Lents comme la Musique ou prompts comme la flèche,

Brûlez en mon esprit, vision rose et fraiche !

 

Chevelure où se jouent les frisons du soleil

Que mes regards n'ont pu supporter sans brûlure,

o molle, étourdissante et blonde chevelure,

Foyer d'astres ardents, torrent d'amour vermeil,

Oh! submergez mon cœur, tumultueux soleil!

 

Ongles resplendissants de nacre et de lumière,

Mains fines aux douceurs étranges, bras sculptés

Par un artiste dieu, modeleur de beautés,

Grâce du corps passant la grâce coutumière,

Aveuglez mes yeux, flots de vivante lumière!

 

o forme impérissable, ô buste harmonieux,

Idéale poitrine aux lignes impassibles,

Taille onduleuse ainsi que les vagues flexibles,

J'ai pour vous un amour violent et pieux :

Fraîcheurs, soleil, lumière, ô corps harmonieux!

 

 

André Fontainas (1887)

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Adoration

 

Lilies and roses, face in full bloom, cool flesh, 

Pupils with fiery glances so caressing, 

Lips where the day gleams, trembling with accents, 

Slow as Music or swift as the arrow, 

Burns into my mind, this pink, cooling vision! 

 

Hair where the sun’s rays cavort and caper, 

Which my gaze could not bear without catching afire, 

Oh soft, stunning blonde hair, 

Home of ardent stars, vermilion love torrent, 

Oh! Flood my heart, tumultuous sun! 

 

Resplendent, nacreous fingernails of light, 

Fine hands possessing strange delicacies, arm sculpted 

By an artist god, fashioner of beauties, 

Body whose grace surpasses common elegance, 

Blind my eyes, streams of living light! 

 

Oh imperishable shape, oh harmonious breasts, 

Ideal bust with contour impassive, 

Sinuous dimensions conjoining supple waves, 

I have for you a violent and devout love: 

Freshness, sun, light, oh harmonious body!

 

André Fontainas (1887)

 

(Traduction Anglaise: Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008)

 

Image: Thomas Cooper Gotch, ‘Death the Bride’, 1895.

 

…continuing our historical survey of the various substances which comprised what Baudelaire termed ‘Les Paradis Artificiels’ (Artificial Paradises), but which could equally be called ‘Les Enfers Vrais’(True Hells), we now enter the realm of the Poppy. She is older than mankind, and the cruelest and most relentless task-mistress of all. Even as she kills, she seduces to the last. Here then is a ‘Belle Époch’/’Mal de Siècle’ paean to the nectar to be found within the plump, pendulous heads of  Papaver Somniferum…

 

 

(Morphine)

0 just, subtle, and mighty...
Th. de Quincey,

O morphine apaisante, ô parfum de l'oubli, 

Caresse de sommeil, ô morphine légère, 

je t'aime mieux que l'or et que la lumière, 

Pour tous les souvenirs que tu ensevelis! 

  

Tu calmes la souffrance en berçant nos chimères 

D'un chant languide et doux qui vient du Paradis, 

Et les choses qu'on rêve et celles que l'on dit, 

Disparaissent dans ton bienfaisant cimetière : 

   

Ceux qui croyaient en toi n'ont jamais consenti 

A renier ton nom pour d'autres éphémères, 

Et tous ont préféré à la vie ton mystère 

Pour ne l'abandonner que lorsqu'ils sont partis; 

   

C'est pourquoi je récite en ces vers ta prière, 

Comme au philtre puissant qui caresse et guérit, 

Tu gouvernes les sens en exaltant l'esprit, 

0 morphine apaisante, ô morphine légère!

 

 

Jacques d’Adelsward-Fersen (1880 – 1923)

‘Les Cortèges qui sont Passés’, 1903.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Morphine

 

0 just, subtle, and mighty...
Th. de Quincey,

 

Oh soothing morphine, oh perfume of Oblivion, 

Sleep’s caress, oh gentle morphine, 

I love you more than Gold or Light, 

For all the memories that you bury! 

 

You calm the suffering while rocking our chimeras 

With a languid, soft song from Paradise, 

And all that one has dreamt and said, 

Disappears in your beneficent cemetery:    

 

Those who believe in you have never consented 

To forsake your name for others yet more ephemeral, 

And all preferred your Mystery to Life itself.

They abandon it only when they depart this world; 

     

This is why I recite in these verses your prayer, 

Like a powerful philtre that caresses and heals, 

You govern the senses while exalting the mind, 

0 soothing morphine, oh gentle morphine!

