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    AC Benus
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Translation Trashbin - 37. Sonnet d’automne

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Translation of

Sonnet d’automne

by Charles Baudelaire

 

 

Sonnet d’automne

 

Ils me disent, tes yeux, clairs comme le cristal:

«Pour toi, bizarre amant, quel est donc mon mérite?»

—Sois charmante et tais-toi! Mon coeur, que tout irrite,

Excepté la candeur de l'antique animal,

 

Ne veut pas te montrer son secret infernal,

Berceuse dont la main aux longs sommeils m'invite,

Ni sa noire légende avec la flamme écrite.

Je hais la passion et l'esprit me fait mal!

 

Aimons-nous doucement. L'Amour dans sa guérite,

Ténébreux, embusqué, bande son arc fatal.

Je connais les engins de son vieil arsenal:

 

Crime, horreur et folie! — Ô pâle marguerite!

Comme moi n'es-tu pas un soleil automnal,

O ma si blanche, ô ma si froide Marguerite? [i]

 

 

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

Autumn Sonnet

 

Your eyes on me speak as crystal as leaded glass:

“What do you, strange lover, see in me that appeals?”

—Aloof and charming, my heart thinks best it conceals

All but my animal truth from his ancient class.

 

I don’t want to show a secret some think quite crass,

But is a cradle song whose long-sleeping hand reveals

One legend enough to withstand black-flame ordeals.

Hating forceful flares, when will this hurt feeling pass?

 

Let’s love gently. Love in his deep guardhouse sentry,

Bend me like a bow, hidden away, darkly strung,

For I know the weapons in his arsenal of fun.

 

Illicit, raunchy, crazy! — O pale margery!

Are we not alike, attuned to the autumn sun?

O mine so white, o mine so cool a machine gun. [ii]

 

 

 

 

 


[i] “Sonnet d’automne” Charles Baudelaire Les fleurs du mal (Paris 1868), p. 187

 

https://archive.org/details/lesfleursdumalpr00bauduoft/page/186/mode/2up

 

[ii] “margery” 19th century slang for a man available for casual sex with other men. As 19th century outsiders considered all such interactions calculating, they applied the Gay-insiders’ term to men on the make for money, of which men in uniform were the best-known “safe” option to be had in major metropolitan areas.

Margery relates well to the term in popular use for female sex-workers, daisy, and naturally both words have the same origin in the flower name.

In terms of Baudelaire’s French slang, marguerite can be applied to people on the make for sexual pleasure of either gender. However, in a not-very-subtle bid to make his readers understand exactly who is “on top” during this guardhouse tryst, Baudelaire repeats the word for daisy in a military context. And “Marguerite” – with a capital M – is slang for an early form of machine gun.

For period-use of the term margery, there is a rare survivor from Britain’s notorious culling, burning and ruthless censorship of all printed matter deemed to be of an “objectionable nature,” which began in 1880 and lasted until 1970. This circa 1855 book is known in only one surviving print: that locked away for a hundred years in the British Museum. It is now scanned and available for study.

Curiously, the book purports to be a stern lesson in avoiding the “vices” of London, but organizes itself as a handy guide for all of its pleasures, even bothering to name the most celebrated prostitutes of the day and detail at which brothel they were to be found.

In a similar light of “warning,” the author merrily lays out where one may go to meet up with men on the make. As soon as page 5, the visitor is directed to the stomping grounds of the “margeries” and “poofs,” and the how-to etiquette of each cruising area is carefully explained for the reader’s convenience.

See “A Few Words About Margeries – The Way to Know the Beasts – Their Haunts, &c.” in the Yokel’s Preceptor: or, More Sprees in London! (London c. 1855), ps. 5-7

 

https://books.google.com/books?id=cJ9kAAAAcAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false

 

– As a side note, I’d encourage the reader to glance at the titlepage. This book must surely have one of the longest titles of any volume in the English language: 322 words by my casual count!

 

_

Copyright © 2018 AC Benus; All Rights Reserved.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Your translation makes me wish I had studied French more assiduously in high school. This is sensuous and seductive. 

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Oh, I suppose I should mention -- for the record -- that this work is the result of a dream I had about 9 months ago. In the dream, I was shown a printed page with a Sonnet on it. The person showing it to me said this was something I needed to turn my translating efforts towards, and added I would be much happier if I succeeded in accurately translating the work.

Somehow, when I woke up, I remembered a few words of a particular line, and an internet search proved Baudelaire's Sonnet d'automne was the only poem it could have been.

So here we are.

Edited by AC Benus
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9 minutes ago, Parker Owens said:

Your translation makes me wish I had studied French more assiduously in high school. This is sensuous and seductive. 

Thank you, Parker. Besides the soldier-sex, the truly Gayest part of this remarkable poem is the second Quatrain. It's the emotions of the man laid out in these four lines that actually "reveals" the entire nature of this poem.

I have flagged a few more of Baudelaire's verse to investigate more closely. He's a figure oft mentioned in books exploring same-sex love, but as far as I can see, there is a lack of any definitive study on how his work explored the urban LGBT+ reality of Paris during his day. Perhaps such a study exists in French, but it's inaccessible to me at present.

Thanks again!

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That second quatrain, pondered over and re-read, made me feel akin to the speaker. Perhaps his is the long-sleeping cradle song to which I woke also. 

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