Saturday 29 January 2022

Meister Eckhart: from 'In hoc apparuit caritas dei in nobis'

 


Swer daz leben vrâgete tûsent jâr: war umbe lebest dû, solte ez antwürten, es spræche niht anders wan: Ich lebe dar umbe daz ich lebe. Daz ist dâ von, wan leben lebet üzer sînem eigenen grunde und quillet üzer sînem eigen; dar umbe lebet ez âne  warumbe in dem, das ez sich selber lebet. Swer nû vrâgete einen wârhaften menschen, der dâ würket ûz eigenem grunde: war umbe würkest dû dîniu werk?, sollte er rehte antwürten, er spræche niht anders dan: Ich würke dar umbe, das ich würke.

 

Were anyone to ask life for a thousand years: Why do you live?, it would say in answer nothing but this: I live in order to live. That is the case because life lives out of its own grounding and wells up out of its own source; therefore it lives without any why, since it lives in itself. Were anyone to ask a true human being who acted out of his own grounding: Why do you carry out your deeds?, and were he to answer honestly, he would answer nothing but this: I act in order to act.

Angelus Silesius: 'Die Ros' ist ohn' Warum' (from 'The Cherubinic Pilgrim,' 1657)


 

Die Ros‘ ist ohn‘ Warum;

sie blühet, weil sie blühet;

Sie acht‘ nicht ihrer selbst,

fragt nicht, ob man sie siehet.

 

No reason has the rose;

it blooms and blooms renew it;

it does not heed itself,

or ask if one can view it.



Marie Dauguet: 'Le bon rouet' (1899)


Le bon rouet

 

Vieille et lasse, eIle chevrote,

Chef branlant, regard vitreux,

Près d’un feu de chènevotte

Clairant dans l’aire poudreux;

La flamme danse et s’allonge,

Bleuâtre entre deux lisons,

Tandis que la vieille songe

En bredouillant des chansons,

 

Chef branlant, lèvre pendante,

Et la quenouille aux cordons

Du devanté, somnolente,

Son pied rythme les fredons

Du rouet qui la fascine

Et dont le cercle de buis

Fantastiquement dessine

Son orbe parmi la nuit.

 

Rassotante, sèche et plate,

Sous les rides en réseau,

Vieille à n’avoir plus de date,

Le dos rond comme un cerceau,

Le temps des amours la hante,

Ressuscitant à souhait,

Quand la voix du rouet chante.

– Chante et vibre, bon rouet!

 

Las mè! Seule, elle rêvasse...

Des souvenirs décrépits,

Tout au long de sa filasse,

Vont s’enrouler sans répit.

– Bon rouet, gronde et bourdonne,

Poursuis ta course, poursuis

La vigueur qui m’abandonne

Et les amours qui m’ont fui!

 

Belle, aimée, elle recule,

Par les sentiers effacés,

Tâtonnant au crépuscule

Vers les aubes du passé.

– Bon rouet, qui plus ne gronde,

Fais bruire dans ma nuit,

Au caprice de ta ronde,

Tant de baisers qui m'ont fui!


 

The grand old spinning wheel

 

Voice that quavers, old and tired

Dangling head and glassy stare,

Close beside her shive-stoked fire,

Gleaming in the dusty air;

Dancing flame spreads outwards, seems

Bluish in between two brands,

While the old crone sits and dreams,

Mumbles songs and warms her hands.

 

Dangling head and drooping lips,

And the distaff at the strings

Of her apron almost dips,

Her foot treads a beat that sings

From the wheel’s bewitching whirls

And its boxwood circle’s flight

Wondrously its own orb twirls

In the darkness of the night.

 

Dry and flat she vegetates,

Wrinkled skin her outer hull,

Old from having no more date,

Back as rounded as a skull,

Haunted by love’s far-off ring,

Though reviving to appeal

When the wheel begins to sing:

– Sing and thrum now, grand old wheel

 

Ah me! Life’s a day-dream show...

Memories, decrepit all,

Down the full length of her tow

Will unravel as they fall.

