Poems authors

Happy reading

Marie

You were dancing there as a little girl

Will you dance, old mother?

It’s the mallet that bounces

All the bells will ring

When will you be coming back, Marie?

Masks are silent

And the music is so far away

How it seems to come from the heavens

Yes, I want to love you, but only barely.

And my pain is delicious.

The sheep go off into the snow

Wool flakes and silver flakes

Soldiers pass by, and what have I not done

A heart to me, this fickle heart

Changeable, and then who knows what else?

Do I know where your hair will go

Crested like a churning sea

Do I know where your hair will go

And your hands, leaves of autumn

What also litter our confessions?

I was passing by the Seine

An old book under the arm

The river is like my sorrow

It flows and does not cease

When will the week finally be over?

Guillaume Apollinaire

Marylena

Happy reading,

I came, I saw, I lived

I have lived long enough, since in my pains
I walk, without finding any arms to rescue me,
Since I barely laugh at the children around me,
Since I am no longer delighted by flowers;
Since in spring, when God sets nature to celebrating,
I witness, a joyless spirit, this splendid love;
Since I am at the hour when man flees the day,
Alas! and feels the secret sadness of all;
Since the serene hope in my soul is vanquished;
Since in this season of perfumes and roses,
Oh my daughter! I long for the shade where you rest,
Since my heart is dead, I have lived long enough.
I did not refuse my task on earth.
My furrow? There it is. My sheaf? Here it is.
I lived smiling, ever more gentle,
Standing, but leaning toward the side of mystery.
I did what I could; I served, I kept watch,
And I have often seen people laugh at my suffering.
I was surprised to be an object of hatred,
Having suffered a great deal and worked hard.
In this earthly prison where no wing can open,
Without complaining, bleeding, and falling on my hands,
Gloomy, exhausted, mocked by the human convicts,
I wore my link of the eternal chain.
Now, my gaze opens only halfway;
I no longer turn around even when my name is called;
I am full of stupor and boredom, like a man
Who rises before dawn and has not slept.
I no longer deign, in my dark laziness,
Answer the envious one whose mouth harms me.
O Lord! Open to me the doors of the night,
So that I can go and disappear!

Author: Victor Hugo (1802–1885)

Marylena

Happy reading,

Hymn to Beauty

Do you come from the deep sky, or do you emerge from the abyss?
Oh Beauty? Your infernal and divine gaze,
Confusely mix the benefit and the crime,
And you can be compared to wine for this.

In your eye you hold the sunset and the dawn;
You spread fragrances like a stormy evening;
Your kisses are a philtre and your mouth an amphora
Who makes the cowardly hero and the courageous child.

Do you emerge from the black abyss or descend from the stars?
Charming Fate follows your skirts like a dog;
You sow joy and disasters at random,
And you rule everything and are accountable for nothing.

You walk on the dead, Beauty, whom you mock;
Of your jewels, Horror is not the least charming.
And Murder, among your most precious trinkets,
Dance lovingly on your proud belly.

The dazzled ephemeral flies toward you, candle,
Crackle, blaze, and say: Let us bless this torch!
The panting lover bent over his beauty
Like a dying man caressing his tomb.

Whether you come from heaven or hell, it doesn't matter,
Oh Beauty, enormous, terrifying, innocent monster!
If your eye, your mouse, your foot, open the door for me
Of an Infinity I love and have never known?

Satan or God, who cares? Angel or Siren,
Never mind, if you surrender, — fairy with velvet eyes,
Rhythm, perfume, glow, oh my only queen! -
The less hideous universe and the less heavy moments.

Author: Charles Baudelaire (1821 - 1867)

Marylena

To see each other as often as possible and love each other

To see each other as much as possible and to love each other only,
Without guile and without detours, without shame or lies,
Without a desire to deceive us, or a remorse to gnaw at us,
Living together and giving your heart at any moment;

Respect its thought as far as one delves into it,
To make one's love a day instead of a dream,
And in this clarity, breathe freely;
Thus breathed Laure, and sang of her lover.

In which every step touches the supreme grace,
It is you, the head in flowers, whom one would believe without a care,
It was you who told me that one must love in that way.

And it is I, old child of doubt and blasphemy,
Who listens to you, thinks, and responds as follows:
Yes, we live differently, but that is how we love.

Author: Alfred de Musset (1810–1857)

Marylena

There are certain minds…

There are certain minds whose dark thoughts
They are always embarrassed by a thick cloud;
The day of reason could not pierce it.
So before you write, learn to think.
Depending on how obscure our idea is,
The expression follows her, or is less clear, or purer.
What is well conceived is clearly expressed,
And the words to say it come easily.

Especially since in your writings the revered language
May you always be sacred in your greatest excesses.
In vain, you strike me with a melodious sound,
If the term is inappropriate or the phrasing is awkward:
My mind does not admit a pompous barbarism,
Nor the proud solecism of a pompous verse.
Without language, in a word, the most divine author
He is always, no matter what he does, a bad writer.

Work at your leisure, whatever order may press you,
And do not prick yourself with a mad speed:
A style so swift, and running in rhyme,
It is a mark of little judgment to worry too much.
I prefer a stream that, on the soft sand,
In a flower-filled meadow, it slowly strolls
Like a torrent in flood, from a stormy course,
Rolling, full of gravel, on a muddy terrain.
Hasten slowly, and, without losing courage,
Twenty times on the anvil, rework your craft:
Polish it endlessly and re-polish it;
Sometimes add, and often erase.

Author: Nicolas Boileau (1636–1711)

Marylena

Appearance

The moon was grieving. Weeping seraphim
Dreaming, bow in hand, in the quiet of the flowers
Vaporous, they drew out dying violets
White sobs sliding over the azure of the corollas.
It was the blessed day of your first kiss.
My obsessive thoughts torment me
Savoured the scent of sadness
That even without regret and without misfortune leaves
The picking of a Dream by a heart that picked it.
So I wandered, my eyes fixed on the weathered cobblestones
When with sun in your hair, on the street
And in the evening, you appeared to me, laughing
And I thought I saw the fairy with the hat of light
Who once upon my beautiful dreams of a spoiled child
Passed by, always leaving from its poorly closed hands
Do not tilt the white, fragrant star bouquets.

Author: Stéphane Mallarmé (1842–1898)

Marylena