LeS dOiGtS bLeUs
(Blue Fingers)
"Je toucherai le ciel et j'aurai les doigts bleus"
Nevermore
the English version is just below
Bonjour tout le monde !
J'espère que vous avez passé un bel été. Pour ma part je n'ai pas chômé. Je viens de mettre en ligne la troisième version des dOiGtS bLeUs. Elle comprend de nouvelles rubriques et une base de données plus riche (au total plus de 130 poètes). Mettez vos signets à jour car désormais le site n'est plus hébergé par fortunecity mais pas tripod. L'adresse est www.lesdoigtsbleus.fr.st ou bien http://lesdoigtsbleus.tripod.com .
Pour la rentrée je vous ai sélectionné une dizaine de poèmes très différents les uns des autres : du folklore australien d'Andrew "Banjo" Paterson à la poésie roumaine de George Topârceanu en passant par les vers du québecois Emile Nelligan, il y en aura pour tous les goûts. Et comme vous avez été sages, vous avez également droit au cadeau bonus du mois : "Alice in Wonderland" de Lewis Carroll et "Les Nuits" d'Alfred de Musset. Il y a tellement de cadeaux qu'on se croirait déjà à Noël, pas vrai ?... J'allais oublier, je dédicace la lettre poétique de ce mois à son excellence monsieur Bertrand B. alias Double 17 Man, Jacotte la Cracotte ou encore David la Croquette, il se reconnaîtra. Il vient d'avoir 21 ans le 4 de ce mois et ça tombe bien, c'est l'âge de la majorité dans le pays dans lequel il habite en ce moment (Le Canada). Voilà Bertrand, tu ne seras plus obligé de demander à une grande personne d'aller t'acheter de la bière maintenant ! J'aimerais aussi dédicacer cette lettre poétique à la charmante Mademoiselle Stéphanie V. dont ce sera l'anniversaire à la fin du mois. Longue vie et courage pour les études !
Maintenant, mesdames, mesdemoiselles, messieurs, voici le programme !
Poèmes en français (en blanc) :
- Enivrez-vous de Charles Baudelaire
- La neige de George Topârceanu
- Soir d'hiver d'Emile Nelligan
- Ô triste était mon âme... de Paul Verlaine
- Mon âme d'Emile Nelligan
- Rondel de Tristan Corbière
Poèmes en anglais (en bleu) :
- Waltzing Matilda de Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson
- Spring is like a perhaps hand de E.E. Cummings
- Get Drunk de Charles Baudelaire (traduction d'Enivrez-vous)
- Kubla Khan de Samuel Taylor Coleridge
- Oh beloved... de Djalâl-ûd Dîn Rûmî
- The Raven d'Edgar Allen Poe
Bonne lecture et bonne rentrée à tous !
Keyvan
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Hi Everybody !
I hope you're doing good. I hope you've all had a beautiful summer. Mine was beautiful but restless. Among other things, I had to rebuild LeS dOiGtS bLeUs from scratch and transfer it to another host. The new version (LeS dOiGtS bLeUs 3.0 !!!) can now be visited at www.lesdoigtsbleus.fr.st or http://lesdoigtsbleus.tripod.com . I've added new sections and a lot of poets (LeS dOiGtS bLeUs now features over 130 poets). But this didn't make me forget about the monthly letter and I've prepared a selection of 10 poems that I think you're gonna like. And as a little "back to school" present I've also added 2 great attachments : Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland" and Alfred de Musset's "Les Nuits".
Now sit down, cause it's time to take a look at the menu !
Poems in English (in blue) :
- Waltzing Matilda by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson
- Spring is like a perhaps hand by E.E. Cummings
- Get Drunk by Charles Baudelaire (translation of Enivrez-vous)
- Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
- Oh beloved... by Djalâl-ûd Dîn Rûmî
- The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
Poems in French (in white) :
- Enivrez-vous by Charles Baudelaire
- La neige by George Topârceanu
- Soir d'hiver by Emile Nelligan
- Ô triste était mon âme... by Paul Verlaine
- Mon âme by Emile Nelligan
- Rondel by Tristan Corbière
Enjoy your reading and take care !
Keyvan
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Enivrez-vous
Il faut être toujours ivre.
Tout est là:
c'est l'unique question.
Pour ne pas sentir
l'horrible fardeau du Temps
qui brise vos épaules
et vous penche vers la terre,
il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi?
De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise.
Mais enivrez-vous.
Et si quelquefois,
sur les marches d'un palais,
sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé,
dans la solitude morne de votre chambre,
vous vous réveillez,
l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue,
demandez au vent,
à la vague,
à l'étoile,
à l'oiseau,
à l'horloge,
à tout ce qui fuit,
à tout ce qui gémit,
à tout ce qui roule,
à tout ce qui chante,
à tout ce qui parle,
demandez quelle heure il est;
et le vent,
la vague,
l'étoile,
l'oiseau,
l'horloge,
vous répondront:
"Il est l'heure de s'enivrer!
Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps,
enivrez-vous;
enivrez-vous sans cesse!
De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise."