Old wheel, rumble, drone and hum,

Chase, pursue unerringly

Vigour that in me’s grown numb

And the loves that fled from me!

 

Loved and lovely, she steps back,

Taking tracks long-since erased,

Groping in the dusk’s near black,

Searching for lost dawns’ past trace.

– Wheel, your humming’s lost its tone,

So let rustle in my night – 

As your whirring whim makes known –

Every kiss that’s taken flight! 

 


The first poem by Marie Dauguet, written on a winter's day in 1899. It was subsequently published in 'La Plume' in the first half of 1903.

 

Thursday 27 January 2022

Marie Dauguet: 'Printemps' (Pan Revue, April-May 1913)


 

Printemps

 

Le soleil neuf du matin,

Dans sa blondeur,

Dans sa candeur,

Le soleil pose

Sur les choses,

Et la rosée qui les décore

Et tremble dans l’air suspendue,

Un givre d’or.

 

Les objets n’ont pas de contours

Dans la campagne…sans frontière…

Ils fondent parmi la lumière

Dont l’afflux trébuchant les agite.

 

Les objets n’ont pas de contour,

D’une translucide matière;

Le soleil aux blondes paupières

Partout les baise avec amour.

 

Nulle opacité… tout s’aère

Les ombres sont claires…très claires,

Par taches, en tremblants filets

Et du ton léger des bleuets.

 

Un prisme errant se pulvérise;

Adorable confusion

De chaque objet et du rayon

Qui le pénètre et qui le grise.

 

Mon cœur s’ouvre dans la clarté

Aromatique et musicale,

Lune, ferme la fleur d’opale,

Vibre en nous, soleil enchanté.

 

 

Spring

 

The newly risen morning sun,

In blond brightness,

And forthrightness,

Begins to land

On what’s at hand,

On dew that adds enhancing gloss,

And quivers in the hanging air,

A gold hoar frost.

 

In country setting objects lack

Clear contours… All just seems to merge…

They melt within light’s tumbling surge

Which causes them to whirl and swirl.

 

Objects are shapeless, on the move,

Translucent substance that seems spare;

The sun, blond-lidded, everywhere

Embraces them with ardent love.

 

Nothing’s opaque… all turns to air

Shadows grow clear… extremely clear,

In patches, trembling streaks and shreds

And bluish tinges here and there.

 

A straying prism turns to spray;

A muddled but delightful state

Of every object and the ray

Which pierces and intoxicates.

 

The dulcet, fragrant clearness won

Causes my heart to open wide,

Moon, time your opal flower to hide,

Vibrate in us, enchanted sun.

 

 

Published in the review ‘Pan’, by Jean Clary, April-May 1913

 

Marie Dauguet: 'Printemps', Part III

 

                                 III


                                 Pour Gustave Le Bon

 

Écoute, écoute, c’est le formidable bond

Du soleil animal dont la crinière flambe

Et la course en vertige au rythme furibond

De la terre captive où l’humanité rampe.

 

L’éther dissout ses morts, berce ses derniers nés,

Mêle des astres neufs à des soleils fantômes,

Mais sur les raiuls du temps, tous glissent entraînés

Dans les vibrations de votre danse, atômes.

 

Fluidité! Néant! Le contour exprimé

Des mondes et des cœurs, puis tout se désagrège.

Apparence, tends-moi du moins ton divin piège!

 

Au travers du printemps, dans mon âme essaimé,

Rose, dont j’aurai su goûter le sortilège

Qu’importe si tu n’es qu’un sépulcre embaumé?

 


                                 III

                                 To Gustave Le Bon

 

Ah, listen, listen, it’s the formidable bound

Of the instinctive sun whose mane is all ablaze

And the dizzying race with frenzied, rhythmic sound

Of captive earth, where humans crawl as in a daze.

 

Aether dissolves its dead, it rocks its newly born,

Mixes new stars with ghostlike suns as if by chance,

But on the rails of time, all slide away, are drawn

As atoms in the strong vibrations of our dance.

