so little sober
This is a shout out to my friend, The Absinthe Review Network, a fellow Michigan resident who probably knows more about the French poet Charles Baudelaire and his love affair with absinthe than I do. However, my first exposure to Baudelaire was via Liam Clancy (of Clancy Brothers fame), when he read Charles' famous prose poem during a live performance on In Concert by Makem & Clancy. It did what Emily Dickinson said good poetry should do, blow the top of your head off … at least it to so with me. I was thirteen at the time and let's just say I was easily impressionable.
The translation here is my own (though I must admit it is hard to not hear Liam's voice in my head as I worked on it) so any errors you might find here — my French is worse than my Spanish — are all mine. Enjoy:
One should always be drunk. That is all that matters; that is our great urgent need. So as not to feel Time's horrid burden that breaks your shoulders and grinds you down, you must get drunk without resting.
But on what? On wine or poetry or virtue as you please, but get drunk!
And if, at some time, on steps of a palace, or in the green grass of a ditch, or in the bleak loneliness of your room, as you wake and find your drunkenness already dying away, ask the wind, ask the waves, ask the stars, ask the clock — all that which runs, all that which groans, all that which rolls, all that which sings, all that which speaks — ask them, what time is it? and the wind, the waves, the stars, the birds, and the clock, will all reply: “It's time to get drunk! So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk, get drunk and never pause for rest on wine or poetry or virtue as you please.”
Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.
I tried recording this poem in several locations, none of them really getting the energy I was hoping for. In one my cat Haiku began chirping in the background and in another the dehumidifier kicked in, drowning out half the poem. However, on this hot and humid day, being downstairs in my basement was a treat (though it does look a lot like an abattoir). Maybe I could do a series of poems in friends' basements? If you have a really dire and dreary looking basement drop me a line … it might be worth the road trip.
Listen. I'll be sober. In time. But not
today. No. Not today. I'll be – listen!
Sober, but not today. Often I thought
to be. Yes. Often. Listen. I often
thought to be. With the buckle and the boot.
With the whip and cutouts. All this passion
means so little sober. Listen. This brute
does not forgive. This lush life – this drunken
brute and painted raw silk and my brutal
henna hands – passion gobbling away
like silk, muslin, silk. Often silk is sour
to my tongue. And sober? inedible.
I'll be sober. In time. But not today.
No. Not today. In time. I'll be sober.
Green Baudelaire