Fellag. Comédien, metteur en scène et auteur

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 3 avril 2010

« Ma pièce n'est pas un procès contre l'Algérie ! »

Fellag. Comédien, metteur en scène et auteur

« Ma pièce n’est pas un procès contre l’Algérie ! »

Comédien, metteur en scène, auteur, Fellag détonne avec son éventail de talents. Observateur assidu de la société algérienne (et française), notre star des planches dresse un tableau sans concession des Algériens et de leur vécu, mais avec un humanisme grand comme ça ! Son dernier spectacle, Tous les Algériens sont des mécaniciens, a été critiqué par certains : « Pourquoi rire sur le dos des Algériens ? » Fellag s’en défend et explique ici sa passion, son art, sa vision… avec des éclats de rire !

-  Dans votre dernier spectacle, Tous les Algériens sont des mécaniciens, vous abordez plusieurs problèmes de la société algérienne : la jeunesse, les visas, les rapports France-Algérie, en passant par l’eau qui manque ou le fait qu’un moteur de voiture soit le sujet sur lequel la démocratie algérienne s’exprime pleinement dans la mesure où « tous les Algériens sont des mécaniciens »… Pourtant, vous avez quitté le pays en 1994. Comment pouvez-vous garder le lien ?

Il est très difficile pour un Algérien de s’extraire de son terreau. Je suis toujours interpellé par l’Algérie et souvent je reviens sur les mêmes thèmes car ils sont récurrents. J’y reviens en essayant de les raconter autrement, en creusant encore plus le sillon. La presse algérienne est la première à parler du problème des visas par exemple, quand on voit les différents présidents français en visite en Algérie et que vous voyez dans la même scène des milliers de jeunes crier en leur direction « nous voulons des visas ! ». C’est le reflet d’un désarroi sans nom. C’est d’une gravité énorme, c’est même choquant. Vous imaginez : c’est comme si Bouteflika en visite en France, défilant sur les Champs-Elysées, et qu’on voyait apparaître des milliers de Français scandant : « On veut reprendre nos colonies, repartir en Algérie, on veut Sidi Feruch… »

-  Il s’agit de quoi alors ? Un constat d’échec ?

Un échec énorme ! Mais, moi, je ne suis pas un tribunal. Je suis un homme de théâtre, c’est-à-dire un poste d’observation, un thermomètre de la combustion sociale, un baromètre. Je ne fais pas de politique. Le constat d’échec sous l’angle politique, faites-le vous-mêmes. Moi, je raconte simplement à travers le théâtre le désarroi de cette jeunesse qui est poussée à scander des formules comme « on veut des visas… » ! Et le cri de ces jeunes est le miroir qui réfléchit l’absence tragique de perspectives.

-  Vous jouez dans votre spectacle aux côtés de Marianne Epin qui campe le rôle de Shéhérazade, votre épouse sur la scène… Le public au théâtre est très « Français de souche ». Comment les Français réagissent-ils à votre spectacle ? Comment voient-ils les Algériens ?

Si vous croyez que les Français vont au théâtre pour observer à quoi peut ressembler un Algérien ou pour disséquer la situation des Algériens en Algérie, vous vous mettez le doigt dans l’œil. Le public va au théâtre pour voir un spectacle, quand une pièce est intéressante, bien écrite, amusante et qu’elle raconte des choses fortes. L’histoire, certes, se passe à Alger. C’est l’histoire d’un homme et d’une femme qui raconte le monde. Donc ce n’est pas un jugement sur l’Algérie en général. Le spectacle, ce n’est pas l’Algérie, c’est une histoire à Alger racontée avec poésie, humour et aussi avec un regard politique. Les spectateurs ne repartent pas avec une analyse géopolitique de l’Algérie, ils repartent avec des émotions, une façon singulière de raconter, des gags, des images qui les touchent, qui les émeuvent, de la même manière que repartent les spectateurs algériens assis à leurs côtés.

-  Il y a quand même une critique politique de la société algérienne…

Oui et non, même pas. Oui dans le sens où il y a de la politique dans toutes les situations qui attirent le théâtre ; non car il ne s’agit pas d’une tribune politique. Je raconte des histoires poétiques qui baignent dans le politique. Je raconte l’humour particulier des Algériens. Je ne vais pas vous faire une interview politique car, franchement, la politique je m’en fous royalement ! Molière, Labiche, Beaumarchais, Tardieu ou Dubillard écrivaient des pièces ; on ne dit pas, un siècle après, que « c’est une critique de la France du XVIIe ou du XXe siècles ». On parle du contenu, de la profondeur d’un personnage, d’une façon d’être dans une société à une époque donnée. Je le répète, ma pièce n’est pas un procès contre l’Algérie, c’est un spectacle où des Algériens se racontent et déconnent. Pour exister, un pays doit savoir se raconter sous toutes les coutures. Il faut qu’il exprime son imaginaire. Je suis Algérien, j’ai une part de cet imaginaire et je le raconte. Je mets cartes sur table.

-  Vous avez réussi là où peu de gens l’ont fait : réaliser un spectacle parlant de l’Algérie contemporaine sans que ce soit un spectacle communautaire. Le public vient de partout. Quel en est le secret ?

Je pense que faire de l’humour, du théâtre communautaire peut être une grave dérive. C’est un enfermement. Ce n’est plus de la culture, c’est de la claustrophobie. Il faut ouvrir toutes les portes, les fenêtres, les vasistas de la société dans laquelle on vit pour qu’elle exporte sa culture et aspire à celle des autres. Quand je me balade dans le métro parisien, je vois de tout, toutes les nationalités, toutes les classes sociales. Alors, pourquoi cibler un public particulier ? Au début de ma carrière en France, mon public était composé de beaucoup plus d’Algériens. Puis ensuite les Français sont venus. Mais il y a aussi une autre catégorie que l’on a tendance à oublier, ces Maghrébins qui n’ont pas mis les pieds dans leur pays d’origine, qui ne parlent ni l’arabe ni le kabyle et qui ont un peu perdu la mémoire de leur pays. Pour pouvoir les accrocher, il faut parler la langue qu’ils comprennent, c’est-à-dire le français, et ces gens-là viennent nombreux assister à mes spectacles.

-  Cela ne vous manque pas de jouer en arabe et en kabyle, comme autrefois ?

Vous voulez faire du sentimentalisme ? Bien sûr que ça me manque ! Cruellement ! Mais je le répète, je ne veux pas tomber dans le sentimentalisme, je pourrais pleurer devant vous. Mais qu’est-ce que cela changerait ? Ce n’est pas important. L’essentiel c’est d’exister, de produire. Ensuite, le produit de la création voyage. Par la bouche des autres, par le vinyle, le CD, le DVD, l’internet… Ces supports voyagent beaucoup plus vite que nous, humains. Le temps d’organiser une tournée en Algérie… on est déjà sur un autre spectacle. Et pendant ce temps-là, des milliers de DVD jouent à notre place. Tous les soirs.

-  Peut-on dire que Fellag est un artiste engagé ?

Je ne me suis jamais considéré comme un artiste engagé. Mon seul engagement est de raconter des histoires crédibles, belles, chargées d’humour et de faire passer au public un bon moment. Si j’avais été un artiste engagé, vous m’auriez vu dans les meetings politiques, dans les associations politiques, etc. Ce que je n’ai jamais fait. Car ce n’est pas mon métier et je ne suis pas du tout doué pour ça.

