Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael R Burch Oct 2020
These are English translations of poems written in French by Renee Vivien.


Song
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the moon weeps,
illuminating flowers on the graves of the faithful,
my memories creep
back to you, wrapped in flightless wings.

It's getting late; soon we will sleep
(your eyes already half closed)
steeped
in the shimmering air.

O, the agony of burning roses:
your forehead discloses
a heavy despondency,
though your hair floats lightly ...

In the night sky the stars burn whitely
as the Goddess nightly
resurrects flowers that fear the sun
and die before dawn ...



Undine
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your laughter startles, your caresses rake.
Your cold kisses love the evil they do.
Your eyes―blue lotuses drifting on a lake.

Lilies are less pallid than your face.

You move like water parting.
Your hair falls in rootlike tangles.
Your words like treacherous rapids rise.
Your arms, flexible as reeds, strangle,

Choking me like tubular river reeds.
I shiver in their enlacing embrace.
Drowning without an illuminating moon,
I vanish without a trace,

lost in a nightly swoon.



Amazone
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch  

the Amazon smiles above the ruins
while the sun, wearied by its struggles, droops to sleep.
******’s aroma swells Her nostrils;
She exults in blood, death’s inscrutable lover.

She loves lovers who intoxicate Her
with their wild agonies and proud demises.
She despises the cloying honey of feminine caresses;
cups empty of horror fail to satisfy Her.

Her desire, falling cruelly on some wan mouth
from which she rips out the unrequited kiss,
awaits ardently lust’s supreme spasm,
more beautiful and more terrible than the spasm of love.

NOTE: The French poem has “coups” and I considered various words – “cuts,” “coups,” “coups counted,” etc. – but I thought because of “intoxicate” and “honey” that “cups” worked best in English.



“Nous nous sommes assises” (“We Sat Down”)
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Darling, we were like two exiles
bearing our desolate souls within us.

Dawn broke more revolting than any illness...

Neither of us knew the native language
As we wandered the streets like strangers.
The morning’s stench, so oppressive!

Yet you shone like the sunrise of hope...

                     *

As night fell, we sat down,
Your drab dress grey as any evening,
To feel the friendly freshness of kisses.

No longer alone in the universe,
We exchanged lovely verses with languor.

Darling, we dallied, without quite daring to believe,
And I told you: “The evening is far more beautiful than the dawn.”

You nudged me with your forehead, then gave me your hands,
And I no longer feared uncertain tomorrows.

The sunset sashayed off with its splendid insolence,
But no voice dared disturb our silence...

I forgot the houses and their inhospitality...

The sunset dyed my mourning attire purple.

Then I told you, kissing your half-closed eyelids:
“Violets are more beautiful than roses.”

Darkness overwhelmed the horizon...

Harmonious sobs surrounded us...

A strange languor subdued the strident city.

Thus we savored the enigmatic hour.

Slowly death erased all light and noise,
Then I knew the august face of the night.

You let the last veils slip to your naked feet...
Then your body appeared even nobler to me, dimly lit by the stars.

Finally came the appeasement of rest, of returning to ourselves...
And I told you: “Here is the height of love…”

We who had come carrying our desolate souls within us,
like two exiles, like complete strangers.



Words to My Love
by Renée Vivien
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is Vivien’s “coming out” poem, although the term wasn’t coined until many years after Vivien’s death.

Please understand me: an unusual creature,
not so very good, or bad; perhaps a bit sly.
I hate overheavy perfumes, abrupt outcries.
I prefer grey to crimson, scarlet and ochre.

I love the dusk, when day winds slowly down,
an intimate fire ablaze in the bed-chamber
as the lamps glow wanly, golden-amber,
reddening bronze and blueing the mantle-stone.

My eyes take in the carpet, smooth as sand,
imagining Sappho’s shores of golden peas,
where beyond the bright sun sets on Aegean seas...
And yet, within, I still bear the sinner’s brand.

For I am at that age when virgins yield
in their weakness to the men they want, and dread,
and yet have no companion, here nor ahead,
because you beckoned from a forbidden field.

The hyacinth bled—blood-red—upon the glen
while you imagined Love: pure, innocent, freed.
But women have no right to such Love! ... We’ve
been banished to the brutish rule of men.

And yet I had the impudence, to yearn
for forbidden Love’s immaculate white light,
the gentle voice communing with the night,
the delicate step that doesn’t scar the fern.

They have forbidden me your delicate lips,
because your hair is long and fragrant-odoured,
because your eyes convey the wildest raptures,
as depthless seas toss about small, unmoored ships.

They have wagged their fingers, in their pious manner,
because my gaze entreated your dear gaze...
No one has tried to understand our ways,
or why I was bewitched by your strange glamour.

What of this dreadful law that I transgress?
Nay, judge my love! Pure, unbesmirched by evil,
and honest, though perhaps as lethal, still,
as any man’s desire for his mistress.

