Uricon

Not avoiding A, I, O, or U

A E Housman (1859-1936)

Not avoiding A, I, O, or U
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves. 'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood. Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare: The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: To-day the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon.
Uricon
Wind on Long Mynd puts woods in anguish; On Clun, a sylvan shag rains down. Caught in that blast, frail saplings languish; Sabrina dons a milfoil gown. Thus did it blow through holt and gully Whilst Roman Viroconium stood. It blows today; its tantrums bully A Saxon, not a Roman, wood. I wasn’t born, as far-flung Roman Saw, long ago, that windblown hill. Such blood still warms a Saxon ploughman, As his; such hurtful thoughts, hurt still. That wind has wildwoods now in labour, And through yon Roman it ran high. Not tranquil is our human arbour! It was a Roman; now, ’tis I. Caught in that blast, frail saplings languish; It blows so hard, ’twill pass anon: What hid that Roman and his anguish? Ruin and dust of Uricon.
Published online by the Poetry Society: https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Categories
French

Vocalisations

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)

Voyelles
without using “e”

A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes:
A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes
Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles,
Golfes d’ombre; E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes,
Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d’ombelles;
I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles
Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes;
U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides,
Paix des pâtis semés d’animaux, paix des rides
Que l’alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux;
O, suprême clairon plein des strideurs étranges,
Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges:
– O l’Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux!
A black, (a blank), I blood, U grass, O sky:
I’ll bring to light your backgrounds. Wait a bit.
A, smooth black armour of a flashing fly
Buzzing around a vicious stinking pit,
Dark gulfs; (who?), fair camp-canvas, vapour-drips,
Alp-cusps, snow-kings and shaking fumitory;
I, crimsons, spat blood, luscious laughing lips,
Furious, or only drunk with saying sorry:
U, holy rhythms of a Gaian main,
Calm grazing-grounds of cows, calm brows and brain
That witchcraft furrows, mind-span that absorbs;
O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords,
Still voids for flights of worlds and spirit-birds.
O, big round O, viola-ray, O Orbs!

Rimbaud perceives the vowels as having colours! Some people perceive musical notes, or musical instruments, in that way: the technical term is synesthesia. These variations were added in 2020 in a blog written for the Rimbaud & Verlaine Society.

A
written by the meteoric young genius
 
X nights, E gulls, I blood, U green, O blue:
I’ll tell your origins in just one jiffy.
First, sleek jet corset of some flies which flew
Like buzz-bombs over sink-holes fiercely whiffy,
 
Dim depths; E, tents, or white condensing drips,
proud snow-crests, virgin kings, the trembling umbel;
I, crimsons, blood-gouts, luscious chortling lips,
Once furious, or drunk, but now quite humble:
 
U, holy rhythms of the snot-green brine,
Furrows incised on brows, whose chemistries
Conjure gold spells; quiet greenbelt strewn with kine;
 
O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords,
Still voids for flights of worlds or spirit-birds:
O, big round O, lobbed violet of those Eyes!

I
by the ne’er-do-well wonder-boy who stole La Mauté’s husband,

A black, E snow, J blood, U green, O blue:
My task: your backgrounds have to be revealed.
A, sleek black corset of a fly that flew
around a swamp malodorous, concealed,

Buzzy; E, canvas tents and puffs of steam,
Proud snowy crests, proud monarchs, trembly umbel;
J, purples, blood-gouts, lovely mouths that stream
Laughter of rage, once drunk perhaps, now humble;

U, holy groundhog throb of snot-green seas,
The peace of beast-strewn pastures, peace of ruts
Dug by dark spells on brows of PhD’s;

O, the last trump, full of strange brazen brays,
Mute tracts traversed by worlds’ and angels’ routes,
O Omega, those eyeballs’ purple rays!

U
by the whippersnapper from Charleville-Mézières,

A black, E white, I blood, X grass, O sky:
Here’s how the whole gang started. Wait a bit.
A, smooth black corset of a flashing fly
prancing atop an evil stinking pit,

black holes; E, canvas tents, condensing drips,
white kings, fierce glacier-spears, the cowslip’s shiver;
I, crimson, spat blood, mirth of lovely lips
Enraged, or tipsy, off to see the shriver;

X, cycles, holy throb of snot-green seas,
The peace of beast-strewn meadows, peace of grooves
That witchcraft scored on brows of PhD’s;

O, the last blast, blown with weird brazen brays,
Still voids traversed by worlds’ and angels’ hooves,
O Orbs, great Omega, viola-rays!