-  Comment voyez-vous la production culturelle, théâtrale précisément, en Algérie ? On parle beaucoup de vide culturel. Dans la catégorie one man show, des gens comme Abdelkader Secteur tentent de faire leur trou… Qu’en pensez-vous ?

Je trouve qu’Abdelkader Secteur a beaucoup de talent. Il a une jolie façon de raconter des histoires. Il ne se fait pas sa place car il y a un vide. C’est un talent prometteur, croyez-moi. Il me fait beaucoup rire. Quant au vide dont vous parlez, quand on voit que dans une capitale il n’y a qu’un seul théâtre digne de ce nom, que dans d’autres villes algériennes il n’y a pas de théâtre du tout, pas de salle de cinéma, pas de bibliothèque… je pense qu’il n’y a pas de volonté claire, nette et précise de créer un secteur culturel viable et solide. Il y a un désir, une énergie formidable dans la société algérienne, une capacité réelle de s’ouvrir au monde, mais le constat est cuisant : il n’y a rien à l’horizon !

-  Est-ce que l’on peut dire que Fellag a réussi en France et pas en Algérie ?

D’abord je ne parle pas en terme de réussite. Le but n’est pas de réussir mais de créer, inventer, produire, faire évoluer constamment la matière première de notre métier. La reconnaissance de mon travail a d’abord été faite en Algérie avec un public exceptionnel, de 1989 jusqu’à mon départ en 1993. Puis en France, j’ai eu ce public algérien qui me connaissait par le bouche-à-oreille ou grâce aux cassettes vidéo qui circulaient. Ensuite arriva le public français. Dans certaines provinces éloignées de France, mon public est à 90% de souche gauloise. Beaucoup ont un lien avec l’Algérie car ils y ont travaillé, vécu, ou descendent de familles de pieds-noirs, etc. Ils viennent, je pense, rechercher un parfum, une langue, une couleur, celle de l’Algérie. Et même si on aborde des sujets difficiles comme les problèmes de logement ou de l’eau, ces spectateurs sont surpris par la terrible soif de vivre de mes personnages, toujours joyeux, énergiques, et qui font face aux soucis de la vie avec humour. Les problèmes sont là, je ne peux pas les cacher à l’ère de la mondialisation. On ne peut oublier le contexte, comme Molière n’oublie pas, dans les Femmes savantes, le contexte bourgeois dont sont imprégnés ses personnages. En racontant mon pays avec tendresse et sincérité, je pense que je donne les clés d’une Algérie sympathique.

-  Vous ne citez d’ailleurs jamais de nom d’homme politique dans vos spectacles. C’est voulu ?

Oui, car cela limiterait le spectacle lui-même. Je ne cite jamais les noms des hommes politiques. Il y a des chansonniers, des acteurs de one man show qui font dans la diatribe politique. Ils sont souvent doués pour ça. Ce n’est pas ma case. Je ne suis jamais entré dans ce jeu-là et n’y entrerai jamais. D’ailleurs, les hommes politiques ne m’intéressent pas, je n’ai pas envie de parler d’eux ! Je raconte des petites histoires du peuple, c’est cela qui m’intéresse.

-  Pourtant, quand vous étiez directeur du Théâtre régional de Béjaïa en 1992, c’était une politique, même culturelle, que vous essayiez d’appliquer ?

Je ne faisais pas de politique proprement dit. Cette période, comme vous le savez, était très dure. On ne pouvait pas bouger, pas faire de tournée… on faisait ce qu’on pouvait. Mais je n’ai jamais pris de carte dans un parti politique. Mon métier, c’est artiste. Je dois parler au maximum de gens, pas à une sensibilité précise. Les « politiques » ont besoin de nous, souvent pour nous utiliser à médiatiser leurs initiatives. Mais nous, artistes, nous n’avons pas besoin d’eux…

-  Après Les Mécaniciens…, qu’est-ce que vous nous concoctez ? Les « Algériens sont tous des cordons-bleus » ?

Tous les Algériens sont des mécaniciens va rentrer définitivement au garage le 30 avril. Ce sera la dernière représentation au théâtre des Bouffes parisiens. Je m’arrête pour souffler un peu, finir un petit roman et participer à quelques films. A partir du mois d’octobre, je remonte sur scène avec un nouveau spectacle : Tous les Portugais sont des maçons. Non, je plaisante. Le prochain spectacle ne parlera pas du tout de l’Algérie, mais du Portugal, à partir de textes d’Antonio Lobo Antunes, un merveilleux auteur portugais dont toutes les histoires se déroulent dans la ville de Lisbonne.

-  Pour finir, Shéhérazade (Marianne Epin) est aussi votre compagne dans la vie. Peut-on dire que Mohand Saïd Fellag est heureux, aujourd’hui ?

El Watan week-end étant un journal qui a de l’éthique et de la hauteur et non un journal « people », je ne parlerais donc pas dans ce registre… Mais pour répondre quand même à votre question, je dirais que je ne serais vraiment heureux que le jour où mon peuple trouvera lui aussi le bonheur… franchement !

Bio express : Mohamed Saïd Fellag est né le 31 mars 1950 à Azzefoun, en Kabylie. Il étudie les arts dramatiques, à 18 ans, puis se produit dans de nombreux théâtres d’Algérie au cours des années 1970. En 1978, il voyage en France et au Canada, vivant de petits boulots et repoussant sans cesse au lendemain ses grands projets. En 1985, il effectue un retour en Algérie et passe à l’action dans ses rêves de spectacles. Il lance alors, en 1986, son premier spectacle, Les aventures de Tchop, c’est le succès populaire. Plusieurs spectacles suivront comme Coktail Khorotov. Mohamed Fellag finit par se marier vers 40 ans. En 1992, il dirige le Théâtre régional de Béjaïa, mais face au terrorisme, la culture est en berne. Fellag s’exile en 1994 en Tunisie d’abord, puis en France. Depuis 15 ans il vit à Paris et fait un tabac avec son nouveau spectacle, Tous les Algériens sont des mécaniciens.

Par Ahmed Tazir

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | Pas de Commentaire »

Muḥend-U-Yeḥya

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 1 novembre 2009

Sselṭan n Mejbada
Deg idurar n Mejbada,
Yiwen n Sselṭan mechur,
Deg azal ineqq at-mira
Mi deg iḍ ad yesxarxur
Ur iṛewwu tanafa ;
as mi ten-yurga,
Ad as-ṛzen aqecṛur.
Yekker-d deg iḍ yettsuɣu,
Yusa-d ɣur-s lewzir-is.
Yenna-as : « Ay ahṛuḥu,
Taluft-a yeḍher yixef-is.
Tamurt-a ad tt-nemḥu,
Yiwen ur ileḥḥu,
Imir-n ad yefru ccɣel-is.»
Ula d yiwen ur d-yettager,
Di ccɣel-is ad ineqqi.
Dayen ad yexlu tuddar,
I wakken ad yetthenni.

