Poète Maudit Poem by Souren Mondal
Poète Maudit
[ Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme une rêve de
pierre]
[The Beloved woke. We became That
and the lake is crystal clear]
[comme un lait nourricier et bleu;
je suis suspendu à vos bouches
femmes, cœur de vinaigre durs
Iness,
Invité]
I dissolve Clonazepam into Laudanum
and swallow my Venlafaxine down,
Then light up a Marlboro and take a deep puff,
exhaling it at the full moon,
hiding herself partially behind the grey clouds
My eyes are closed,
my room is dark
and only a faint, flickering image of your
face appear before me,
Neena,
Art thou a mirage or someone real?
An angel caught up in earth
Or,
A daemon of my imagination?
You replied well to another poet,
but to me,
you were always vague,
deliberately keeping me on the edge,
with your melodramatic over reactions.
And what I thought to be a
wheel of passion,
was actually the wheel of fortune,
the thread was snapped
way before I realised my fate.
But in the end,
are there any difference between the two?
I probably misunderstood both those
wheels,
they take you nowhere,
but make you roam in a strange circle
only to lead you to disappointment
and nothingness.
This nothingness is now my life as I
sit on a canvas chair on the balcony,
looking at a couple of dogs on the street
and their burning eyes
while a few cats fly across the sky.
And I have a razor on my hand,
I want to slit my wrists,
and finish this whole business for ever.
'Que voluz-vous? ', I hear the fiend ask
me from inside,
and all I do is cut my thighs,
a couple of straight A's across both ones,
Are those scarlet or mere red?
I know not,
for all I see is your image,
your eyes covered in glasses,
but I feel the blood run through my legs,
warm and with a life of its own,
It turns the Lake red
And the Blood does speak,
as it flows in an asymetrical pattern
'You are the Theban King, who's eyes are intact,
You are his daughter without the
walls around her,
You are the Prince from Denmark,
without his philosophy and
eloquence,
You are the woman directed toward
the nunnery
without drowning yet,
You are Antoine Roquentin,
You are Esther Greenwood,
You are madame Sosostris
and her client at the same time
You are Lèon Robinson
and Ferdinand too,
You're Kurtz
and Marlow,
You are everything
and nothing,
You are yourself,
and someone else too....
You are your own doppelgänger
You are, my fellow,
a poète maudit...
1. The first quote is taken from Baudelaire's 'Le Beauté' and can be translated as 'I am fair, O mortals! like a dream carved in
stone'
2. The second quote is from Lalleswari's verse 'At the End of A Crazy Moon-Night'
3. The third quote is from Antoin Artaud's 'Poète Noir' and can be translated as:
'Like blue mother's milk;
Women, harsh vinegar hearts
I hang suspended from your mouths'.
4. Laudnum is a opium dissolved into alcohol, and something that Charles Baudelaire was addicted to.
The poem is a dedication of the group of poets who were called 'Poète Maudit'. You can google about them if you prefer to, but basically, the term referred to those poets who's fates were accursed and who lived at the very edge of the society, if not entirely outside it. Their lives were filled witn regrets and sorrow, and most of them died badly. Their sufferings, however, resulted into beautiful poetry that inspired generations of poets to come.
The Composition:
I wrote this poem in lieu of my daily siesta at afternoon. I chanced to find no sleep and stumbled upon my book of french verses from where I read Baudelaire's 'Le Léthé', 'Le Sept viellards'. It reminded me of the only Artaud I have read, and my recent reading of Lalleswari gave shape to an idea of this poem. Although, I do not really like to share much about how a poem was written, for this, I felt a decent poet's note was necessary, to make anyone kind enough to read this poem, understand the situation I was in when I wrote this. But maybe, even more so, this note is included here because I want to acknowledge the influences behind this poem, and also clarify that I have no 'anxity' about it.
Finally, this poem is for those amazing poets, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud and all others, who had suffered, only to create art. - art that has come at the price of their pains.. And although, my poem is perhaps pathetic, or not asthetically of good quality - 'high art' as some may say - this is a young idiotic poet's small homage to his heros.
Souren Mondal,
October 1,2015.
Chandannagar.
I've been a bit too harsh in my comment, I see, dear Souren, but it was only because you've got a poetic mind, so you need to give her 'space to run'.. Understand?
I was finishing to write my comment when I lost everything.. I've written again -part of the comment- and posted it before finishing.. so, here is the '2nd part': ___________________ these verse, here, are the best part of your poem, from my personal point of view: '' My eyes are closed, my room is dark and only a faint, flickering image of your face appear before me, Neena, Art thou a mirage or someone real? An angel caught up in earth Or, A daemon of my imagination? You replied well to another poet, but to me, you were always vague, deliberately keeping me on the edge, with your melodramatic over reactions. And what I thought to be a wheel of passion, was actually the wheel of fortune, the thread was snapped way before I realised my fate. But in the end, are there any difference between the two? I probably misunderstood both those wheels, they take you nowhere, but make you roam in a strange circle only to lead you to disappointment and nothingness. This nothingness is now my life as I sit on a canvas chair on the balcony, looking at a couple of dogs on the street and their burning eyes while a few cats fly across the sky. '' Even if you use a bit too often (=in several poems) the same expression: '' melodramatic over reactions ''. What follows ''And the Blood does speak, / as it flows in an asymetrical pattern'' is a long list of references to other famous verses/poets.. it would be ok, but it is a bit too long [again: it is my personl opinion] The 'finale' is not so original, I'm sorry to say, but it works: '' You are everything and nothing, You are yourself, and someone else too.... You are your own doppelgänger You are, my fellow, a poète maudit.. ''
an introduction by Baudelaire, Artaud and Lalleshwari (I don't know this 3rd poet of XIV century) is quite a 'regal' introduction.. ;) I especially like Antonin Artaud's verse (from 'Black Poet') : ''comme un lait nourricier et bleu; / je suis suspendu à vos bouches / femmes, cœur de vinaigre durs.'' In Italian it would sound: ''Come un latte nutriente e azzurro; Io sono appeso alle vostre bocche Donne, aspri cuori di aceto.'' You are still young, so I can understand how much you feel having all these great poets standing beside you.. 'observing' you.. when writing your poetry.. But you need to take some distance and be yourself in full. So ''Art thou'' doesn't sound so convincing to me, for a poem written today by a young poet.. it is kind of 'manierism' -mannerism- you should avoid, from my point of view (even if so many here, at PH, love using such mannerisms/affectations, in their writes) .
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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9/19/2024 5:16:35 PM # 1.0.0.1119
I hear the fiend ask me from inside, ///To seperate the verb from its object in two verses, especially when the object is a single word it is called chasma=gap.In classic poetry it is not acceptable./// my life as I sit on a canvas //The same with the subject and the verb..Do avoid it, Souren.//I do agree with Fabrizio's comments and notices.Trust yourself.Do make these poet's notes in your poems, but you do not need to publish them too here in poem hunter.Keep them for those after years who will study your poesy.//Try to shorten as much as you can your poems.