Charles Baudelaire
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Waltzing Matilda
Oh, there once was a swagman camped in the billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he looked at the old billy boiling,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Chorus :
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda my darling,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Waltzing Matilda and leading a waterbag,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Down came the jumbuck to drink at the water-hole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag,
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Up came the Squatter a-ridding his thoroughbred,
Up came Policemen - one, two and three,
Whose is that jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag,
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
The swagman he up and he jumped in the water-hole,
Drowning himself by the coolibah tree,
And his ghost may be heard as it sings by the billabong,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson
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La neige
Que de fois, mon amour, auprès du feu qui tremble,
Pénétrés par les doux regrets du jour mourant,
Nous restâmes rêveurs à regarder ensemble
Les grands flocons de neige qui tombaient lentement...
Maintenant je suis seul, hélas ! Le jour se pâme...
Et je souris (combien plus triste qu'autrefois !)
Aux doux regrets d'antan qui tombaient sur nos âmes
Comme les grands flocons de neige, sur les toits !
George Topârceanu
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Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
E.E. Cummings
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Soir d'hiver
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
Ô la douleur que j'ai, que j'ai!
Tous les étangs gisent gelés,
Mon âme est noire: Où vis-je? où vais-je?
Tous ses espoirs gisent gelés:
Je suis la nouvelle Norvège
D'où les blonds ciels s'en sont allés.
Pleurez, oiseaux de février,
Au sinistre frisson des choses,
Pleurez, oiseaux de février,
Pleurez mes pleurs, pleurez mes roses,
Aux branches du genévrier.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
A tout l'ennui que j'ai, que j'ai!...
Emile Nelligan
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Get Drunk
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness
of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
Charles Baudelaire
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Ô triste était mon âme...
Ô triste, triste était mon âme
A cause, à cause d'une femme.
Je ne me suis pas consolé
Bien que mon coeur s'en soit allé,
Bien que mon coeur, bien que mon âme
Eussent fui loin de cette femme.
Je ne me suis pas consolé
Bien que mon coeur s'en soit allé.
Et mon coeur, mon coeur trop sensible
Dit à mon âme : Est-il possible,
Est-il possible, - le fût-il -
Ce fier exil, ce triste exil ?
Mon âme dit à mon coeur: Sais-je
Moi-même que nous veut ce piège
D'être présents bien qu'exilés,
Encore que loin en allés ?
Paul Verlaine
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Kubla Khan
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves:
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Mon âme
Mon âme a la candeur d'une chose étiolée,
D'une neige de février...
Ah! retournons au seuil de l'Enfance en allée,
Viens-t-en prier...
Ma chère, joins tes doigts et pleure et rêve et prie,
Comme tu faisais autrefois
Lorsqu'en ma chambre, aux soirs, vers la Vierge fleurie
Montait ta voix.
Ah! la fatalité d'être une âme candide
En ce monde menteur, flétri, blasé, pervers,
D'avoir une âme ainsi qu'une neige aux hivers
Que jamais ne souilla la volupté sordide!
D'avoir l'âme pareille à de la mousseline
Que manie une soeur novice de couvent,
Ou comme un luth empli des musiques du vent
Qui chante et qui frémit le soir sur la colline!
D'avoir une âme douce et mystiquement tendre,
Et cependant, toujours, de tous les maux souffrir,
Dans le regret de vivre et l'effroi de mourir,
Et d'espérer, de croire... et de toujours attendre!
Emile Nelligan
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Oh Beloved,
take me.
Liberate my soul.
Fill me with your love and
release me from the two worlds.
If I set my heart on anything but you
let fire burn me from inside.
Oh Beloved,
take away what I want.
Take away what I do.
Take away what I need.
Take away everything
that takes me from you.
Djalal-ud Din Rumi
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Rondel
Il fait noir, enfant, voleur d'étincelles !
Il n'est plus de nuits, il n'est plus de jours;
Dors... en attendant venir toutes celles
Qui disaient : Jamais ! Qui disaient : Toujours !
Entends-tu leurs pas ?... Ils ne sont pas lourds :
Oh ! les pieds légers ! - l'Amour a des ailes...
Il fait noir, enfant, voleur d'étincelles !
Entends-tu leurs voix ?... Les caveaux sont sourds.
Dors : il pèse peu, ton faix d'immortelles ;
Ils ne viendront pas, tes amis les ours,
Jeter leur pavé sur tes demoiselles...
Il fait noir, enfant, voleur d'étincelles !
Tristan Corbière
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The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreadry, while I pondered, weak
and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a
tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber
door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber
door;
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon
the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of surrow, sorrow for the lost
Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name
Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt
before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This is it, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came
rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cham-
ber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened
wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, won-
dering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to
dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no
token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
"Lenore?",
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me
burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than
before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window
lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of
yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or
stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my cham-
ber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber
door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it
wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art
sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the
nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Pluton-
ian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so
plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his cham-
ber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his cham-
ber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he
fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered,"Other friends have
flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown
before."
Then the bird said,"Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and
store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful
disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one
burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and
bust and door;,
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of
yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous
bird of yore
Meant in croaking, "Nevermore."
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my
bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease re-
clining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated
o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating
o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an
unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted
floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these
angels he hath sent thee
Respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of
Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost
Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or
devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee
here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I im-
plore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we
both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant
Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name
Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name
Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked,
upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Pluton-
ian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath
spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above
my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form
from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is
dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws the shadow
on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on
the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!
Edgar Allen Poe
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