Lewzir-is ur t-ittnamar,
Yeɣli ɣef tgecrar,
Ulac d acu ara d-yini.
Yenɣa akk kra d-yeqqimen,
Aqcic, argaz, tameṭtut.
S umɣar s win d-ilulen,
Yesukk akk deg-sen tafrut.
Ulli, iɣyal, uccanen,
Iwtal, izmawen.
Win ara imeḍlen yemmut.
Yeqqim tameddit-nni,
Ala lewzir d amwanes-is.
A-t-ayen la d-yettmekti,
Yeɣli-d yiḍ, yezzi ɣur-s :
Ur ttxir ara syagi !
Tura keccini,
Enɣ-iyi ma qqleɣ s iḍes

Muḥend-U-Yeḥya

Publié dans Poèsie(16), tamazight(65) | 1 Commentaire »

THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH by Edgar Allan Poe

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 1 novembre 2009

THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH

by Edgar Allan Poe

1842


THE « Red Death » had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal –the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the « Red Death. »

It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven –an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue –and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange –the fifth with white –the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet –a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.

He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm –much of what has been since seen in « Hernani. » There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these –the dreams –writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away –they have endured but an instant –and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise –then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood –and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.

« Who dares? » he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him – »who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him –that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements! »

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly –for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple –through the purple to the green –through the green to the orange –through this again to the white –and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry –and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

THE END

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | Pas de Commentaire »

Allan Edgar Poe ***POEMES***

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 1 novembre 2009

Allan Edgar Poe
(1809-1849)

(Français — Anglais)

A dream within a dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow_
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if Hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less GONE?
ALL that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand_
How few ! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep_while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! Can I not save
ONE from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

Un rêve dans un rêve

Reçois ce baiser sur le front!
Et, puisque que c’est l’heure de te quitter
Alors c’est bien haut que j’avoue
Tu n’as pas tort, toi qui juges
Que mes jours ont été un rêve;
Et si l’Espoir s’est enfui
Pendant la nuit ou pendant le jour
Dans une vision ou dans aucune,
Pour autant s’en est-il moins allé?
TOUT ce que nous voyons ou paraissons
N’est qu’un rêve dans un rêve.

Je me tiens au coeur rugissant
D’une grève que les brisants tourmentent,
Et je tiens dans la main
Des grains du sable d’or
Bien peu! et encore comme ils se défilent
A travers mes doigts vers l’abîme
Pendant que je pleure_pendant que je pleure!
O Dieu! Que ne les puis-je étreindre
D’une poigne plus ferme?
O Dieu! Que n’en puis-je sauver
UN de la houle sans pitié?
TOUT ce que nous voyons ou paraissons n’est-il
Qu’un rêve dans un rêve?

Traduit par: Gilles de Seze

***

49ko

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow_
You are not wrong, who deem…

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes, that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, – my darling,- my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe

Annabel Lee

C’était il y a bien des années
Dans ce royaume près de la mer
Qu’une jeune fille habitait là, que vous connaissez peut-être
Sous le nom d’Annabel Lee;
Et cette jeune fille elle ne vivait sans autre pensée
Que d’aimer et d’être aimée de moi.

J’étais un enfant, et elle était un enfant,
Dans ce royaume près de la mer,
Mais nous aimions d’un amour qui était plus que l’amour,
Moi et mon Annabel Lee,
D’un amour tel que les ailés séraphins au ciel
Nous le convoitaient, elle et moi.

Et ce fut la raison pour laquelle, il y a longtemps,
Dans ce royaume sur la mer,
Un vent souffla d’un nuage, glaçant
Ma belle Annabel Lee,
De sorte que ses proches de haut lignage vinrent
Et la portèrent loin de moi,
L’enfermer dans une sépulture
Dans ce royaume près de la mer.

Les anges, pas à moitié aussi heureux au ciel,
En vinrent à nous envier, elle et moi _
Oui! cela fut la raison (comme tous les hommes le savent
Dans ce royaume près de la mer)
Pour laquelle un vent éclata d’un nuage une nuit,
Glaçant et tuant mon Annabel Lee.

Mais notre amour il était de loin plus fort que l’amour
De ceux qui étaient plus âgés que nous,
de ceux nombreux, plus sages, et de loin, que nous
Et ni les anges au ciel là-haut
Ni les démons en-bas sous la mer
Ne pourront jamais dissocier mon âme de l’âme
De la belle Annabel Lee.

Car la lune jamais ne rayonne sans m’apporter des rêves
De la belle Annabel Lee,
Et les étoiles jamais ne se lèvent que je ne sente les yeux brillants
De la belle Annabel Lee.
Et ainsi, durant toute la marée de la nuit, je me tiens couché au côté
De ma chérie_ma chérie_ma vie et mon épouse,
Dans sa sépulture, là, près de la mer_
Dans sa tombe près de la mer sonore.

Traduit par: Gilles de Seze

***

Song

I saw thee on thy bridal day_
When a burning blush came o’er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:

And in time eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame_
As such it well may pass_
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!

Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush WOULD come o’er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.

Edgar Allan Poe

Chanson

Je t’ai vue en la journée de tes noces
lorsqu’une rougeur brûlante vint se poser sur toi,
alors même que tu étais de bonheur environnée,
le monde tout amour devant toi:

Et dans ton oeil un brandon illuminé
(la cause difficilement imaginable)
était tout sur Terre ce que ma vue chagrinée
pouvait voir de l’Adorable.

Cette rougeur, peut-être, était-elle confusion
_De fille_ comme telle il se peut bien qu’elle passe_
Bien que son rougeoiement eût soufflé combustion
plus ardente dans sa poitrine à lui, hélas!

Qui te vit en cette journée de noces,
lorsque cette vive rougeur vint se poser sur toi,
alors même que tu étais de bonheur environnée,
le monde tout amour devant toi.

Traduit par: Gilles de Seze

***

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | Pas de Commentaire »

Allan Edgar Poe/LE CORBEAU TRADUIT PAR BAUDELAIRE

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 1 novembre 2009

Allan Edgar Poe
(1809-1849)

(Français — Anglais)

60ko

Le Corbeau

Une fois, sur le minuit lugubre, pendant que je méditais,
faible et fatigué, sur maint précieux et curieux volume
d’une doctrine oubliée, pendant que je donnais de la tête,
presque assoupi, soudain il se fit un tapotement, comme de
quelqu’un frappant doucement, frappant à la porte de ma
chambre. «C’est quelque visiteur, – murmurai-je, -
qui frappe à la porte de ma chambre;
ce n’est que cela et rien de plus.»

Ah! distinctement je me souviens que c’était dans le glacial
décembre, et chaque tison brodait à son tour le plancher du
reflet de son agonie. Ardemment je désirais le matin;
en vain m’étais-je efforcé de tirer de mes livres
un sursis à ma tristesse, ma tristesse pour ma Lénore
perdue, pour la précieuse et rayonnante fille que les anges
nomment Lénore, – et qu’ici on ne nommera jamais plus.

Et le soyeux, triste et vague bruissement des rideaux
pourprés me pénétrait, me remplissait de terreurs
fantastiques, inconnues pour moi jusqu’à ce jour;
si bien qu’enfin pour apaiser le battement de mon coeur,
je me dressai, répétant: «C’est quelque visiteur attardé
sollicitant l’entrée à la porte de ma chambre;
- c’est cela même, et rien de plus.»

Mon âme en ce moment se sentit plus forte. N’hésitant donc
pas plus longtemps: «Monsieur, dis-je, ou madame, en
vérité, j’implore votre pardon; mais le fait est que je
sommeillais et vous êtes venu frapper si doucement, si
faiblement vous êtes venu frapper à la porte
de ma chambre, qu’à peine étais-je certain
de vous avoir entendu.» Et alors j’ouvris
la porte toute grande; – les ténèbres, et rien de plus.