 

Sheer flux! And nothingness! The contour that is drawn

Of worlds and hearts before all things disintegrate.

Appearance, lay your sacred trap is all I crave!

 

Throughout all spring, dispersed and in my soul still borne,

Oh Rose, whose spell I will have tasted at some date,

What does it matter if you’re but a scented grave? 

                                 

                          


I have added Part III for the sake of completeness. In my opinion it is a ghastly poem. It is confirmation that Marie Dauguet lost her centre from about 1909 onwards. Not always, but Futurism seems to have blighted her poetry.

Wednesday 26 January 2022

Marie Dauguet: 'Printemps II'


                II

 

One’s task and duty? – This: To endlessly dispute

The contours by which all one’s being is defined.

Oh Life, full of resource, to soaring flight inclined,

Which seeks the weight of all dense matter to refute,

 

I offer all within me to your subtlety!

So that by you, through me, the universe may know

Itself, no humble morals where one bows down low,

But all of Satan’s pride in its immensity –

 

His gesture sent towards the vast great Mystery.

My own enigma, which I challenge endlessly,

You cloudy aether’s secret, exit door of old –

 

Like lightning flashes may my night dreams you both seize,

Here by this April wood, whose seeds shake in the breeze

’Neath the moon, at my feet, sowing duvets of gold.

  

Tuesday 25 January 2022

Marie Dauguet: ´Printemps I' (1913)

Between 1911 and 1924, Marie Dauguet published no collection of poetry. This is part I of a three-part poem printed in 'Mercure de France' on 16 July 1913, i.e. it is at or just after a turning point in her career as a poet. She cites Bergson, there are traces of Nietzsche, there is a clear allusion to the carpe diem theme from Ronsard's famous poem. The other two parts of the poem will follow when translated.


Printemps

 

I

La vie, c’est-à-dire la conscience lancée

à travers la matière

Bergson

 

Le soleil a fondu comme un fruit dans la bouche

Et la forêt suspend son murmure soyeux,

Sur la mousse, soudain, l’air qui bougeait se couche,

Vénus aux cils mouillés paraît au bord des cieux.

 

A la cime des bois, plus aucun frisson n’ose

Courir, et je m’assieds en silence à leur seuil,

Où je voudrais cueillir, comme on fait d’une rose

Le vol familier près de moi d’un bouvreuil.

 

Voici la nuit venue avec sa douceur d’ange,

Ses cassolettes au brumeux enivrement;

Le parfum de la terre à l’ombre se mélange:

La douleur de penser a son enchantement.

 

J’entends mourir au loin des cloches violettes

Et c’est autour de moi comme un mystique influx;

Pensons très peu… rêvons… surtout ne pleurons plus

Devant le ciel désert aux profondeurs muettes.

 

Résigne-toi, tais-toi, referme tes deux mains

Sur les trésors furtifs que peut donner chaque heure

Et ne les dresse plus vers cet absurde leurre:

Le ciel vide où s’en vont tant de sanglots humains.

 

Si la divinité, que nous cherchons encore,

Doit exister un jour, elle se crée en nous,

Sa rythmique beauté dans mes vers s’évapore,

Tout son mystère coule en mes veines dissous.

 

Si je sais me livrer à l’élan de la Vie,

De mon plus fort vouloir… mieux que l’ambre ou le fer,

Ouvrir à son effort mes moëlles, chaque nerf,

Un dieu peut naître un jour sous ma tempe ravie.

 

 

                                 II

 

Le devoir ? – Le voilà: c’est tout ce qu’on transgresse

De ces contours par l’on est délimité.

O Vie ingénieuse, à l’essor entêté,

Violant la lourdeur de la matière épaisse,

 

Je m’offre tout entière à ta subtilité!

Que par toi, sous mon front, l’univers se connaise,

Plus de l’humble morale où l’être se rabaisse,

Mais l’orgueil de Satan dans son immensité;

 

Son geste projeté vers l’Énigme géante.

