Post by bergerac on Oct 20, 2007 4:06:47 GMT -5
To be recited before England rugby games.
Gamblers
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
translated by Richard Howard (Baudelaire, Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets)
They sit in shabby armchairs, ancient whores
with eyebrows painted over pitiless eyes,
simpering so that the garish gems they wear
jiggle at their withered powdered ears.
Around the green felt, lipless faces loom
or colourless lips and toothless jaws, above
feverish fingers that cannot lie still
but fumble in empty pockets, trembling breasts;
under the dirty ceilings and a row
of dusty chandeliers, the low-hung lamps
sway over famous poets’ shadowed brows,
the sweat of which they come to squander here;
this hideous pageant passed before my eyes
as if a nightmare picked out each detail:
I saw myself in a corner of that hushed den
watching it all, cold, mute – and envious!
envying the stubborn passion of such men,
the deadly gaiety of those old whores –
all blithely trafficking, as I looked on,
in honour or beauty – whatever they could sell!
Horrible, that I should envy these
who rush so recklessly into the pit,
each in his frenzy ravenous to prefer
pain to death, and hell to nothingness
Bergerac.
Gamblers
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
translated by Richard Howard (Baudelaire, Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets)
They sit in shabby armchairs, ancient whores
with eyebrows painted over pitiless eyes,
simpering so that the garish gems they wear
jiggle at their withered powdered ears.
Around the green felt, lipless faces loom
or colourless lips and toothless jaws, above
feverish fingers that cannot lie still
but fumble in empty pockets, trembling breasts;
under the dirty ceilings and a row
of dusty chandeliers, the low-hung lamps
sway over famous poets’ shadowed brows,
the sweat of which they come to squander here;
this hideous pageant passed before my eyes
as if a nightmare picked out each detail:
I saw myself in a corner of that hushed den
watching it all, cold, mute – and envious!
envying the stubborn passion of such men,
the deadly gaiety of those old whores –
all blithely trafficking, as I looked on,
in honour or beauty – whatever they could sell!
Horrible, that I should envy these
who rush so recklessly into the pit,
each in his frenzy ravenous to prefer
pain to death, and hell to nothingness
Bergerac.