 

 

Jacques d’Adelsward-Fersen (1880 – 1923)

‘Les Cortèges qui sont Passés’ (‘Departed Funeral Processions’), 1903.

[Traduction Anglaise : Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008]

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image: 'Pierrot', by Mrs. Mabel Dearmer (1872 - 1915)
From: 'The Studio' (magazine)
Volume 11, page 262, 1897

The Arts are inseparable from the phenomenon of synaesthesia. For all who drink deeply at the fount of the muses, the many streams flow into one great over-arching flood of sensation. Images can have a smell, music a color, and so forth. This phenomenon can develop even more deeply into moral and aesthetic metaphors; the more one allows oneself to dwell in such reveries.

 

Here then, is the impression (as our old friend Albert Giraud describes) that a waltz by Chopin leaves upon the sensibilities of our old, heartbroken ‘son of the moon’, Pierrot…

 

 

Valse de Chopin 

 

Comme un crachat sanguinolent, 

De la bouche d'une phtisique, 

Il tombe de cette musique 

Un charme morbide et dolent. 

 

Un son rouge - du rêve blanc 

Avive la pâle tunique, 

Comme un crachat sanguinolent 

De la bouche d'une phtisique. 

 

Le thème doux et violent 

De la valse mélancolique 

Me laisse une saveur physique, 

Un fade arrière-goût troublant, 

Comme un crachat sanguinolent. 

 

 

Albert Giraud, ‘Pierrot Lunaire: Rondels Bergamasques’, 1884.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Chopin’s Waltz 

 

Like spit with blood imbued, 

From the mouth of a consumptive falling, 

This music still is calling

With morbid, mournful mood. 

 

A red sound – within a white dream 

Pale gown with scarlet galling

Like spit with blood imbued, 

From the mouth of a consumptive falling

 

Soft theme, violently hued;

This waltz melancholic 

Infuses with a physical flavor; 

Disturbing aftertaste I savor, 

Like spit with blood imbued. 

 

 

Albert Giraud, ‘Pierrot Lunaire: Rondels Bergamasques’, 1884.

[Traduction Anglaise : Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2008]

 

Image: ‘La Buveuse d’Absinthe’ / ‘The (Female) Absinthe Drinker’

Félicien Rops: 1876.

 

 

Intoxicants have been with mankind since before recorded history. The knowledge of how to use them was, initially, the province of shamen, priests, herbalists, lone seekers and the like. With the advent of social structures (from tribes to cities) the context for taking intoxicants began to change. With the division of social time divided between labor and leisure, so too were intoxicants restricted to those few circumstances which were still sanctioned (religious rites, medical emergencies, etc.), so as not to interfere with productive ‘labor time’.

 

But, like Pandora’s Box, the use of intoxicants, though once known only to the elect few, became the province of the many, and this pharmacological knowledge could never be made obscure again. As societies became more and more complex, so increased the number of people who ‘fell through the cracks’ of those societies; the disenfranchised, the destitute, the mad…

To these unfortunates were left the means of escaping pain, fear, loneliness… albeit temporarily.

 

Intoxicants used as anodyne and panacea; a false hope and a cure as deadly as any disease. Pain delayed is still pain yet-to-come. True Lethe comes only for the dead, until then, there are only her pale, seductive and nefarious sisters: among which are Opium and Absinthe.

 

La Buveuse d’Absinthe

(Au docteur Louis Jullien)

 

 

Elle était toujours enceinte,

Et puis elle avait un air...

Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe !

 

Elle vivait dans la crainte

De son ignoble partner :

Elle était toujours enceinte.

 

Par les nuits où le ciel suinte,

Elle couchait en plein air.

Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe !

 

Ceux que la débauche éreinte

La lorgnaient d’un œil amer :

Elle était toujours enceinte !

 

Dans Paris, ce labyrinthe

Immense comme la mer,

Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe,

 

Elle allait, prunelle éteinte,

Rampant aux murs comme un ver...

Elle était toujours enceinte !

 

Oh ! Cette jupe déteinte

Qui se bombait chaque hiver !

Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe !

 

Sa voix n’était qu’une plainte,

Son estomac qu’un cancer :

Elle était toujours enceinte !

 

Quelle farouche complainte

Dira son hideux spencer !

Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe !

 

Je la revois, pauvre Aminte,

Comme si c’était hier :

Elle était toujours enceinte !

 

Elle effrayait maint et mainte

Rien qu’en tournant sa cuiller ;

Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe !

 

Quand elle avait une quinte

De toux, — oh ! qu’elle a souffert,

Elle était toujours enceinte ! —

 

Elle râlait : « Ça m’esquinte !