Scrutant profondément ces ténèbres, je me tins longtemps
plein d’étonnement, de crainte, de doute, rêvant des rêves
qu’aucun mortel n’a jamais osé rêver; mais le silence ne fut
pas troublé, et l’immobilité ne donna aucun signe, et le seul
mot proféré fut un nom chuchoté: «Lénore!» – C’était moi
qui le chuchotais, et un écho à son tour murmura ce mot:
«Lénore!» Purement cela, et rien de plus.

Rentrant dans ma chambre, et sentant en moi toute mon
âme incendiée, j’entendis bientôt un coup un peu plus fort
que le premier. «Sûrement, – dis-je, – sûrement,
il y a quelque chose aux jalousies de ma fenêtre;
voyons donc ce que c’est, et explorons ce mystère.
Laissons mon coeur se calmer un
instant, et explorons ce mystère;
- c’est le vent, et rien de plus.»

Je poussai alors le volet, et, avec un tumultueux battement
d’ailes, entra un majestueux corbeau digne des anciens
jours. Il ne fit pas la moindre révérence, il ne s’arrêta pas,
il n’hésita pas une minute; mais avec la mine d’un lord
ou d’une lady, il se percha au-dessus de la porte
de ma chambre; il se percha sur un buste de Pallas
juste au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre;
- il se percha, s’installa, et rien de plus.

Alors, cet oiseau d’ébène, par la gravité de son maintien et
la sévérité de sa physionomie, induisant ma triste
imagination à sourire: «Bien que ta tête, – lui dis-je, -
soit sans huppe et sans cimier, tu n’es certes
pas un poltron, lugubre et ancien corbeau,
voyageur parti des rivages de la nuit.
Dis-moi quel est ton nom seigneurial
aux rivages de la nuit plutonienne!»
Le corbeau dit: «Jamais plus!»

Je fus émerveillé que ce disgracieux volatile entendît si
facilement la parole, bien que sa réponse n’eût pas une bien
grand sens et ne me fût pas d’un grand secours; car nous
devons convenir que jamais il ne fut donné à un homme
vivant de voir un oiseau au-dessus de la porte
de sa chambre, un oiseau ou une bête sur un buste
sculpté au-dessus de la porte de sa chambre,
se nommant d’un nom tel que – Jamais plus!

Mais le corbeau, perché solitaitrement sur le buste placide,
ne proféra que ce mot unique, comme si dans ce mot unique
il répandait toute son âme. Il ne prononça rien de plus;
il ne remua pas une plume, – jusqu’à ce que je me prisse
à murmurer faiblement: «D’autres amis se sont déjà envolés
loin de moi; vers le matin, lui aussi, il me quittera
comme mes anciennes espérances déjà envolées.»
L’oiseau dit alors: «Jamais plus!»

Tressaillant au bruit de cette réponse jetée avec
tant d’à-propos: Sans doute, – dis-je, – ce qu’il
prononce est tout son bagage de savoir, qu’il a pris
chez quelque maître infortuné que le Malheur
impitoyable a poursuivi ardemment, sans répit,
jusqu’à ce que ses chansons n’eussent plus qu’un
seul refrain, jusqu’à ce que le De profundis de son
Espérance eût pris ce mélancolique refrain:
«Jamais – jamais plus!»

Mais le corbeau induisant encore toute ma
triste âme à sourire, je roulai tout de suite un siège
à coussins en face de l’oiseau et du buste et de la
porte; alors, m’enfonçant dans le velours, je
m’appliquai à enchaîner les idées aux idées, cherchant
ce que cet augural oiseau des anciens jours, ce que
ce triste, disgracieux, sinistre, maigre et augural
oiseau des anciens jours voulait faire entendre en
croassant son – Jamais plus!

Je me tenais ainsi, rêvant, conjecturant, mais
n’adressant plus une syllabe à l’oiseau, dont les
yeux ardents me brûlaient maintenant jusqu’au fond
du coeur: je cherchai à deviner cela, et plus encore,
ma tête reposant à l’aise sur le velours du coussin
que caressait la lumière de la lampe, ce velours
violet caressé par la lumière de la lampe que sa tête,
à Elle, ne pressera plus, – ah! jamais plus!

Alors, il me sembla que l’air s’épaississait, parfumé par
un encensoir invisible que balançaient les séraphins
dont les pas frôlaient le tapis de ma chambre.
«Infortuné! – m’écriai-je, – ton Dieu t’a donné par ses
anges, il t’a envoyé du répit, du répit et du népenthès
dans tes ressouvenirs de Lénore! Bois, oh! bois ce
bon népenthès, et oublie cette Lénore perdue!» Le
corbeau dit: «Jamais plus!»

«Prophète! – dis-je, – être de malheur! oiseau ou démon!
mais toujours prophète! que tu sois un envoyé du
Tentateur, ou que la tempête t’ait simplement échoué,
naufragé, mais encore intrépide, sur cette terre déserte,
ensorcelée, dans ce logis par l’Horreur hanté, – dis-moi
sincèrement, je t’en supplie, existe-t-il, existe-t-il ici un
baume de Judée? Dis, dis, je t’en supplie!» Le corbeau
dit: «Jamais plus!»

«Prophète! – dis-je, – être de malheur! oiseau ou démon!
toujours prophète! par ce ciel tendu sur nos têtes, par
ce Dieu que tous deux nous adorons, dis à cette âme
chargée de douleur si, dans le Paradis lointain, elle
pourra embrasser une fille sainte que les anges nomment
Lénore, enbrasser une précieuse et rayonnante fille que
les anges nomment Lénore.» Le corbeau dit: «Jamais
plus!»

«Que cette parole soit le signal de notre séparation,
oiseau ou démon! – hurlai-je en me redressan. – Rentre
dans la tempête, retourne au rivage de la nuit plutonienne;
ne laisse pas ici une seule plume noire comme souvenir
du mensonge que ton âme a proféré; laisse ma solitude
inviolée; quitte ce buste au-dessus de maporte; arrache
ton bec de mon coeur et précipite ton spectre loin de ma
porte!» Le corbeau dit: «Jamais plus!»

Et le corbeau, immuable, est toujours installé sur le buste
pâle de Pallas, juste au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre;
et ses yeux ont toute la semblance des yeux d’un démon
qui rêve; et la lumière de la lampe, en ruisselant  sur lui, projette son ombre sur le plancher; et mon âme, hors du cercle de cette ombre qui gît flottante sur le plancher, ne
pourra plus s’élever, – jamais plus!

traduit par: Charles Baudelaire

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
 » ‘Tis some visitor, » I muttered,  »tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more. »

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
 » ‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more. »

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

 »Sir, » said I,  »or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you »- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,  »Lenore! »
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,  »Lenore! »-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
 »Surely, » said I,  »surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
‘Tis the wind and nothing more. »

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
 »Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, » I said,  »art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore! »
Quoth the raven,  »Nevermore. »

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as  »Nevermore. »

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered,  »other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
‘ Then the bird said,  »Nevermore. »

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

 »Doubtless, » said I,  »what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never- nevermore’. »

But the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking  »Nevermore. »

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
 »Wretch, » I cried,  »thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore! »
Quoth the raven,  »Nevermore. »

 »Prophet! » said I,  »thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!-

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore! »
Quoth the Raven,  »Nevermore. »

 »Prophet! » said I,  »thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. »
Quoth the raven,  »Nevermore. »

 »Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend, » I shrieked, upstarting-

 »Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul      hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! »
Quoth the raven,  »Nevermore. »

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!

