Poem for 7/19/22 - Sea Breeze by Stephane Mallarme

I've included not only the translation I read on the voicemail, but also the original French as well as two other translations I found on the web...  Enjoy!

Sea Breeze, by Stéphane Mallarmé

(trans. Henry Weinfield)

The flesh is sad, alas, and there's nothing but words!

To take flight, far off! I sense that somewhere the birds

Are drunk to be amid strange spray and skies.

Nothing, not the old gardens reflected in the eyes,

Can now restrain this sea-drenched heart, O night,

Nor the lone splendor of my lamp on the white

Paper which the void leaves undefiled,

Nor the young mother suckling her child.

Steamer with gently swaying masts, depart!

Weigh anchor for a landscape of the heart!

Boredom made desolate by hope's cruel spells

Retains its faith in ultimate farewells!

And maybe the masts are such as are inclined

To shipwreck driven by tempestuous wind.

No fertile isle, no spar on which to cling...

But oh, my heart, listen to the sailors sing!

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 cœur qui dans la mer se trempe

 

Ô 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 îlots…

Mais, ô mon cœur, entends le chant des matelots !

Seabreeze (Translated from the French by Richard Wilbur)

The flesh grows weary. And books, I’ve read them all.

Off, then, to where I glimpse through spray and squall
Strange birds delighting in their unknown skies!
No antique gardens mirrored in my eyes
Can stay my sea-changed spirit, nor the light
Of my abstracted lamp which shines (O Night!)
On the guardian whiteness of the empty sheet,
Nor the young wife who gives the babe her teat.
Come, ship whose masts now gently rock and sway,
Raise anchor for a stranger world! Away!

How strange that Boredom, all its hopes run dry,
Still dreams of handkerchiefs that wave goodbye!
Those gale-inviting masts might creak and bend
In seas where many a craft has met its end,
Dismasted, lost, with no green island near it…
But hear the sailors singing, O my spirit!

—Stéphane Mallarmé

Sea Breeze (trans. A.M. Kline)

The flesh is sad, Alas! and I’ve read all the books.
Let’s go! Far off. Let’s go! I sense
That the birds, intoxicated, fly
Deep into unknown spume and sky!
Nothing – not even old gardens mirrored by eyes –
Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea
O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,
On the void of paper, that whiteness defends,
No, not even the young woman feeding her child.
I shall go! Steamer, straining at your ropes
Lift your anchor towards an exotic rawness!
A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope
Still believes in the last goodbye of handkerchiefs!
And perhaps the masts, inviting lightning,
Are those the gale bends over shipwrecks,
Lost, without masts, without masts, no fertile islands...
But, oh my heart, listen to the sailors’ chant!