UE
Thank that blatant makar, a faraway castaway at Harar

A night, X snow, I blood, Y grass, O sky:
How did that gang start off, now? Wait a bit.
A, smooth black thorax of a flashing fly
prancing atop an evil stinking pit,

black voids; X, canvas camps and foggy drips,
snow-kings, high glacial swords, a cowslip’s frisson;
I, crimson, spat blood, mirth of tasty lips
Angry, or tipsy, off to find a parson;

Y, holy rhythmic throb of briny snots,
Calm grazing-grass of moo-cows, calm of spraints
That magic’s drawn on brows of toiling swots;

O, mighty blast, blown hard with odd brass brays,
Still voids, tram-tracks of worlds and flying saints:
O Orbs, big Royal Orbs, viola-rays!

O
Arthur Rimbaud scripsit, scalpsit, slurpsit

A black, E white, I red, U green, Z sky:
What lies behind these items? Wait a bit.
A, shiny hull that guards a flashing fly
Buzzing beside an evil stinking pit,

Dark gulfs; E, fair camp-canvas, misty drips,
Alp-cusps, pale kings and lilies vacillating;
I, scarlet, spat red cells, sweet laughing lips,
Irate, unless half-cut with exculpating:

U, cycles, drums that grace a Gaian main,
Calm heifers’ pastures ; tranquil temples, brain
Adept at study, wrinkled by witchcraft;

Z, mighty trumpet-blast, replete with genius,
Vacuums where angels flit and planets waft:
Z, zigzag Z-ray, plump and purple Zinnias!

EEEEE
Extreme verses! We’ve kept the E, we’ve eschewed the rest,
we never needed them. We persevered!

E jet, E sleet, E red, E green, E… See
Whence these emerged! We’re exegetes: we’ll tell.
E, welded vestments the resplendent bee
Needs, when she seeks the sewer’s repellent smell,

Grey depths; E, wet sheens, essences, speedwells,
Ellesmere’s deep-freezes, Re per neve, tents;
E, belched red cells, the glee des lèvres belles:
She’s vexed… let’s see! She’s legless, she repents!

E, wheels, celestes, green meres where petrels breed,
Self-seeded beeves well-rested where they feed,
Experts’ meek temples, trenches hexes pressed;

E, endless sennets, revellers’ blended cheers,
The ether’s messengers, the seven seers;
E, EVEREST, E’S EYES, THE LEVEL BEST!!!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Arthur Rimbaud...

Vowels

Vocalisations

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)

Vocalisations
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles, Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes: A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles, Golfes d’ombre; E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes, Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d’ombelles; I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes; U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides, Paix des pâtis semés d’animaux, paix des rides Que l’alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux; O, suprême clairon plein des strideurs étranges, Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges: – O l’Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux!
Vowels
A black, X blank, I blood, U grass, O sky: I’ll bring to light your backgrounds. Wait a bit. A, smooth black armour of a flashing fly Buzzing around a vicious stinking pit, Dark gulfs; X, fair camp-canvas, vapour-drips, Alp-cusps, snow-kings and shaking fumitory; I, crimsons, spat blood, luscious laughing lips, Furious, or only drunk with saying sorry: U, holy rhythms of a Gaian main, Calm grazing-grounds of cows, calm brows and brain That witchcraft furrows, mind-span that absorbs; O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords, Still voids for flights of worlds and spirit-birds. O, big round O, viola-ray, O Orbs! That was with E thrown out. This is with E, I, U all thrown out. Do thank A.R., that vocal makar, a faraway castaway at Harar! A black, X snow, Y blood, Z grass, O sky: My task’s to show how all that lot locks on. A, smooth black thorax of a flash-brat fly that swoops atop a nasty hollow john,   dark blots; X, canvas camps and drops of fogs, snow-lords, cold polar swords, and blooms that worry; Y, maroon, spat blood, hoots, and tasty snogs, Angry or blotto, two ways to say sorry;       Z, calm of pastor’s grass that’s food for cows, Salt snot-floods’ holy rhythms; calm of cwms                 Laboratory-drawn on scholars’ brows;   O, top-rank blasts, blown hard for odd brass brays, Good ghosts on non-clang pathways, worlds on zooms: - O Grand, O Final Orbs! O gamma-rays!
My comments and *several more versions* are at https://www.rimbaudverlaine.org/en/news/translating-voyelles/

