There before the errant moon

For the past year, I've been fascinated by the work of Leconte de Lisle, to the point where I've wanted to offer translations for people who have not yet read his poetry.

I felt it was best to offer prose translations; there was no way that I could match his rhythms without sacrificing the beauty and power of his language, and so I had to fall back upon the roughest of rough approximations.

At any rate, here we go.




The Howlers,
by Leconte de Lisle.

The sun had drowned its flames in the water; the town fell asleep at the feet of the misty hills. Onto the rocks bathed in a cloudy froth, the dark, rumbling sea poured its tall waves.

The night multiplied this groan. No star shone in the bare immensity, only the pale moon that spread the night apart swung sadly like a dim lamp.

Silent world, branded with a mark of anger, debris of a dead globe randomly dispersed, it dropped from its frozen orb a sepulchral image onto the polar sea.

Boundless, seated in the north under sweltering skies, Africa, sheltering itself in shadows and fog, starved its lions on the fuming sand, and lay down its herds of elephants beside the lakes.

But on the arid beach, amidst insalubrious odours, among the bones of oxen and horses, lean dogs in scattered groups extended their muzzles and lamented, uttering mournful howls.

With their tails curved under their shuddering bellies, with their eyes dilated, trembling on feverish limbs, squatting here and there, motionless yet agitated by rapid shivers, they all howled.

The sea foam stuck to their backs where long hairs protruded amidst vertebrae; and when the leaping waves assailed them, their white teeth chattered beneath red chops.

There before the errant moon with its livid gleams, at the rim of the black tide, what unknown anguish made the soul cry out from your squalid forms? Terrified spectres, why did you moan?

I do not know; but, you dogs that howled on the shore: after so many suns that will never come back, from the depths of my confused past, I always hear the desperate cry of your savage pain!


Les Hurleurs

Le soleil dans les flots avait noyé ses flammes,
La ville s'endormait aux pieds des monts brumeux.
Sur de grands rocs lavés d'un nuage écumeux
La mer sombre en grondant versait ses hautes lames.

La nuit multipliait ce long gémissement.
Nul astre ne luisait dans l'immensité nue;
Seule, la lune pâle, en écartant la nue,
Comme une morne lampe oscillait tristement.

Monde muet, marqué d'un signe de colère,
Débris d'un globe mort au hasard dispersé,
Elle laissait tomber de son orbe glacé
Un reflet sépulcral sur l'océan polaire.

Sans borne, assise au Nord, sous les cieux étouffants,
L' Afrique, s'abritant d'ombre épaisse et de brume,
Affamait ses lions dans le sable qui fume,
Et couchait près des lacs ses troupeaux d'éléphants.

Mais sur la plage aride, aux odeurs insalubres,
Parmi des ossements de boeufs et de chevaux,
De maigres chiens, épars, allongeant leurs museaux,
Se lamentaient, poussant des hurlements lugubres.

La queue en cercle sous leurs ventres palpitants,
L' oeil dilaté, tremblant sur leurs pattes fébriles,
Accroupis çà et là, tous hurlaient, immobiles,
Et d'un frisson rapide agités par instants.

L'écume de la mer collait sur leurs échines
De longs poils qui laissaient les vertèbres saillir;
Et, quand les flots par bonds les venaient assaillir,
Leurs dents blanches claquaient sous leurs rouges babines.

Devant la lune errante aux livides clartés,
Quelle angoisse inconnue, au bord des noires ondes,
Faisait pleurer une âme en vos formes immondes?
Pourquoi gémissiez-vous, spectres épouvantés?

Je ne sais; mais, ô chiens qui hurliez sur les plages,
Après tant de soleils qui ne reviendront plus,
J'entends toujours, du fond de mon passé confus,
Le cri désespéré de vos douleurs sauvages!

From
ŒUVRES DE LECONTE DE LISLE:
POÈMES BARBARES,
by Leconte de Lisle.
Alphonse Lemerre, Paris, sans date (1889?).