Verlaine

Verlaine is someone intense. The famous French symbolist poet Paul Verlaine [1844-1896] had a wild, unpredictable life, and his poetry has a depth that's quite disconcerting--and moving. It can be easier to read Verlaine [during the summer than any other season simply because the cheer of the sun and season makes it easier to read heavy work without slipping into a little malaise. Art should be moving, but not crushing. Verlaine is so talented he sometimes gets close to it. 

Here's one poem, called "After three years" from Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia III, read more Verlaine here:

Opening the narrow rickety gate,

I went for a walk in the little garden,

All lit up by that gentle morning sun,

Starring each flower with watery light.

Nothing was changed. Again: the humble arbour

With wild vines and chairs made of rattan…

The fountain as ever in its silvery pattern,

And the old aspen with its eternal murmur.

The roses as then still trembled, and as then

The tall proud lilies rocked in the wind.

I knew every lark there, coming and going.

I found the Veleda statue standing yet,

At the end of the avenue its plaster flaking,

– Weathered, among bland scents of mignonette.

Note: Veleda (Velleda), a German priestess or divinity, celebrated by Maindron’s 1843/44 marble sculpture, much copied as a garden ornament, as were the popular statues of Flora.

Ayant poussé la porte étroite qui chancelle,
Je me suis promené dans le petit jardin
Qu'éclairait doucement le soleil du matin,
Pailletant chaque fleur d'une humide étincelle.

Rien n'a changé. J'ai tout revu : l'humble tonnelle
De vigne folle avec les chaises de rotin...
Le jet d'eau fait toujours son murmure argentin
Et le vieux tremble sa plainte sempiternelle.

Les roses comme avant palpitent ; comme avant,
Les grands lys orgueilleux se balancent au vent,
Chaque alouette qui va et vient m'est connue.

Même j'ai retrouvé debout la Velléda,
Dont le plâtre s'écaille au bout de l'avenue,
- Grêle, parmi l'odeur fade du réséda.