Un peu de poésie...

Par Cédric/QueST

Grâce à Iron Maiden, j'ai découvert un auteur anglais du XVIIIème siècle (qui a dit que le Hard-Rock rendait stupide ? On voit quand même qu'ils ont plus de culture que les chanteurs à la mode actuellement, comme [par exemple (?)] le groupe World's Apart et autres types "kittés" au Q.I inférieur à celui d'un lémurien) qui se trouve effectivement dans le dictionnaire : je veux parler de Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Pour ceux qui connaissent le répertoire de Maiden, je fais référence à la chanson "Rime of the ancient Mariner"...

Avant de commencer, une brève biographie de Coleridge. Il est né en 1772 à Ottery St Marry (Devon). C'était le plus jeune fils de la famille. Il s'adonnera à l'Opium (et écrira visiblement sous l'emprise de la drogue) [je tiens à préciser qu'en ce qui me concerne, je ne carbure pas à l'Opium pour écrire dans le Toxic, et même en général d'ailleurs... Et à part ces sales mouches roses qui me tournent autour, tout va bien... Non mais...]. Il sera poète, philosophe et critique... Voilà en gros le personnage...

Je vous propose donc quelques extraits de son oeuvre. Je précise que la traduction est assez difficile car c'est du vieil anglais. Quoi qu'il en soit, c'est très intéressant, aussi bien à lire qu'à traduire... Je vous donne les références du livre :

"Selected poetry and prose" de S.T. Coleridge [ed. The Penguin]

Malgré le coût du livre (80 FF), vous en avez pour votre pognon, surtout si vous traduisez tout...

Bon, sur ce : allons-y !


"To the autumnal moon"

Mild splendour of the various-vested Night!
Mother of wildly-working visions! hail!
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil;
And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud
Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high;
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
Thy placid lightning o'er the awaken'd sky.

Ah such is Hope! as changeful and as fair!
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight;
Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair:
But soon emerging in her radiant might
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.

"To the river otter"

Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy and what mounful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of Childhood! oft have ye beguil'd
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless Child!

"The Eolian Harp"

(composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire)

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o'ergrown
With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world so hush'd!
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tell us of silence.

"The dungeon"

And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us -
Most innocent, perhaps - and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell' up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon the heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till chang'd to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks -
And this is the best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savages faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,
By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd
By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distember'd child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.

"The knight's tomb"

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be? -
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, - and the birch in its stead is grown. -
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust; -
His soul is with the saints, I trust.


Stop, Christian passer-by! - Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he.
O, lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C.;
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise - to be forgiven for fame
He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do you the same!

"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

ARGUMENT : How a ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how fron thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things thaty befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Mariner came back to his own country.

It is an ancient Mariner
And he stoppeth one of three
"By the long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?"
"God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus! -
Why look'st thou so?" - With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white.
I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

Ouf ! Voilà : j'ai enfin fini... On a beau dire, c'est long à recopier, surtout si on ne veut pas faire de fautes... J'espère que cela vous plaira... "The ancient Mariner" n'est pas complet, vous l'aurez compris, mais je pense avoir mis les meilleurs couplets. En tout cas : merci Maiden ! Cela prouve au moins que le Hard-Rock ne pousse pas qu'à profaner les tombes ou à frapper les autres... Enfin, je me comprends... [NdTB : ça c'est bien dit !]

Si cela vous a intéressé (je parle de Coleridge !), faîtes-le savoir, j'en remettrai la prochaine fois avec plaisir (si, si !) : que ne ferais-je pas pour vous public adoré que j'aime tant (ça fait un peu faux cul mais bon...) !

Au fait, si quelqu'un veut traduire les paroles en français, ce serait cool... Avis aux amateurs ! [NdTB : j'aurais bien voulu mais je peux pas, demain j'ai piscine... 8-) ]

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