Original:
Le Dormeur du Val (The Sleeper in the Valley) by Arthur Rimbaud
It's a green valley where a river sings
Madly catching white tatters in the grass.
Where the sun on the proud mountain rings:
It's a little valley, foaming like light in a glass.
A conscript, open-mouthed, his bare head
And bare neck bathed in the cool blue cress,
Sleeps: stretched out, under the sky, on grass,
Pale where the light rains down on his green bed.
Feet in the yellow flags, he sleeps. Smiling
As a sick child might smile, he's dozing.
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.
The scents no longer make his nostrils twitch:
He sleeps in the sunlight, one hand on his chest,
Tranquil. In his right side, there are two red holes.
Translated by A. S. Kline.
In this verdant cradle, a busy brook hums a lullaby
and gently combs through frayed ribbons of pale grass,
the sunlight iridescent against the stately distant peaks.
It is such a little thing, this green hollow, where beads of light evanesce.
A warrior slumbers here, his mouth like a yawn,
his head and neck exposed to the sun.
He rests on a pillow of creeping thyme,
he reclines under a canopy of cotton clouds,
pallid against his pallet of soft green lawn
while sunbeams glitter down like summer rain.
He slumbers with his boots tangled carelessly among the larkspur,
his countenance wan, like the grin of a sickly child.
He is at rest.
Gentle Earth, swaddle him in a cozy embrace,
for he has lost his warmth.
He does not smell the perfume of the garden around him.
He rests in the haze of a sunbeam,
one limp arm draped casually across his heart.
He is at peace.
Two deep wounds bloom red against his side.
Short way from foughten field he lay
eyes clouded as yon crowded sky
his hauberk stripped from limbs away
his gambeson rent red and by
his side no sword or shield.
So dispossessed his warrior face
though helmetless and wan displayed
that confidence in saving Grace
his cross-emblazoned surcoat laid
beside his cor’se revealed.
Around him glistened early dew
about him wafted fresh perfumes
not of sweet sanctity he knew
from incense, but wild flowers’ blooms
upon that sparkling field.
Swift shadows crossed his face and chest
as seagulls, ravens, crows and kites
began to gather near the blest
to choose out liver, tongue and lights
as to each fowl appealed.
The dying dream, again. 'Like last time?' asked Nicole.
'Not quite,' Matt managed, as his pulse began to slow,
relieved to be in bed, not lying on the knoll
(as they had named it); but outside a single crow
was cawing and he saw the scavengers once more,
so many in their flight towards the battleground,
there came the sickly stench of flesh, the ghastly gore,
some sudden shouts, a trumpet and a howling hound;
the sounds were new, Nic thought, and wondered if they signed
a different meaning to her boyfriend’s nightly hell
amidst the closing wildflower rings; what in his mind
was surfacing with every sound and sight and smell?
The cross upon his tunic, maybe, was the key,
or was it just his meds, the morphine (MST)?
The twitching hand that death comes to shake
is the moment when Matt should wake but tonight
Nicole is behind black glass, he can hear the muffled
thumping as his mind cracks, her hands pulling him
breathless, back to their bed; But the crows are still
cawing his name.
He can see their dark swarm, pulling on entrails,
wings spread wide to hide their battlefield murder.
He feels the hot breath of hounds, howling with
the advancing trumpets, the sudden shouts
of butchered voices are somehow talking to him.
Nicole was always in white, she waits on her sofa,
stainless steel tools laid out ready, excited by new news,
another deep-red thread to pull out and twist, hoping
that somethings exists just beneath the surface.
She believes that the cross, he dreams to his chest
is the best place to make the first cut, she hopes
it will be the deepest, so that everything can get out.
Nicole is trapped behind black glass,
he can hear the muffled cries
as his consciousness cracks shut,
her hands unable to pull him back to their bed.
Restless death marks the moment
when Matt should wake but tonight
the crows are cawing his name.
He can see their dark swarm,
pulling on entrails,
wings spread wide
to hide their battlefield feast.
He feels the hot breath of hounds,
howling with the advancing trumpets,
the sudden shouts of butchered voices
following him through the night.
Nicole was always in white,
she lounges on her sofa,
stainless steel tools laid out ready,
another deep-red thread to pull out and twist,
hoping that the real Matt
exists just beneath the surface.
His Crusader cross
is the best place to make the first cut.
She hopes it will be the deepest,
so that everything can get out.