Je suis déjà dans l’enfer. »

Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe !

 

Or elle but une pinte

De l’affreux liquide vert :

Elle était toujours enceinte !

 

Et l’agonie était peinte

Sur son œil à peine ouvert ;

Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe !

 

Quand son amant dit sans feinte :

« D’débarras, c’en est un fier !

« Elle était toujours enceinte. »

—                      Pauvre buveuse d’absinthe !

 

Maurice Rollinat, Les Névroses, 1883.

 

 

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Poor Little Absinthe Drinker

 

She was always pregnant, 

Or so it always seemed... 

Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

She lived in fear 

Of her brutal lover: 

She was always pregnant. 

 

On nights when the sky oozes, 

She lay down beneath the open heavens. 

Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

Those that debauchery exhausts 

Leered at her with a bitter eye: 

She was always pregnant! 

 

In Paris, this labyrinth, 

Immense as the sea, 

Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

She went, dead-eyed, 

Crawling along the walls like a worm... 

She was always pregnant! 

 

Oh! This faded skirt 

Who dragged herself out every winter! 

Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

Her voice was only a murmur, 

In her stomach grew a cancer: 

She was always pregnant! 

 

What shy lament 

Will speak its hideous statement! 

Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

I see her, poor doe-eyed country-girl, again 

As if it were yesterday: 

She was always pregnant! 

 

Frightened more and more 

Of nothing at all, while turning her spoon; 

Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

Once she’d had a pint 

The coughing started, - oh! how she suffered, 

She was always pregnant! - 

 

She bitched: "This is destroying me! 

I am already in Hell! " 

Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

Nonetheless, she drank a pint 

Of the awful green liquid: 

She was always pregnant! 

 

And Agony was painted 

Upon her barely open eye; 

Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

When her lover says, not kidding: 

"You'll abort it, that's for damned sure! 

"She was always pregnant. " 

-      Poor little absinthe drinker!

 

[Traduction Anglaise : Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr. Bathybius, 2007]

 

Chanson de l’Absinthe

 

 

Adorée ainsi qu'une sainte,

Baisée autant qu’une maitresse,

Je suis la fidèle traitresse,

Le poison, le baume,-l'absinthe.

 

Je suis l'île toujours ouverte

Au rêveur naufragé qui souffre,

Un ciel de flammes et de soufre,

L'intarissable muse verte

 

Close au cristal de mes rivages,

Je suis une mer d'émeraude

Où toujours la tempête rôde,

Mais dissimule ses ravages.

 

Je suis le lourd hamac qui berce

Les douleurs d'amoureux mensonges,

Je suis l'oubli, je suis le songe,

 Le désert sans fin qu'on traverse,

 

La roue invisible et dentée

Qui doucement saisit et broie,

Le sphinx qui se fait une proie

De ce qui passe à sa portée.

 

Il est le mien celui qui me goute.

Grisé par ma senteur perverse,

Regarde ce peuple qui verse,

En tremblotant, l'eau goutte à goutte

 

Sans voir - esclave de mes charmes,

Et fidèle jusqu'à la tombe -

Que chaque goutte d'eau qui tombe

Dans un océan profond des larmes.

 

 Jérôme Doucet, 1905

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Song of Absinthe

 

 

Adored like a saint on a plinth,

Kissed as much as a mistress,

I am the faithful traitress,

Poison, balm, ~ absinthe.

 

I’m the ever open isle

To drowned dreamers whom suffering claims

‘neath a sky of sulfur and flames,

Green muse never tiring the while.

 

In shores of crystal congealed

I am an emerald sea

Where still the harsh storm prowls free;

Its devastations yet concealed.

 

I am the heavy hammock lulling

The pain of lover’s lies,

I’m oblivion and dreams that rise

Crossing endless deserts dulling.

 

The invisible toothèd gear

Slowly seizing, but only to rasp,

Predacious sphinx’ grasp;

Prey, all who’ve drawn too near.

 

Taste me once and become my thrall

Grown grey by my scent enchanting.

Regard these lost souls decanting

Drop by drop, water, trembling all.

 

Charmèd slaves, blind, captive for years,

Faithful until graves and palls,

Like each drop of water that falls

Into oceans grown deep with their tears.

 

Jérôme Doucet, 1905.

(composed for the painting ‘La Muse Verte’, by Albert Maignan, 1895)

English translation: Sardonique Schadenfreude Rictus / Dr.Bathybius, 2007.

 

Image: 'La Muse Verte', Albert Maignan, 1895.