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Rimbaud and Verlaine Foundation

Sailor's Wind

Brise Marine

Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98)

Translated without using letter E: a lipogram
Brise Marine
La chair est triste, hélas! et j’ai lu tous les livres, Fuir! là-bas fuir! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres D’être parmi l’écume inconnue et les cieux! Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux Ne retiendra ce coeur qui dans la mer se trempe O nuits! ni la clarté déserte de ma lampe Sur le vide papier que la blancheur défend Et ni la jeune femme allaitant son’enfant. Je partirai! Steamer balançant ta mâture, Lève l’ancre pour une exotique nature! Un Ennui, désolé par les cruels espoirs, Croit encore à l’adieu suprême des mouchoirs! Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages Sont-ils de ceux qu’un vent penche sur les naufrages Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles ilôts … Mais, ô mon coeur, entends le chant des matelots!
Sailor's Wind
Limbs flag and fail; j’ai lu all books of words. To fly away! I think of soaring birds In sky unknown, and spray, mad-drunk with flight. No arbours, mirror’d back from orbs of sight, Can stay my soul from plunging totally, O nights! nor lamplight’s arid clarity On my blank writing-pad’s forbidding wall; Nor a young woman with a sucking doll. I go! You throbbing ship with masts that sway, Up anchor, and to magick lands away! Vain longings haunt us; harsh monotony Still trusts in waving chiffon’s last goodby; And masts that summon storms may soon bow down To roaring winds, by ruin’d hulks that drown, Lost, with no masts, nor islands blossoming … But hark, my soul! What songs our sailors sing!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Caged Goldfinch

Categories
English

The Caged Goldfinch

Lipograms – Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

The Caged Goldfinch Within a churchyard, on a recent grave, I saw a little cage That jailed a goldfinch. All was silence save Its hops from stage to stage. There was inquiry in its wistful eye, And once it tried to sing; Of him or her who placed it there, and why, No one knew anything.
The Caged Goldfinch
Goldfinch in Jail Within a churchyard, on a just-laid plot, I saw a tiny jail: A goldfinch was within. No sound: but, what? Hop, hop, a dismal trail. Inquiry in its wistful look saw I; I saw it fail to sing; Of who had put it in that spot, and why, Nobody knows a thing.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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De virgine perdita

The Ruined Maid

Lipograms – Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

His English, my Latin
The Ruined Maid
"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" — "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she. — "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" — "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she. — "At home in the barton you said thee' and thou,' And thik oon,' and theäs oon,' and t'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" — "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she. — "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" — "We never do work when we're ruined," said she. — "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" — "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she. — "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" — "My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.
De virgine perdita
‘hoc superat certe, cara o mea Melia, totum: ~~res inopina, ego iens obvia in urbe tibi. unde hae divitiae quot habes et pulcher amictus?’ ~~‘num nescis? quia sum perdita: damnor ego.’ ‘squalebant panni, nudo pede pauper abisti: ~~plus lolia et betas lassa fodire nequis. nunc nitet armillis necnon tribus instita plumis.’ ~~‘tale quidem splendens perdita tegmen habet.’ ‘rure domi tute, en! tibimetque in chorte solebas, ~~hice ollumque et alid, rustica verba loqui. nunc tamen apta bonis tua vox, proceresque iuvabis.’ ~~‘perdita pro damno lautior esse potest.’ ‘dura rudisque manus, pigrum os et pullius: at nunc ~~pellicit et tamquam fascinat ista gena. sunt manicae tenerae, bona quas matrona sitiret!’ ~~‘nulla laborem urget perdita nympha manu.’ ‘ante domi te questa magas vinxisse sopore, ~~ miscebas gemitu murmura. nunc mihi ades expers tristitiae, caput haud cruciata dolore.’ ~~‘vera refers: hilaris perdita nympha viget.’ ‘o si magnificam chlamydem plumasque tenerem, ~~os purum, forti pulchra et in urbe gradu!’ ‘rustica et inconcinna manes. quid? non tibi talis, ~~non tibi, quae non es perdita, vita datur.’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Categories
French

Chill Out, My Sorrow

Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)

Recueillement
without using “e”

Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici;
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.
Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,
Loin d’eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;
Le Soleil moribond s’endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul trainant à l’Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.
Chill out, my sorrow: play it cool: calm down:
You said night ought to fall; you got your way.
Twilight cuts in: dusk sinks upon our town,
Doling out consolation or dismay.
Lust cracks his whip, that hangman void of pity;
Most of humanity, a vulgar throng,
Will wallow, and will blush for doing wrong.
My sorrow, hold my hand: now, quit this city:
Stand by. A rack of gowns that could not last,
Lining an upstairs rail: that is our past:
Smiling contrition in salt surf is born;
Sunlight is fading, dying in an arch.
Think of a long shroud trailing off to dawn:
Hark, darling! Night kicks into forward march.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Categories
French

Cats

Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)

Les Chats
without using “e”

Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères
Aiment également, dans leur mûre saison,
Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,
Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires.
Amis de la science et de la volupté,
Ils cherchent le silence et l’horreur des ténèbres;
L’Erèbe les eût pris pour ses coursiers funèbres,
S’ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté.
Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes
Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes,
Qui semblent s’endormir dans un rêve sans fin;
Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d’étincelles magiques,
Et des parcelles d’or, ainsi qu’un sable fin,
Étoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques.
Passion may burn, and scholarship may chill:
But, swains and savants, jointly doff your hats!
Lords of our roost, our puissant pussy-cats
Match you for craving warmth and sitting still.
Cats quarry facts and stalk voluptuous bliss,
Finding a dull or downright Stygian spot;
Cats could sign on as four-in-hand of Dis,
If cats could justify a minion’s lot.
A cat that’s sunk in thought looks proud and grand,
Grand as a big old sphinx, aloof and sprawling,
Down chasms of hypnotic fancy falling.
From loins prolific, sparks of magic flow;
And grains of gold-dust, smooth and small as sand,
In dark and mystic iris dimly glow.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Categories
French

Accords

Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)

Correspondances
without using “e”

La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L’homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l’observent avec des regards familiers.
Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.
Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d’enfants,
Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
– Et d’autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,
Ayant l’expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l’ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l’encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l’esprit et des sens.
This world’s a worship-hall: its columnry
Half-murmurs, on and off, a word or two;
Symbols grow thick and tall, as man walks through,
And watch him with familiarity.
A distant, long cacophony confounds
Its clangour in dark gulfs of harmony,
Monstrous as night, and vast as clarity:
A caucus of aromas, colours, sounds!
Fragrant as baby-limbs, mild odours waft
From rolling grasslands, ocarina-soft;
Or arrogant, triumphant, rich and high,
Far out, and growing to infinity,
Musk and patchouli, cinnamon, copal:
Transport and song of spirit, mind and soul.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Lost Leader

Categories
English

The Lost Leader

Robert Browning (1812-89)

Just for a Handful – a Lipogram, in which Browning damns Wordsworth for kowtowing to Victoria, to braid his brow with bardic bays.
Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, —He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
The Lost Leader
Just for a handful of Wonga, that sold us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, Found just that gift of which Luck hadn’t told us, Lost gift on gift, and was bought with a groat! Gold was for giving, but how parsimonious, Stinting of Wonga, what skinflints at court! All our small coins in position to pay him, Rags of dishonour, wrong colour, wrong sort! All of us, fans of his, following, honouring, Living in sight of his glory, oh my, Words to absorb, lucid phrasing to latch upon, Took him as our prototypical guy! Stratford-on-Avon and Milton both fought for us, Burns and Alastor, all watching from tomb: Only Will Wordsworth abandons, is nought for us, Sinks to our back-guard, a flunky of doom! Onward and upward! but not by his succour; Songs will inspirit us, — not by his chords; Actions will flourish, but not from this Makar: ‘Crouch’, and not ‘Climb’: such discouraging words! Blot out his monica, list a lost soul, and Log tasks unwrought and a footpath untrod: Joy diabolical, spirit-birds’ sorrow, A wrong to mankind and an insult to God! Night falls upon us, and nobody wants him: Doubt and hiatus, confusion and pain: Struggling for plaudits in shadowy twilight, No happy hoping, no morning again. Just fighting on, as was taught him: ‘Our jugular! Go for it now. You shall know our command.’ Finally Wordsworth will twig and await us, Girt with God’s pardon, upon His right hand!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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