Mystère de moi-même et que toujours je tente,

Toit, secret de l’éther nébuleux, d’où l’on sort,

 

Que mes rêves ce soir, en éclairs, vous saisissent,

Au seuil du bois d’Avril, dont les germes frémissent,

Sous la lune, à mes pieds, semant des duvets d’or.

 

 

                                 III

                                 Pour Gustave Le Bon

 

Écoute, écoute, c’est le formidable bond

Du soleil animal dont la crinière flambe

Et la course en vertige au rythme furibond

De la terre captive où l’humanité rampe.

 

L’éther dissout ses morts, berce ses derniers nés,

Mêle des astres neufs à des soleils fantômes,

Mais sur les raiuls du temps, tous glissent entraînés

Dans les vibrations de votre danse, atômes.

 

Fluidité! Néant! Le contour exprimé

Des mondes et des cœurs, puis tout se désagrège.

Apparence, tends-moi du moins ton divin piège!

 

Au travers du printemps, dans mon âme essaimé,

Rose, dont j’aurai su goûter le sortilège

Qu’importe si tu n’es qu’un sépulcre embaumé?

 

 

Spring

 

I

Life, that is to say consciousness

launched into matter.

                      Bergson

 

The sun has melted just as fruit can do inside

The mouth, and in the forest silky murmurs die,

On moss the moving breezes suddenly subside –

And moist-eyed Venus now appears low in the sky.

 

At the crest of the woods, no single quiver shows

Itself, and at their edge I settle silently;

And I would like to pluck, as one would do a rose,

A bullfinch’s familiar flight quite close to me.

 

Here with angelic gentleness night has arrived,

Its censers burning with misty intoxication;

The earth’s strong scent with shadows mingles uncontrived:

The pain of thinking has its own strong captivation.

 

Far off I hear the violet bells’ sound slowly die

And round me seems a mystic influx everywhere;

Let’s think no more… let’s dream… above all let’s not cry

Before the desert sky with silent depths of air.

 

Resign yourself, be silent, let both your hands make sure

Of all the furtive treasures that each hour bestows

And no more raise them up towards that senseless lure:

The empty sky where so much human sobbing goes.

 

If the divinity for which we search and wait

Should one day come, within us it will have its source,

Its rhythmic beauty from my verse will emanate,

And all its mystery, dissolved, through my veins course.

 

If by Life’s vital force I upwards dare be borne,

Better than amber or than iron, with utmost verve

And to its impulse yield my marrow, every nerve,

Beneath my raptured brow a god might yet be born.

 

 

                                 II

 

One’s task and duty? – This: To endlessly dispute

The contours by which all one’s being is defined.

Oh Life, full of resource, to soaring flight inclined,

Which seeks the weight of all dense matter to refute,

 

I offer all within me to your subtlety!

So that by you, through me, the universe may know

Itself, no humble morals where one bows down low,

But all of Satan’s pride in its immensity –

 

His gesture sent towards the vast great Mystery.

My own enigma, which I challenge endlessly,

You cloudy aether’s secret, exit door of old –

 

Like lightning flashes may my night dreams you both seize,

Here by this April wood, whose seeds shake in the breeze

’Neath the moon, at my feet, sowing duvets of gold.

 

 

                                 III

                                 To Gustave Le Bon

 

Ah, listen, listen, it’s the formidable bound

Of the instinctive sun whose mane is all ablaze

And the dizzying race with frenzied, rhythmic sound

Of captive earth, where humans crawl as in a daze.

 

Aether dissolves its dead, it rocks its newly born,

Mixes new stars with ghostlike suns as if by chance,

But on the rails of time, all slide away, are drawn

As atoms in the strong vibrations of our dance.

 

Sheer flux! And nothingness! The contour that is drawn

Of worlds and hearts before all things disintegrate.

Appearance, lay your sacred trap is all I crave!

 

Throughout all spring, dispersed and in my soul still borne,

Oh Rose, whose spell I will have tasted at some date,

What does it matter if you’re but a scented grave?