Obsidian locks the stifled cries of
restlessness, wrestling her arrested hands.
Nicole and matt's consciousness lift above
their bed, separate, reaching, showing they can.
The corvid carrion eaters devour
intestines, at war amongst each other
swarming and feasting, a murder sour
and stench-ridden, only to be smothered
by dogs and axe weilding barbarians.
A stark contrast to Nicole, queen of light,
with her own instruments, caesarian,
delivering truth from her sleeping knight.
The imposter is but a shell, a spout
to crack, and she can help the red
get out.
A jubilee together multiplied to millions,
now's a work of ages wringing pleasure
out of wrinkled flesh. Wrapped in darkness,
their blushing bodies bubble up the sheets
like lava up the earth. See him sink:
the sea of sweat and tears flooding the pit
carved out by years shrinks, if by an inch. Watch her float.
His bellows felt but never fully followed,
her sermonettes dismissed to niggling nags:
now speech is stripped of syntax, bursts of words
reduced to bleats, to bursts of steam
beatwise with the quaking of their crib.
When eggs decay they smell of potent sulfur:
what rot divides, sex hotly pacifies.
A reverie together multiplied to eternity
becomes a work of ages, wringing pleasure
out of writhing flesh. Wrapped in duskiness
pulsing bodies prime satin sheets like
a sturdy pump pulling water from a well.
See me sink with salty sweat and tears flooding
the contours, charting moments unskakeable,
and by minutes watch her rise- my breathing felt
now fully followed, her whispers murmur
minor chords, purring, perfect phrasing
then blurted notes that fade-
then rise in bursts of steam, keeping time
among a quake pillows.
As dreams dissolve, we smell of potent earth:
whatever I might have added, her body multiplied.
I didn't change any formatting, tried my best to copy paste cleanly, of anyone would like to edit it and fix it for clarity I won't mind. Out of the three river picked this wasn't my favorite, I went with this because it had already been translated so that's like another person in line. Im sure rivernotch knew which I picked once he got it. I hope my and his pre knowledge didn't compromise the integrity of anonymity too much, this was fun thank you all!
Le Dormeur du Val (The Sleeper in the Valley) by Arthur Rimbaud
It's a green valley where a river sings
Madly catching white tatters in the grass.
Where the sun on the proud mountain rings:
It's a little valley, foaming like light in a glass.
A conscript, open-mouthed, his bare head
And bare neck bathed in the cool blue cress,
Sleeps: stretched out, under the sky, on grass,
Pale where the light rains down on his green bed.
Feet in the yellow flags, he sleeps. Smiling
As a sick child might smile, he's dozing.
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.
The scents no longer make his nostrils twitch:
He sleeps in the sunlight, one hand on his chest,
Tranquil. In his right side, there are two red holes.
Translated by A. S. Kline.
Quixilated Wrote:
In this verdant cradle, a busy brook hums a lullaby
and gently combs through frayed ribbons of pale grass,
the sunlight iridescent against the stately distant peaks.
It is such a little thing, this green hollow, where beads of light evanesce.
A warrior slumbers here, his mouth like a yawn,
his head and neck exposed to the sun.
He rests on a pillow of creeping thyme,
he reclines under a canopy of cotton clouds,
pallid against his pallet of soft green lawn
while sunbeams glitter down like summer rain.
He slumbers with his boots tangled carelessly among the larkspur,
his countenance wan, like the grin of a sickly child.
He is at rest.
Gentle Earth, swaddle him in a cozy embrace,
for he has lost his warmth.
He does not smell the perfume of the garden around him.
He rests in the haze of a sunbeam,
one limp arm draped casually across his heart.
He is at peace.
Two deep wounds bloom red against his side.
dukealien Wrote:
Short way from foughten field he lay
eyes clouded as yon crowded sky
his hauberk stripped from limbs away
his gambeson rent red and by
his side no sword or shield.
So dispossessed his warrior face
though helmetless and wan displayed
that confidence in saving Grace
his cross-emblazoned surcoat laid
beside his cor’se revealed.
Around him glistened early dew
about him wafted fresh perfumes
not of sweet sanctity he knew
from incense, but wild flowers’ blooms
upon that sparkling field.
Swift shadows crossed his face and chest
as seagulls, ravens, crows and kites
began to gather near the blest
to choose out liver, tongue and lights
as to each fowl appealed.
