Arthur Rimbaud - "Conte" ("Tale")

Here is Rimbaud's Nights inspired poem "Conte," from Illuminations (1946, New Directions, translated by Louise Varese)

TALE

A Prince was vexed at having devoted himself only to the perfection of ordinary generosities. He foresaw astonishing revolutions of love and suspected his women of being able to do better than their habitual acquiescence embellished by heaven and luxury. He wanted to see the truth, the hour of essential desire and gratification. Whether this was an aberration of piety or not, that is what he wanted. Enough worldly power, at least, he had.

All the women who had known him were assassinated; what havoc in the garden of beauty! At the point of the sword they blessed him. He did not order new ones.–The women reappeared.

He killed all those who followed him, after the hunt or the libations.–All followed him.

He amused himself cutting the throats of rare animals. He set palaces on fire. He would rush upon people and hack them to pieces.–The throngs, the gilded roofs, the beautiful animals still remained.

Can one be in ecstasies over destruction and by cruelty rejuvenated! The people did not complain. No one offered him the benefit of his views.

One evening he was proudly galloping. A Genie appeared, of ineffable beauty, unavowable even. In his face and in his bearing shone the promise of a complex and multiple love! of an indescribable happiness, unendurable even. The Prince and the Genie annihilated each other probably in essential health. How could they have helped dying of it? Together then they died.

But this Prince died in his palace at an ordinary age, the Prince was the Genie, the Genie was the Prince.–There is no sovereign music for our desire.

Conte

Un prince était vexé de ne s'être employé jamais qu'à la perfection des générosités vulgaires. Il prévoyait d'étonnantes révolutions de l'amour, et soupçonnait ses femmes de pouvoir mieux que cette complaisance agrémentée de ciel et de luxe. Il voulait voir la vérité, l'heure du désir et de la satisfaction essentiels. Que ce fût ou non une aberration de piété, il voulut. Il possédait au moins un assez large pouvoir humain.

Toutes les femmes qui l'avaient connu furent assassinées : quel saccage du jardin de la beauté ! Sous le sabre, elles le bénirent. Il n'en commanda point de nouvelles. - Les femmes réapparurent.
Il tua tous ceux qui le suivaient, après la chasse ou les libations. - Tous le suivaient.

Il s'amusa à égorger les bêtes de luxe. Il fit flamber les palais. Il se ruait sur les gens et les taillait en pièces. - La foule, les toits d'or, les belles bêtes existaient encore.

Peut-on s'extasier dans la destruction, se rajeunir par la cruauté ! Le peuple ne murmura pas. Personne n'offrit le concours de ses vues.

Un soir, il galopait fièrement. Un Génie apparut, d'une beauté ineffable, inavouable même. De sa physionomie et de son maintien ressortait la promesse d'un amour multiple et complexe ! d'un bonheur indicible, insupportable même ! Le Prince et le Génie s'anéantirent probablement dans la santé essentielle. Comment n'auraient-ils pas pu en mourir ? Ensemble donc ils moururent.
Mais ce Prince décéda, dans son palais, à un âge ordinaire. Le Prince était le Génie. Le Génie était le Prince.

La musique savante manque à notre désir.

Keats - "Staffa"

Feeling a bit Romantic lately - posting has been very light recently, but soon to stop being such, it has been busy round these parts.

"Staffa" is a poem by John Keats about his visit to Fingal's Cave on Staffa, an island in Scotland.  Wordsworth wrote about it as well, though Keats did so with a touch of the Nights. 

Keats' poem, untitled, has been referred to as "Staffa" or by its first line "Not Aladdin Magian" and was first published after the poet's death:

NOT Aladdin magian
Ever such a work began;
Not the Wizard of the Dee
Ever such a dream could see;
Not St. John, in Patmos' Isle,
In the passion of his toil,
When he saw the churches seven,
Golden aisl'd, built up in heaven,
Gazed at such a rugged wonder.
As I stood its roofing under
Lo! I saw one sleeping there,
On the marble cold and bare.
While the surges washed his feet,
And his garments white did beat.
Drench'd about the sombre rocks;
On his neck his well-grown locks,
Lifted dry above the main,
Were upon the curl again.
"What is this? and what art thou?"
Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow.
"What art thou? and what is this?"
Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss
The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes.
Up he started in a trice.
"I am Lycidas," said he,
"Fam'd in funeral minstrelsy.
This was architected thus
By the great Oceanus;
Here his mighty waters play
Hollow organs all the day;
Here by turns his dolphins all,
Finny palmers great and small,
Come to pay devotion due -
Each a mouth of pearls must strew.
Many a mortal of these days,
Dares to pass our sacred ways,
Dares to touch audaciously
This cathedral of the sea.
I have been the pontif-priest
Where the waters never rest,
Where a fledgy sea bird choir
Soars for ever; holy fire
I have hid from mortal man;
Proteus is my sacristan.
But the stupid eye of mortal
Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal; So for ever will I leave
Such a taint, and soon unweave
All the magic of the place.

