WINK! The translations of the sonnet.
L’Idole
Sonnet du Trou du Cul
Arthur Rimbaud et Paul
Verlaine 1871-72
Obscur et froncé comme un œillet violet
Il respire, humblement tapi parmi la mousse
Humide encor d’amour qui suit la fuite douce
Des Fesses blanches jusqu’au cœur de son ourlet.
Des filaments pareils à des larmes de lait
Ont pleuré, sous le vent cruel qui les repousse,
À travers de petits caillots de marne rousse
Pour s’aller perdre où la pente les appelait.
Mon Rêve s’aboucha souvent à sa ventouse ;
Mon âme, du coït matériel jalouse,
En fit son larmier fauve et son nid de sanglots.
C’est l’olive pâmée, et la flûte caline ;
C’est le tube où descend la céleste praline :
Chanaan féminin dans les moiteurs enclos !
The Idole,
Sonnet of an Arsehole
Crouching and pleated like a violet/eyelet
It breathes, modestly nestled in the moss,
still moist with love's trail of gentle loss
flowing down snowy flanks to its flowery heart.
Trickles, like tears of milky rope,
are wept on the cruel wind that propels them
through the little clots of the russet fen
to be lost down the beckoning slope
My dreams kiss often its wet cup
My soul, jealouse of its ability to fuck
Made of it a nest of tears, a musky duct
It is the swooning date and the caressing flute
it is the tube where descends the celestial fruit
A feminine promised land in moistness shut
Translation by
Adrienne Gaha 2016
The Idole,
Sonnet of an Arsehole
Obscur and creased like a violet
carnation
He breathes, in humble crawl among the
moss
Love moist following the soft escape
From white curves in the heart of its
hem
Filaments resembling milky tears
Have wept under the cruel wind rebuking
Through small clots of reddish marl
To be later found lost in the slope
calling
My Dream often clenched to its sucker
My soul, material coit jaleousing
Made him its fawn lacrum and its nest of
sobbing
The olive is swooning and the flute
caressing
The tube in which descends the celeste
praline
Feminine canaan locked in moisture enclosure
Translation by
Celine Jeanne 2016
Sonnet du Trou du Cul (redux)
Cryptic
and creased this purple whorl,
Exhales,
hidden humble amongst airy moss
Still
damp from soft flights of love
Pale
orbs tilting into the lips of its heart.
Milky
tears as filaments
Wept,
the cruel wind impels them away
Across
the small earthy clumps,
To
lose themselves where the dunes' slopes beckon.
My
dream has oft supped at this lacuna;
My
soul jealous of such corporeal exchange,
Wild
tears in this nest of wails.
An
olive swooning, a beckoning flute
The
rush where descends a celestial treat:
Over-flowing
feminine banquet, in secret musty cellars!
Translation by Gabrielle Longmate
2016
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