Leaf Wrote:
The dying dream, again. 'Like last time?' asked Nicole.
'Not quite,' Matt managed, as his pulse began to slow,
relieved to be in bed, not lying on the knoll
(as they had named it); but outside a single crow
was cawing and he saw the scavengers once more,
so many in their flight towards the battleground,
there came the sickly stench of flesh, the ghastly gore,
some sudden shouts, a trumpet and a howling hound;
the sounds were new, Nic thought, and wondered if they signed
a different meaning to her boyfriend’s nightly hell
amidst the closing wildflower rings; what in his mind
was surfacing with every sound and sight and smell?
The cross upon his tunic, maybe, was the key,
or was it just his meds, the morphine (MST)?
Keith Wrote:
The twitching hand that death comes to shake
is the moment when Matt should wake but tonight
Nicole is behind black glass, he can hear the muffled
thumping as his mind cracks, her hands pulling him
breathless, back to their bed; But the crows are still
cawing his name.
He can see their dark swarm, pulling on entrails,
wings spread wide to hide their battlefield murder.
He feels the hot breath of hounds, howling with
the advancing trumpets, the sudden shouts
of butchered voices are somehow talking to him.
Nicole was always in white, she waits on her sofa,
stainless steel tools laid out ready, excited by new news,
another deep-red thread to pull out and twist, hoping
that somethings exists just beneath the surface.
She believes that the cross, he dreams to his chest
is the best place to make the first cut, she hopes
it will be the deepest, so that everything can get out.
TranquillityBase Wrote:
Nicole is trapped behind black glass,
he can hear the muffled cries
as his consciousness cracks shut,
her hands unable to pull him back to their bed.
Restless death marks the moment
when Matt should wake but tonight
the crows are cawing his name.
He can see their dark swarm,
pulling on entrails,
wings spread wide
to hide their battlefield feast.
He feels the hot breath of hounds,
howling with the advancing trumpets,
the sudden shouts of butchered voices
following him through the night.
Nicole was always in white,
she lounges on her sofa,
stainless steel tools laid out ready,
another deep-red thread to pull out and twist,
hoping that the real Matt
exists just beneath the surface.
His Crusader cross
is the best place to make the first cut.
She hopes it will be the deepest,
so that everything can get out.
CRNDLSM Wrote:
Obsidian locks the stifled cries of
restlessness, wrestling her arrested hands.
Nicole and matt's consciousness lift above
their bed, separate, reaching, showing they can.
The corvid carrion eaters devour
intestines, at war amongst each other
swarming and feasting, a murder sour
and stench-ridden, only to be smothered
by dogs and axe weilding barbarians.
A stark contrast to Nicole, queen of light,
with her own instruments, caesarian,
delivering truth from her sleeping knight.
The imposter is but a shell, a spout
to crack, and she can help the red
get out.
RiverNotch Wrote:
A jubilee together multiplied to millions,
now's a work of ages wringing pleasure
out of wrinkled flesh. Wrapped in darkness,
their blushing bodies bubble up the sheets
like lava up the earth. See him sink:
the sea of sweat and tears flooding the pit
carved out by years shrinks, if by an inch. Watch her float.
His bellows felt but never fully followed,
her sermonettes dismissed to niggling nags:
now speech is stripped of syntax, bursts of words
reduced to bleats, to bursts of steam
beatwise with the quaking of their crib.
When eggs decay they smell of potent sulfur:
what rot divides, sex hotly pacifies.
Mark A Becker Wrote:
A reverie together multiplied to eternity
becomes a work of ages, wringing pleasure
out of writhing flesh. Wrapped in duskiness
pulsing bodies prime satin sheets like
a sturdy pump pulling water from a well.
See me sink with salty sweat and tears flooding
the contours, charting moments unskakeable,
and by minutes watch her rise- my breathing felt
now fully followed, her whispers murmur
minor chords, purring, perfect phrasing
then blurted notes that fade-
then rise in bursts of steam, keeping time
among a quake pillows.
As dreams dissolve, we smell of potent earth:
whatever I might have added, her body multiplied.
I didn't change any formatting, tried my best to copy paste cleanly, of anyone would like to edit it and fix it for clarity I won't mind. Out of the three river picked this wasn't my favorite, I went with this because it had already been translated so that's like another person in line. Im sure rivernotch knew which I picked once he got it. I hope my and his pre knowledge didn't compromise the integrity of anonymity too much, this was fun thank you all!