They did not understand my heart’s desire,
as I walked the path my destiny transpired;
they asked, “Who is that woman doomed to fire—
the flames of Hell?” Yet I love as required.

Let us leave men to their strange “moralities”
to seek new dawns like honey, golden-bright,
far sunnier days, and ah!, more loving nights!
Our minds will rest at ease, in amities.

Immaculate, the bright stars shine, above...
What do they care how men judge, from afar?
And what have we to fear, because we are
pure in our lives, our thoughts, and in our love.




Renée Vivien (1877-1909) was a British poet who wrote primarily in French. She was one of the last major poets of Symbolism. Her work included sonnets, hendecasyllabic verse and prose poetry. Born Pauline Mary Tarn in London to a British father and American mother, she grew up in Paris and London. Upon inheriting her father's fortune at age 21, she emigrated permanently to France. In Paris, her dress and lifestyle were as notorious as her verse. She lived lavishly as an open lesbian, sometimes dressing in men's clothes, while harboring a lifelong obsession for her closest childhood friend, Violet Shillito (a relationship that apparently remained unconsummated). Her obsession with violets led to Vivien being called the "Muse of the Violets." But in 1900 Vivien abandoned this chaste love to engage in a public affair with the American writer and heiress Natalie Clifford Barney. The following year Shillito died of typhoid fever, a tragedy from which Vivien never fully recovered. Vivien later had a relationship with a baroness to whom she considered herself to be married, even though the baroness had a husband and children. During her adventurous life, Vivien indulged in alcohol, drugs, fetishes and sadomasochism. But she grew increasingly frail and by the time of her death she weighed only 70 pounds, quite possibly dying from the cumulative effects of anorexia, alcoholism and drug abuse.

Keywords/Tags: Renee Vivien, lesbian, gay, LBGT, love, love and art, French, translation, translations, France, cross-dresser, symbolic, symbolist, symbolism, image, images, imagery, metaphor, metamorphose, metaphysical
Zeyu Dec 2018
On the unbesmirched hill,
Let's slide down the snowy *****.
In the warmth that wrapped the wild,
Home stood alone.
Down to the wire, before this
calendrical occasion doth expire,
though arbitrary twenty four hour
time set aside for guide
ding hand of the supposed/purported
fairer gender, yet human race, yet hide
bound male oriented (patriarchal) must
relinquish reigns of power and egoistic pride!

Survival of species mandates, er...
woman warrants segue way into an opportune
winning moment for matriarchy,
idea leaning in with my paunch
just now while sitting on me
*** issuing flatulence,
while poised on haunch,

this grand scheme to shift "mother"
paradigm as kickstarter platform
global campaign best Gaia hood launch
(without no ifs, ands,
nor buts) to staunch
******, brutish, nasty...
warlords indiscriminate ******

apparently linkedin with machismo
animal, banal, carnal
activity...in  apropos
for those supposed
"men at work" dough
boys in many industries

hesitant to allow
management to incorporate
diversity and flow
with admixture to
tone down militaristic
stance heavily saturating
gunning product endorsements

sans, toys for tots miniature
weapons bought as a la carte,
bons with child size meal,
some ideally meant to spark
vitiate, unleash, trigger, spur
rapidly snarling tussling among
yips and playful puppy like bark


aggressive competitive purchasers
devices snapped up on a lark,
that ravenously mesmerize,
glow with a Noah ville paginated arc
predominantly helping boys shine
lasers to find their way in the dark,

these "FAKE" trappings priming
gun toting mindset at crucial stark
age to inculcate impressionable
embryonic seeded inquisitiveness
sophisticated electronic goodies, sans quark
thought processes, advertisers nudging

with everlasting lifelong indelible mark
steering stereotype cast gender bias
buzzfeeding future enlistees, earmark
kings military industrial complex edifice
for tomorrow's psychologically finagled
jackknifed, psyched...indoctrinated trademark

most likely completely
overhauled with able
bodied, confidant, daring...
females at the helm,
who would quickly disable,
where future teeters on

the brink of apocalypse,
rousing the ghost of lovely legs
Elizabeth Ruth "Betty" Grable,
whar fight'n World War II boys
gabled analogous to din heard
in tower of Babel,

yet upon understood signal din silenced,
when esteemed goddess took to podium with great
******* up pomp (albeit modest) and circumstance,
where clamoring would immediately abate
revered hand of Lady Liberty look alike incarnate
her majestic poetical, quintessential, regal...aura
charisma, karma...did automatically infiltrate
(synonymous with some catatonic, hypnotic tonic...

inducing meow wing spell), where her intrepid
essential unbesmirched virtue did actuate
magical mystery tour de force augmenting
win-win conflict resolution unanimously,

this mantra, she would strive mode to administrate
dethroning entrenched fruitless governments
honoring integrating, juxtapositioning...
for human beings (with other life forms) to propagate
amity, ethnicity, integrity, magnanimity to coordinate!

— The End —