Edgar Poe

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | Pas de Commentaire »

أحبُّ طيورَ تشرينِ

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 1 novembre 2009

اليوميات

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | Pas de Commentaire »

QEBBANI/أشهد أن لا أمرأه إلا أنت

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 1 novembre 2009

أشهد أن لا أمرأه إلا أنت

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Mastered the game but you أتقنت اللعبة إلا أنت

And endure Hmagti واحتملت حماقتي

Ten years as tolerated عشرة أعوام كما احتملت

Astbert and the manic patient as واصطبرت على جنوني مثلما صبرت

And knocked down my nails وقلمت أظافري

And arranged Dvatri ورتبت دفاتري

The Odechltinay kindergarten وأدخلتني روضة الأطفال

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

2 2

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Like me painting a picture تشبهني كصورة زيتية

In thought and behavior but You في الفكر والسلوك إلا أنت

And reason and madness only you والعقل والجنون إلا أنت

Quick and boredom والملل السريع

And hung up fast والتعلق السريع

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Have been taken from my قد أخذت من اهتمامي

Half of what it took نصف ما أخذت

And as it did Astamrtne واستعمرتني مثلما فعلت

And as it did Hrrtne وحررتني مثلما فعلت

3 3

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Dealt with me as a child-month-old تعاملت معي كطفل عمره شهران

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

She gave me the bird milk وقدمت لي لبن العصفور

Flowers and Games والأزهار والألعاب

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

I had a decent Ksear كانت معي كريمة كالبحر

Fine poem راقية كالشعر

And as it did Dallaltni ودللتني مثلما فعلت

And as it did Ovsdtni وأفسدتني مثلما فعلت

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة

Have made my childhood قد جعلت طفولتي

Extended to fifty .. تمتد للخمسين .. However, you إلا أنت

4 4

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

She says she can catch women .. تقدرأن تقول إنها النساء .. However, you إلا أنت

Although in her navel وإن في سرتها

The center of this universe مركز هذا الكون

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Followed by the trees when walking تتبعها الأشجار عندما تسير

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

The bathroom and drink water from her body snow ويشرب الحمام من مياه جسمها الثلجي

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

And eat the sheep and the lawn Ibtha Summer وتأكل الخراف من حشيش إبطها الصيفي

However, you إلا أنت

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Was cut short by two words the story of womanhood إختصرت بكلمتين قصة الأنوثة

And instigated Rjolte Ali وحرضت رجولتي علي

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

5 5

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Stops the right time, when Nhdha توقف الزمان عند نهدها الأيمن

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

The revolutions of the left foot Nhdha وقامت الثورات من سفوح نهدها الأيسر

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Has changed the canons of the world only you قد غيرت شرائع العالم إلا أنت

And changed وغيرت

Map of Halal and Haram خريطة الحلال والحرام

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

6 6

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Tjtahani in moments of passion Kalzlzal تجتاحني في لحظات العشق كالزلزال

Thrgueni .. تحرقني .. Ngrgueni تغرقني

Chalni .. تشعلني .. Ttefini تطفئني

Break me in half Kalhilal تكسرني نصفين كالهلال

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Occupy myself longest occupation تحتل نفسي أطول احتلال

The happiest occupation وأسعد احتلال

Tzerni تزرعني

In response Damascene conversion وردا دمشقيا

And Nanaaa ونعناعا

Oranges وبرتقال

Woman يا امرأة

Leave the hair under my questions اترك تحت شعرها أسئلتي

Days did not answer to a question ولم تجب يوما على سؤال

Woman is all the language يا امرأة هي اللغات كلها

But لكنها

Touch the mind, not spoken تلمس بالذهن ولا تقال

7 7

Maritime jurisdiction eyes أيتها البحرية العينين

The wax hands والشمعية اليدين

The impressive attendance والرائعة الحضور

Hey, white silver أيتها البيضاء كالفضة

And smooth Kalplor والملساء كالبلور

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

The area around her waist. على محيط خصرها . . Meets the ages .تجتمع العصور

And A planet circling وألف ألف كوكب يدور

I certify that no woman .. أشهد أن لا امرأة ً .. Someone else my love غيرك يا حبيبتي

Her arms are raised the first male على ذراعيها تربى أول الذكور

The last male وآخر الذكور

8 8

O Amahp transparent أيتها اللماحة الشفافة

Just beautiful العادلة الجميلة

O appetite Gorgeous أيتها الشهية البهية

Permanent childhood الدائمة الطفوله

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Liberated from the rule of the people of the cave but you تحررت من حكم أهل الكهف إلا أنت

And broke their idols وكسرت أصنامهم

And shattered illusions وبددت أوهامهم

And dropped the power people of the cave but you وأسقطت سلطة أهل الكهف إلا أنت

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة

Daggers breasts received a tribe إستقبلت بصدرها خناجر القبيلة

And considered my love واعتبرت حبي لها

Summary of virtue خلاصة الفضيله

9 9

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Came just as I waited جاءت تماما مثلما انتظرت

The length of her hair longer than you wish, or dream وجاء طول شعرها أطول مما شئت أو حلمت

The form of Nhdha وجاء شكل نهدها

In conformity with what I planned each charted or مطابقا لكل ما خططت أو رسمت

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Graduated from the clouds of smoke .. تخرج من سحب الدخان .. The smoked إن دخنت

Fly Kalhamamp white intellectual .. تطير كالحمامة البيضاء في فكري .. If you think إذا فكرت

Woman .. books written about it earlier, يا امرأة ..كتبت عنها كتبا بحالها

But despite all of my hair لكنها برغم شعري كله

Would have stayed .. قد بقيت .. The most beautiful of all what I wrote أجمل من جميع ما كتبت

10 10

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Practiced love me very civilization مارست الحب معي بمنتهى الحضاره

Okrjtni of the dust and the Third World وأخرجتني من غبار العالم الثالث

However, you إلا أنت

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Resolved before you contract قبلك حلت عقدي

Thagaft me and my body وثقفت لي جسدي

And interviewed him as a dialogue guitar وحاورته مثلما تحاور القيثاره

I certify that no woman أشهد أن لا امرأة ً

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

Only you .. إلا أنت ..