'Tis now free to stupid face,

To cutters and to fashion boats,

To cravats and to petticoats.

The great sea shall war it down,

For its fame shall not be blown

At every farthing quadrille dance."
So saying, with a spirit's glance
He dived -

Wordsworth and the Nights

From The Prelude, by William Wordsworth ( published in 1850 but worked on during the poet's entire life, and a must read for everyone, wiki: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Prelude)

I had a precious treasure at that time,
A little yellow canvass-covered book,
A slender abstract of the Arabian Tales;
And when I learned, as now I first did learn
From my companions in this new abode,
That this dear prize of mine was but a block
Hewn from a mighty quarry — in a word,
That there were four large volumes, laden all
With kindred matter — ’twas in truth to me
A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly
I made a league, a covenant with a friend
Of my own age, that we should lay aside
The monies we possessed, and hoard up more,
Till our joint Savings had amassed enough
To make this book our own. Through several months
Religiously did we preserve that vow,
And spite of all temptation hoarded up,
And hoarded up; but firmness failed at length,
Nor were we ever masters of our wish.

And afterwards, when, to my father’s house
Returning at the holidays, I found
That golden store of books which I had left
Open to my enjoyment once again,
What heart was mine! Full often through the course
Of those glad respites in the summertime
When armed with rod and line we went abroad
For a whole day together, I have lain
Down by thy side, O Derwent, murmuring stream,
On the hot stones and in the glaring sun,
And there have read, devouring as I read,
Defrauding the day’s glory — desperate –
Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach
Such as an idler deals with in his shame,
I to my sport betook myself again.

From The Prelude, Book V, li. 482-515

1001 Verses - Mardrus/Mathers Poems

Check out this website featuring online audio versions of the poetry from the Mardrus/Mathers version of the Nights:  http://theinfosite.org/1001/index.html

Each poem is linked separately and read aloud in great quality audio.

Recollections of the Arabian Nights - Tennyson

Here is the poem "Recollections of the Arabian Nights" by English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Originally published in 1830. More on Tennyson: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson

Recollections of the Arabian Nights

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free

In the silken sail of infancy,

The tide of time flow'd back with me,

The forward-flowing tide of time;

And many a sheeny summer-morn,

Adown the Tigris I was borne,

By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,

High-walled gardens green and old;

True Mussulman was I and sworn,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Anight my shallop, rustling thro'

The low and bloomed foliage, drove

The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove

The citron-shadows in the blue:

By garden porches on the brim,

The costly doors flung open wide,

Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim,

And broider'd sofas on each side:

In sooth it was a goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Often where clear-stemm'd platans guard

The outlet, did I turn away

The boat-head down a broad canal

From the main river sluiced, where all

The sloping of the moon-lit sward

Was damask-work, and deep inlay

Of braided blooms unmown, which crept

Adown to where the water slept.

A goodly place, a goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

A motion from the river won

Ridged the smooth level, bearing on

My shallop thro' the star-strown calm,

Until another night in night

I enter'd, from the clearer light,

Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,

Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb

Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome

Of hollow boughs. -- A goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Still onward; and the clear canal

Is rounded to as clear a lake.

From the green rivage many a fall

Of diamond rillets musical,

Thro' little crystal arches low

Down from the central fountain's flow

Fall'n silver-chiming, seemed to shake

The sparkling flints beneath the prow.

A goodly place, a goodly time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Above thro' many a bowery turn

A walk with vary-colour'd shells

Wander'd engrain'd. On either side

All round about the fragrant marge

From fluted vase, and brazen urn

In order, eastern flowers large,

Some dropping low their crimson bells

Half-closed, and others studded wide

With disks and tiars, fed the time

With odour in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Far off, and where the lemon grove

In closest coverture upsprung,

The living airs of middle night

Died round the bulbul as he sung;

Not he: but something which possess'd

The darkness of the world, delight,

Life, anguish, death, immortal love,

Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd,

Apart from place, withholding time,

But flattering the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Black the garden-bowers and grots

Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged

Above, unwoo'd of summer wind:

A sudden splendour from behind

Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green,

And, flowing rapidly between

Their interspaces, counterchanged

The level lake with diamond-plots

Of dark and bright. A lovely time,

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead,

Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,

Grew darker from that under-flame:

So, leaping lightly from the boat,

With silver anchor left afloat,

In marvel whence that glory came

Upon me, as in sleep I sank

In cool soft turf upon the bank,

Entranced with that place and time,

So worthy of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn --

A realm of pleasance, many a mound,

And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn

Full of the city's stilly sound,

And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round

The stately cedar, tamarisks,

Thick rosaries of scented thorn,

Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks

Graven with emblems of the time,

In honour of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

With dazed vision unawares

From the long alley's latticed shade

Emerged, I came upon the great

Pavilion of the Caliphat.

