Birds in the Night
The French government, or was it the English government,
put a plaque
on that house of 8 Great College Street, Camden Town, London,
where in a room Rimbaud and Verlaine, a strange couple,
lived, drank, worked, fornicated,
for a few brief tormented weeks.
The inaugural act was doubtless attended by the ambassador and the mayor,
all those who were the enemies of Verlaine and Rimbaud
when they were alive.
The house is sad and poor, like the district,
with the sordid sadness that accompanies what is poor,
not the funereal sadness of what is rich but spiritless.
When evening falls, as in their time,
above the pavement, the air humid and grey, an organ-grinder
sounds, and the neighbours, returning from work,
some, the young, dance, the others go to the pub.
Short was the extraordinary friendship of Verlaine the drunkard
and Rimbaud the waif, quarreling at length,
but we can think that perhaps there was a good moment
for the two of them, at least if they remembered
that they had left behind, in one case an unbearable mother, in the other, a bored wife.
But freedom is not of this world, and the libertines,
breaking with everything, had to pay a high price.
Yes, they were there, the plaque says, behind the wall.
Prisoners of their fate: the impossible friendship, the bitterness
of the separation, then the scandal; and for one of them
the trial, prison for two years, thanks to their practices
which society and the law condemn, today at least; for that alone
to wander from one corner of the earth to another,
fleeing from our world and its renowned progress.
The silence of the one and the banal madness of the other
compensated them: Rimbaud rejected the hand that oppressed
his life; Verlaine kissed it, accepting his punishment.
One draws from his belt that gold he has earned; the other
wastes it on absinthe and women prostitutes. But both
always in doubt about the authorities, about the people
who get rich and come out on top on the work of others.
Then even the black prostitute was right to insult them;
today, since time has passed, as it passes in the world,
a life on the edge of everything, sodomy, drunkenness, corporal verses,
are not important to them, and France uses both names and both works
for the greater glory of France and its logical art.
Their acts and their steps are investigated, giving to the public
intimate details of their lives. No one is shocked now, or protests.
‘Verlaine? Yes, my friend, a satyr, a true satyr
when dealing with women; well the man was normal.
The same as you and I. Rimbaud? A sincere Catholic, as demonstrated?’
And bits of ‘Drunken Boat’ are recited and of the sonnet to ‘Vowels’.
But nothing of Verlaine’s is recited because it is not as fashionable
as that of the other, of which false texts in luxury editions are produced;
young poets of all countries speak a lot about him in their provinces.
Do the dead hear what the living say after them?
They hear nothing: that endless silence must be a relief
for those who lived for the word and died for it,
like Rimbaud and Verlaine. But the silence there does not prevent
this loathsome eulogistic farce. Once someone wished
that humanity had a single head so as to be able to cut it off.
Perhaps he was exaggerating: if it were only a handful, crush it.
BIRDS IN THE NIGHT·
El gobierno francés, ¿fue el gobierno inglés?, puso una lápida
En esa casa de 8 Great George Street, Camden own, Londres,
Adonde en una habitación Rimbaud y Verlaine, rara pareja,
Vivieron, bebieron, trabajaron, fornicaron,
Durante algunas breves semanas tormentosas.
Al acto inaugural asistieron sin duda embajador y alcalde,
Todos aquellos que fueran enemigos de Verlaine y Rimbaud cuando vivían.
La casa es triste y pobre, como el barrio,
Con la tristeza sórdida que va con lo que es pobre,
No la tristeza funeral de lo que es rico sin espírito.
Cuando la tarde cae, como en el tiempo de ellos,
Sobre su acera, húmedo y gris el aire, un organillo
Suena, y los vecinos, de vuelta del trabajo,
Bailan unos, los jóvenes, los otros van a la taberna.
Corta fue la amistad singular de Verlaine el borracho
Y de Rimbaud el golfo, querellándose largamente.
Mas podemos pensar que acaso su buen instante
Hubo para los dos, al menos si recordaba cada uno
Que dejaron atrás la madre inagauntable y la aburrida esposa.
Pero la libertad no es de este mundo, y los libertos,
En ruptura con todo, tuvieron que pagarla a precio alto.
Sí, estuvieron ahí, la lápida lo dice, tras el muro.
Presos de su destino: la amistad posible, la amargua
De la separación, el escándolo luego; y para éste
El proceso, la cárcel por dos años, gracias a sus costumbres
Que sociedad y la ley condenan, hoy al menos; para aquél a solas
Errar desde un rincón a otro de la tierra,
Huyendo a nuestro mundo y su progreso renombrado.
El silencio del uno y la locuacidad banal del otro
Se compensaron. Rimbaud rechazó la mano que oprimía
Su vida; Verlaine la besa, aceptando su castigo.
Uno arrastra en el cinto el oro que ha ganado; el otro
Lo malgasta en ejeno y mujerzuelas. Pero ambos
En entredicho siempre de las autoridades, de la gente
Que con trabajo ajeno se enriquece y triunfa.
Entonces hasta la negra postituta tenía derecho de insultarles;
Hoy, como el tiempo ha pasado, como pasa en el mundo,
Vida al margen de todo, sodomía, borrachera, versos escarnecidos,
Ya no importan en ellos, y Francia usa de ambos nombres y ambas obras
Para mayor gloria de Francia y su arte lógico.
Sus actos y sus pasos se investgan, dando al público
Detalles íntimos de sus vidas. Nadie se asusta ahora, ni protesta.
“¿Verlaine? Vaya, amigo mío, un sátiro, un verdaderos sátiro
Cuando de la mujer se trata; bien normal era el hombre,
Igual que usted y que yo. ¿Rimbaud? Católico sincero, como esta demonstrado.”
Y se recitan trozos del ‘Barco Ebrio’ y del soneto a las ‘Vocales’.
Mas de Verlaine no se recita nada porque no está de moda
Como el otro, del que se lanzan textos falsos en edición de lujo;
Poetas mozos de todos los países hablan mucho de él en sus provincias.
¿Oyen los muertos lo que los vivos dicen luego de ellos?
Ojalá nada oigan: ha de ser un alivio ese silencio interminable
Para aquellos que vivieron por la palabra y murieron por ella,
Como Rimbaud y Verlaine. Pero el silencio allá no evita
Acá la farsa elogiosa repugnante. Alguna vez deseó uno
Que la humanidad tuviese una sola cabeza, para así cortársela.
Tal vez exageraba: si fuera sólo un cucaracha, y aplastarla.
- ‘Birds in the Night’ (the poem’s title in English) refers to the time spent by Rimbaud and Verlaine together in London.
Translator: Michael Smith has translated into English and published some of the most difficult and exhilarating poets in Spanish, including Federico García Lorca, Pablo Neruda, Francisco de Quevedo and Luis de Góngora. He has also translated Gerardo Diego‘s Manual de espumas, a Selected Poems of José Hierro and selections of the poems of Jiménez and Luis Cernuda, among others. In 2001 he received the European Academy Medal for his translations. His own poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies of Irish poetry, including The Penguin Book of Contemporary Irish Poetry. Among his most recent books are The Purpose of the Gift: Selected Poems and Maldon and Other Translations (NWP/ Shearsman).In 2009 Shearsman has published his Collected Poems. With the Peruvian scholar Valentino Gianuzzi, he has translated and published (Shearsman Books) the complete poems of César Vallejo in four volumes. In 2009 he translated a selection of poems of the Spanish poet Juan Antonio Villacañas in collaboration with Beatriz Villacañas: Juan Antonio Villacañas: Selected Poems (Shearsman Books).