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | Pas de Commentaire »

أبي العلاء المعري

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 1 novembre 2009

أشهر الأبيات

 

 

 

 

« أيها الغرّ إنْ خُصِصْتَ بعقلٍ فاتّبعْهُ ، فكلّ عقلٍ نبي« 

————       ——-       ————

يرتجي الناسُ أن يقـومَ إمامٌ ناطقٌ في الكتيبة الخرساء
كذب الظنُّ لا إمام سوى العقل مشيرا في صبحه والمساء
فإذا ما أطعته جلب الرحمة عند المسير والإرساء
إنما هذه المذاهب أسباب لجذب الدنيا إلى الرؤساء
أفيقوا أفيقوا يا غواة فإنما دياناتكم مكرٌ من القدماء

————

ولا تصدق بما البرهان يبطله فتستفيد من التصديق تكذيبا


————


جاءت أحاديثُ إن صحتْ فإن لها شأناً ولكنّ فيها ضعف إسنادِ
فشاور العقل واترك غيره هدرا فالعقلُ خيرُ مشيٍر ضمّه النادي

————

في كل أمرك تقليدٌ رضيتَ به حتى مقالك ربي واحدٌ ، أحدُ
وقــد أُمرنا بفكرٍ في بدائعه وإن تفكر فيه معشر لحدوا ؟

————

قلتم لنا خالقٌ حكيم قلنا صدقتم كذا نقـولُ
زعمتموه بلا مكانٍ ولا زمانٍ ألا فقولــوا
هذا كلام له خبـئٌ معناه ليست لنا عقولُ

————

أما الإله فأمرٌ لست مدركه فاحذر لجيلك فوق الأرض إسخاطا

————

أنهيتَ عن قتل النفوس تعمدا — وبعثت أنت لقبضها ملكين؟
وزعمت أن لنا معادا ثانيا ما كان أغناها عن الحالين

————

إن كان لا يحظى برزقك عاقــل وترزق مجنونا وترزق أحمقا

————

فلا ذنب يارب السماء على امرئ رأى من ما يشتهي فتزندقا

————

أما اليقين فـلا يقين وإنما أقصى اجتهادي أن أظن وأحدسا

———–

وقد عدم التيقن في زمان حصلنا من حجاه على التظني

————

هفت الحنيفة والنصارى ما اهتدت ويهود حارت والمجوس مضللةْ
اثنان أهل الأرض : ذو عقـل بلا ديـن وآخر ديِّن لا عقل لهْ

————

تعالى الله فهو بنا خبير قد اضطرت إلى الكذب العقول
نقول على المجاز وقد علمنا بأن الأمر ليس كما نقول

————

فلا تحسب مقال الرسل حقا ولكن قول زور سطّروه
وكان الناس في يمنٍ رغيدٍ فجاءوا باالمحال فكدروه

————

دين وكفر وأنباء تقص وفرقان وتوراة وإنجيل
في كل جيل أباطيل ، يدان بها فهل تفرد يوما بالهدى جيل ؟

————

وينشأ ناشئ الفتيان منا على ما كان عوّده أبوه

وما دام الفتى بحجى ولكن يـعلمه التدين أقربوه

————

ولا تطيعن قوما ما ديانتهم إلا احتيال على أخذ الإتاوات
وإنما حمل التوراة قارئها كسب الفوائد لا حب التلاوات
إن الشرائع ألقت بيننا إحنا وأودعتنا أفانين العـــداوات

————

أمور تستخف بها حلوم وما يدرى الفتى لمن الثبور
كتاب محمد وكتاب موسى وإنجيل ابن مريم والزبـور
نهت أمما فما قبلت وبارت نصيحتها فكل القوم بور

————

في اللاذقية ضجةٌ ما بين أحمد والمسيح
هذا بناقوس يدق وذا بمئـذنة يصيح
كل يعظّم ديـنه ياليت شعري ما الصحيح ؟

————

وما حجّي إلى أحجار بيت كؤوس الخمر تشرب في زراها
إذا رجع الحكيم إلى حجاه تهاون بالمذاهب وازدراها

————

ما الركن في قول ناس لست أذكرهم إلا بقية أوثان وأنصاب

————

أرى عالما يرجون عفو مليكهم بتقبيل ركن واتخاذ صليب

————

وما لنفسي خلاص من نوائبهاولا لغيري إلا الكون في العدم

————

وزهَّدني في الخلق معرفتي بهم وعلمي بأن العالمين هباء

————

إذا سألوا عن مذهبي فهو بيِّن وهل أنا إلا مثل غيري أبله

————

جهلنا فلم نعلم على الحرص ما الذي يُراد بنا والعلم لله ذي المنِّ

————

سبحان من ألهم الأجناس كلَّهم أمراً يقود إلى خبل وتخبيل

————

سألتموني فأعيتْني إجابتُكم من ادَّعى أنه دارٍ فقد كذبا

————

وكم طلبتَ أموراً لست مدركَها تبارك الله من أغراك بالطلب

————

قال المنجِّم والطبيب كلاهما لا تُحشَر الأجساد قلت إليكما
إن صحَّ قولُكما فلستُ بخاسرٍ أو صحَّ قولي فالخسارُ عليكما

————

لا تقيِّد عليَّ لفظي فإني مثل غيري تكلُّمي بالمجاز

————

خالق لا يُشَكُّ فيه قديم وزمان على زمان تقادم
جائز أن يكون آدم هذا قبله آدم على إثر آدم
لست أنفي عن قدرة الله أشـ ـباح ضياء بغير لحم ولا دم
وليس لنا علمٌ بسرِّ إلهنا فهل علمتْه الشمس أو شعر النجم

————

يحطِّمنا ريب الزمان كأننا زجاج ولكن لا يُعاد لنا سَبْك
وما الإنسان في التطواف إلا أسيرٌ للزمان فما يفك

————

يُفني ولا يفنى ويُبلي ولا يبلى ويأتي برخاء وويل

————

نَزول كما زال أجدادنا ويبقى الزمان على ما ترى

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | Pas de Commentaire »

قرأت هذه الأبيات لأبي العلاء المعري

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 1 novembre 2009

قرأت هذه الأبيات لأبي العلاء المعري .. فأعجبتني ..

ألا في سبيل المجد ما أنا فاعل
*********** عفاف و إقدام و حزم و نائل

تعد ذنوبي عنــد قوم كثيــرة
*********** ولا ذنب لي إلا العلى والفواضـل

وقد سار ذكري في البلاد فمن لهم
*********** بإخفاء شـمس ضوءها متكامل

وإني و إن كنت الأخير زمامه
*********** لآت بما لم تستطعه الأوائل

وأغدو ولو أن الصباح صوارم
*********** وأسري ولو أن الظلام جحافل

وإني جواد لم يحل لجامه
*********** ونضو يمان أغفلته الصياقل

وإن كان في لبس الفتى شـرف له
*********** فما السيف إلا غمده والحمائل

ولما رأيت الجهل في الناس فاشـيا
*********** تجاهلت حتى ظن أني جاهل

فوا عجبا كم يدعي الفضل ناقص
*********** ووأسفا كم يظهر النقص فاضل

ينافس يومي في أمسي تشرفا
*********** وتحسد أسحاري علي الأصائل

وطال اعترافي بالزمان وصرفة
*********** فلست أبالي من تغول الغوائل

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | Pas de Commentaire »

Venus and Adonis/ William Shakespeare

Posté par algeriedemocratie le 31 octobre 2009

Venus and Adonis
Poem by
William Shakespeare

Even as the sun with purple-colour’d face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek’d Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh’d to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor ‘gins to woo him.

Thrice-fairer than myself,’ thus she began,
The field’s chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses;

And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety,
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.’

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty courser’s rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush’d and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens: — O, how quick is love! –
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
Backward she push’d him, as she would be thrust,
And govern’d him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And ‘gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.’

He burns with bashful shame: she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:
He saith she is immodest, blames her ‘miss;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuff’d or prey be gone;
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dew’d with such distilling showers.

Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten’d in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
Rain added to a river that is rank
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale:
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is better’d with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears,
From his soft bosom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rain’d, making her cheeks all wet;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,
Who, being look’d on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:
O, pity,’ ‘gan she cry, ‘flint-hearted boy!
Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

I have been woo’d, as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begg’d for that which thou unask’d shalt have.

Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batter’d shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest,
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

Thus he that overruled I oversway’d,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey’d,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mastering her that foil’d the god of fight!

Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, –
Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red –
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head:
Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?
Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night;
Love keeps his revels where they are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

The tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted:
Make use of time, let not advantage slip;
Beauty within itself should not be wasted:
Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.

Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice,
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow;
Mine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning:
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green,
Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell’d hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me:
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?

Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear:
Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse:
Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.

Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.’

By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them;
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him and by Venus’ side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks cries ‘Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face: I must remove.’

Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘young, and so unkind?
What bare excuses makest thou to be gone!
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun:
I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.

The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel,
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth?
Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel
What ’tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:
Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,
And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.

Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dun and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.’

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth he wrong;
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause:
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometimes she shakes her head and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her arms infold him like a band:
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.

Fondling,’ she saith, ‘since I have hemm’d thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.’

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple:
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple;
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there Love lived and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Open’d their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes are more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
Pity,’ she cries, ‘some favour, some remorse!’
Away he springs and hasteth to his horse.

But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbors by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,
Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
The strong-neck’d steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth ‘tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick’d; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say ‘Lo, thus my strength is tried,
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.’

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,
His flattering ‘Holla,’ or his ‘Stand, I say’?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportion’d steed,
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.

Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whether he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings.

He looks upon his love and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He veils his tail that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he is enraged,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.

His testy master goeth about to take him;
When, lo, the unback’d breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there:
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.

All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast:
And now the happy season once more fits,
That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong
When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
So of concealed sorrow may be said;
Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage;
But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow;
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O, what a sight it was, wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy!
But now her cheek was pale, and by and by
It flash’d forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels:
His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand’s print,
As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.

O, what a war of looks was then between them!
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing;
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes woo’d still, his eyes disdain’d the wooing:
And all this dumb play had his acts made plain
With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prison’d in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe:
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Show’d like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,
My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound;
For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,
Though nothing but my body’s bane would cure thee!

Give me my hand,’ saith he, ‘why dost thou feel it?’
Give me my heart,’ saith she, ‘and thou shalt have it:
O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,
And being steel’d, soft sighs can never grave it:
Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard,
Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine hard.’

For shame,’ he cries, ‘let go, and let me go;
My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone,
And ’tis your fault I am bereft him so:
I pray you hence, and leave me here alone;
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.’

Thus she replies: ‘Thy palfrey, as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:
Affection is a coal that must be cool’d;
Else, suffer’d, it will set the heart on fire:
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.

How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,
Servilely master’d with a leathern rein!
But when he saw his love, his youth’s fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdain;
Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,
Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.

Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
His other agents aim at like delight?
Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold
To touch the fire, the weather being cold?

Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy;
And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,
To take advantage on presented joy;
Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee;
O, learn to love; the lesson is but plain,
And once made perfect, never lost again.’

I know not love,’ quoth he, ‘nor will not know it,
Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it;
Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;
My love to love is love but to disgrace it;
For I have heard it is a life in death,
That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.

Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish’d?
Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?
If springing things be any jot diminish’d,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:
The colt that’s back’d and burden’d being young
Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong.

You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,
And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart;
To love’s alarms it will not ope the gate:
Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery;
For where a heart is hard they make no battery.’

What! canst thou talk?’ quoth she, ‘hast thou a tongue?
O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing!
Thy mermaid’s voice hath done me double wrong;
I had my load before, now press’d with bearing:
Melodious discord, heavenly tune harshsounding,
Ear’s deep-sweet music, and heart’s deep-sore wounding.

Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love
That inward beauty and invisible;
Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move
Each part in me that were but sensible:
Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
Yet should I be in love by touching thee.

Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,
And nothing but the very smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much;
For from the stillitory of thy face excelling
Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by smelling.

But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,
Being nurse and feeder of the other four!
Would they not wish the feast might ever last,
And bid Suspicion double-lock the door,
Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast?’

Once more the ruby-colour’d portal open’d,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield;
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken’d
Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field,
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh:
Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,
His meaning struck her ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down,
For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth;
A smile recures the wounding of a frown;
But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!
The silly boy, believing she is dead,
Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;

And all amazed brake off his late intent,
For sharply he did think to reprehend her,
Which cunning love did wittily prevent:
Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her!
For on the grass she lies as she were slain,
Till his breath breatheth life in her again.

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,
He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks
To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr’d:
He kisses her; and she, by her good will,
Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.

The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day:
Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,
Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array
He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth;
And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
So is her face illumined with her eye;

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d,
As if from thence they borrow’d all their shine.
Were never four such lamps together mix’d,
Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine;
But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,
Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

O, where am I?’ quoth she, ‘in earth or heaven,
Or in the ocean drench’d, or in the fire?
What hour is this? or morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die, or life desire?
But now I lived, and life was death’s annoy;
But now I died, and death was lively joy.

O, thou didst kill me: kill me once again:
Thy eyes’ shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,
Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain
That they have murder’d this poor heart of mine;
And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,
But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.

Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
O, never let their crimson liveries wear!
And as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year!
That the star-gazers, having writ on death,
May say, the plague is banish’d by thy breath.

Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,
What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?
To sell myself I can be well contented,
So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;
Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips
Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.

A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;
And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
What is ten hundred touches unto thee?
Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?
Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?

Fair queen,’ quoth he, ‘if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:
Before I know myself, seek not to know me;
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:
The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or being early pluck’d is sour to taste.

Look, the world’s comforter, with weary gait,
His day’s hot task hath ended in the west;
The owl, night’s herald, shrieks,  »Tis very late;’
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,
And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s light
Do summon us to part and bid good night.

Now let me say ‘Good night,’ and so say you;
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.’
Good night,’ quoth she, and, ere he says ‘Adieu,’
The honey fee of parting tender’d is:
Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;
Incorporate then they seem; face grows to face.

Till, breathless, he disjoin’d, and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:
He with her plenty press’d, she faint with dearth
Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.

Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;
Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry:

And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,
With blindfold fury she begins to forage;
Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage,
Planting oblivion, beating reason back,
Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,
Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe that’s tired with chasing,
Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling,
He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,
While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,
And yields at last to every light impression?
Things out of hope are compass’d oft with venturing,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:
Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward,
But then woos best when most his choice is froward.

When he did frown, O, had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d.
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
What though the rose have prickles, yet ’tis pluck’d:
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.

For pity now she can no more detain him;
The poor fool prays her that he may depart:
She is resolved no longer to restrain him;
Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,
The which, by Cupid’s bow she doth protest,
He carries thence incaged in his breast.

Sweet boy,’ she says, ‘this night I’ll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me, Love’s master, shall we meet to-morrow?
Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?’
He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

The boar!’ quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek; she trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arms she throws:
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,
He on her belly falls, she on her back.

Now is she in the very lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:
All is imaginary she doth prove,
He will not manage her, although he mount her;
That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy,
To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.

Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw,
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.
The warm effects which she in him finds missing
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.

But all in vain; good queen, it will not be:
She hath assay’d as much as may be proved;
Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee;
She’s Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved.
Fie, fie,’ he says, ‘you crush me; let me go;
You have no reason to withhold me so.’

Thou hadst been gone,’ quoth she, ‘sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
O, be advised! thou know’st not what it is
With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill.

On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret;
His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes;
Being moved, he strikes whate’er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.

His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm’d,
Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm’d;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.

Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which Love’s eyes pay tributary gazes;
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes;
But having thee at vantage, — wondrous dread! –
Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still;
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:
Come not within his danger by thy will;
They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,
I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?
Saw’st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
Grew I not faint? and fell I not downright?
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.

For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection’s sentinel;
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry ‘Kill, kill!’
Distempering gentle Love in his desire,
As air and water do abate the fire.

This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,
This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heat and whispers in mine ear
That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:

And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry-chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain’d with gore;
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed
Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.

What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,
That tremble at the imagination?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination:
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs,
And on thy well-breath’d horse keep with thy hounds.

And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
How he outruns the wind and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
The many musets through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.

By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To harken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never relieved by any.

Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear’st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe.

Where did I leave?’ ‘No matter where,’ quoth he,
Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:
The night is spent.’ ‘Why, what of that?’ quoth she.
I am,’ quoth he, ‘expected of my friends;
And now ’tis dark, and going I shall fall.’
In night,’ quoth she, ‘desire sees best of all

But if thou fall, O, then imagine this,
The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.

Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:
Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,
Till forging Nature be condemn’d of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;
Wherein she framed thee in high heaven’s despite,
To shame the sun by day and her by night.

And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature,
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of mad mischances and much misery;

As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood:
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn’d despair,
Swear nature’s death for framing thee so fair.

And not the least of all these maladies
But in one minute’s fight brings beauty under:
Both favour, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw’d and done,
As mountain-snow melts with the midday sun.

Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcity
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night
Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.

What is thy body but a swallowing grave,
Seeming to bury that posterity
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

So in thyself thyself art made away;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.
Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that’s put to use more gold begets.’

Nay, then,’ quoth Adon, ‘you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme:
The kiss I gave you is bestow’d in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream;
For, by this black-faced night, desire’s foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown
For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
And will not let a false sound enter there;

Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest.
No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

What have you urged that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger:
I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every stranger.
You do it for increase: O strange excuse,
When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse!

Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating Lust on earth usurp’d his name;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;
Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun;
Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done;
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.

More I could tell, but more I dare not say;
The text is old, the orator too green.
Therefore, in sadness, now I will away;
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen:
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,
Do burn themselves for having so offended.’

With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace,
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
And homeward through the dark laund runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress’d.
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye.

Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
So did the merciless and pitchy night
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.

Whereat amazed, as one that unaware
Hath dropp’d a precious jewel in the flood,
Or stonish’d as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood,
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:
Ay me!’ she cries, and twenty times ‘Woe, woe!’
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

She marking them begins a wailing note
And sings extemporally a woeful ditty;
How love makes young men thrall and old men dote;
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Her song was tedious and outwore the night,
For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short:
If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight
In such-like circumstance, with suchlike sport:
Their copious stories oftentimes begun
End without audience and are never done.

For who hath she to spend the night withal
But idle sounds resembling parasites,
Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?
She says  »Tis so:’ they answer all  »Tis so;’
And would say after her, if she said ‘No.’

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish’d gold.

Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow:
O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
There lives a son that suck’d an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.’

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o’erworn,
And yet she hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:
Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.

And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.

By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay;
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals her senses and her spirit confounds.

For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
Finding their enemy to be so curst,
They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.

This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters to surprise her heart;
Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part:
Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
They basely fly and dare not stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;
Till, cheering up her senses all dismay’d,
She tells them ’tis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid;
Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more: –
And with that word she spied the hunted boar,

Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
This way runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the path that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

Here kennell’d in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
And there another licking of his wound,
Gainst venom’d sores the only sovereign plaster;
And here she meets another sadly scowling,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch’d ears, bleeding as they go.

Look, how the world’s poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath
And sighing it again, exclaims on Death.

Hard-favour’d tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love,’ — thus chides she Death, –
Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm, what dost thou mean
To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?

If he be dead, — O no, it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it: –
O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant’s heart.

Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a flower:
Love’s golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not Death’s ebon dart, to strike dead.

Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin’d with thy rigour.’

Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vail’d her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt;
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again.

O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;
Both crystals, where they view’d each other’s sorrow,
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief;
All entertain’d, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
But none is best: then join they all together,
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.

By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo;
A nurse’s song ne’er pleased her babe so well:
The dire imagination she did follow
This sound of hope doth labour to expel;
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice.

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison’d in her eye like pearls in glass;
Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown’d.

O hard-believing love, how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous:
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought;
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
It was not she that call’d him, all-to naught:
Now she adds honours to his hateful name;
She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings,
Imperious supreme of all mortal things.

No, no,’ quoth she, ‘sweet Death, I did but jest;
Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear
When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe;
Then, gentle shadow, — truth I must confess, –
I rail’d on thee, fearing my love’s decease.

‘Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue;
Be wreak’d on him, invisible commander;
Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
I did but act, he’s author of thy slander:
Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet
Could rule them both without ten women’s wit.’

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With Death she humbly doth insinuate;
Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories
His victories, his triumphs and his glories.

O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘how much a fool was I
To be of such a weak and silly mind
To wail his death who lives and must not die
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind!
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear
As one with treasure laden, hemm’d thieves;
Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.’
Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.

As falcon to the lure, away she flies;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar’s conquest on her fair delight;
Which seen, her eyes, as murder’d with the view,
Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother’d up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head:

Where they resign their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain;
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again;
Who like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,

Whereat each tributary subject quakes;
As when the wind, imprison’d in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror doth men’s minds confound.
This mutiny each part doth so surprise
That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;

And, being open’d, threw unwilling light
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench’d
In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench’d:
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,
But stole his blood and seem’d with him to bleed.

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head;
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:
Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow;
Her eyes are mad that they have wept til now.

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,
That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;
And then she reprehends her mangling eye,
That makes more gashes where no breach should be:
His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

My tongue cannot express my grief for one,
And yet,’ quoth she, ‘behold two Adons dead!
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead:
Heavy heart’s lead, melt at mine eyes’ red fire!
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!
What face remains alive that’s worth the viewing?
Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or any thing ensuing?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;
But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him.

Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;
The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you:
But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air
Lurk’d like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:

And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;
The wind would blow it off and, being gone,
Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep;
And straight, in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his tears.

To see his face the lion walk’d along
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him;
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey
And never fright the silly lamb that day.

When he beheld his shadow in the brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills;
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some other in their bills
Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.

But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne’er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave:
If he did see his face, why then I know
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill’d him so.

‘Tis true, ’tis true; thus was Adonis slain:
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who did not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.

Had I been tooth’d like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have kill’d him first;
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his; the more am I accurst.’
With this, she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d,
And every beauty robb’d of his effect:
Wonder of time,’ quoth she, ‘this is my spite,
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.

Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,
Ne’er settled equally, but high or low,
That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe.

It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,
Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;
The bottom poison, and the top o’erstraw’d
With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:
The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.

It shall be sparing and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;
It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild,
Make the young old, the old become a child.

It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;
It shall be merciful and too severe,
And most deceiving when it seems most just;
Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward,
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

It shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension ‘twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire:
Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.’

By this, the boy that by her side lay kill’d
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spill’d,
A purple flower sprung up, chequer’d with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath,
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

Poor flower,’ quoth she, ‘this was thy fathers guise –
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire –
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so ’tis thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast as in his blood.

Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right:
Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower.’

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey’d;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.

VENUS AND ADONIS
PLAY BY
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Publié dans Poèsie(16) | 2 Commentaires »

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