Right to the carven cedarn doors,

Flung inward over spangled floors,

Broad-based flights of marble stairs

Ran up with golden balustrade,

After the fashion of the time,

And humour of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

The fourscore windows all alight

As with the quintessence of flame,

A million tapers flaring bright

From twisted silvers look'd to shame

The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd

Upon the mooned domes aloof

In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd

Hundreds of crescents on the roof

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time

To celebrate the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Then stole I up, and trancedly

Gazed on the Persian girl alone,

Serene with argent-lidded eyes

Amorous, and lashes like to rays

Of darkness, and a brow of pearl

Tressed with redolent ebony,

In many a dark delicious curl,

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone;

The sweetest lady of the time,

Well worthy of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Six columns, three on either side,

Pure silver, underpropt a rich

Throne of the massive ore, from which

Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold,

Engarlanded and diaper'd

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd

With merriment of kingly pride,

Sole star of all that place and time,

I saw him -- in his golden prime,

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

HD - The Walls Do Not Fall

Recently came across this subtle reference to the Nights in a poem by HD (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilda_Doolittle).

The poem is called "The Walls Do Not Fall" and this is part 5:

When in the company of the gods,
I loved and was loved,

never was my mind stirred
to such rapture,

my heart moved
to such pleasure,

as now, to discover
over Love, a new master:

His, the track in the sand
from a plum-tree in flower

to a half-open hut-door,
(or track would have been,

but wind blows sand-prints from the sand,
whether seen or unseen):

His, the Genius in the jar
which the Fisherman finds,

He is Mage,
bringing myrrh.

Andrei Codrescu's next book has Nights theme

Poet Andrei Codrescu announced a Nights themed book forthcoming from the author in the interview on his latest book (see bottom of post for article/interview info). Learn more about the poet at his website: http://www.codrescu.com/bio/index.html

(as an aside a reliable source who knows her well says poet Lyn Hejinian is also working on a Nights related book of poems - M)...

paragraph mentioning Codrescu's upcoming book:

"The book ["The Posthuman Dada Guide: Tzara & Lenin Play Chess," (Princeton University Press, $16.95)] was inspired by a meeting with a Princeton University Press editor at the Frankfurt Book Fair. "We had a 15-minute conversation, and that was it," Codrescu said. "Now I'm writing another one, '1001 Nights, Scheherezade's Bodies, Notes on Narration and Extinction.'"

from article:

Professional provocateur
Andrei Codrescu's latest work is a guidebook to a strange new era
Posted by Susan Larson, Book editor, The Times-Picayune
April 01, 2009 3:45AM
http://blog.nola.com/susanlarson/2009/04/all_the_right_moves_in_codresc.html

upcoming paper at the annual AOS meeting

The American Oriental Society is holding their annual meeting at the moment in New Mexico and there is one paper being read about the Arabian Nights and poetry (the only paper on the Nights at this year's meeting). It is an interesting subject I've not read much about. I'm under the impression that Muhsin Mahdi excised poetry from his reproduction of Galland's Arabic manuscript though I'm not sure to what extent.

This paper is about the relationship of the Classical poetry that the first and subsequent Arabic authors/compilers of the Nights "pasted" and wrote amongst the prose.


PDF of Abstracts (Arabian Nights is on page 27):

http://www.umich.edu/~aos/2009/Abstracts2009Full.pdf

Paper will be presented Saturday Morning as part of the meeting of the "New Readings of Classical Arabic Literature" from 1030-1210pm in Alvarado G-H.

Quoted Abstract:

"Wolfhart Heinrichs, Harvard University
- Modes of Existence of Poetry in the Arabian Nights

The Arabian Nights are an example of prosimetrum (prose interspersed with poetry), a literary phenomenon that has only recently attracted the attention of Arabists. The paper will dwell on some features that are characteristic of the role of poetry in Alf Laylah wa-Laylah: (1) The poems have been compared by John Payne, the 19th century translator of Alf Laylah, to woodcuts in Western publications. Unlike the woodcuts, the poems are, of course, in the same medium as the narrative; however, often they are quotations of classical poetry and, thus, in the Classical language rather than in the "Middle Arabic" of the narrative, which makes the parallelism between Alf Laylah poems and woodcuts somewhat stronger. The remaining poems are presumable mostly composed by storytellers and/or copyists; nonetheless, they still predominantly follow the classical language and prosody. Only a few are "beyond repair." (b) Most poems are adduced according to Bencheikh's rule: "If the story narrates a passion, the poem represents it." In some cases the poem is introduced by a formula that identifies the situation described in the prose with the description of the poem. E.g., the description of a hunchback is preceded by kama qala fihi badu wasifihi, as if the quoted poem had been written about the hunchback in the story. The strangest stratagem in this category is the lisan al-hal, the "voice of the situation," which is used, when the protagonists cannot speak, but the situation cries out for a poem; the lisan al-hal is presented as "writing" and "speaking" the poem (kataba lisanu halina yaqul). Thus the insertion of poems often betrays great sophistication. The storytellers and/or copyists may even manipulate the slots for poems, and certainly the slot-fillers, as the various text traditions clearly show."