by Renée Vivien
translated by Everly Lovefield
Let us leave the happy lethargy of houses,
The carmine of roses and aroma of apples,
And the groves where the swaying of the seasons dies,
For we no longer belong to the breed of men.
We’ll go under the yews where night lingers,
Where, like a flame, the breath of the Dead blows.
We’ll gather flowers, wilted and barren, and
Bitter stings of spring will bite through our souls.
Come: in a bitter silence, we’ll listen to,
Amongst the whispering of the withering vesper,
The laugh of the Moon enamored with the Sea,
The sobbing of the Sea enamored with the Moon.
Your hair shall send its blue and red lightning bolts
To dire moans bursting from the tempest’s eye,
But the horror of being shall not bend our knees.
In our eyes ferments the gaze of Succubi.
Men shall only see our shadows on their thresholds
At hours when, blending the ardor of our two hatreds,
We shall be Banshees who portend tragedies
And Jettatore of births that lie ahead.
Sighing, our unsexed bodies will unite
With effort, and tears will burn our pupils.
We’ll ponder the splendor of Death
And the sterility of things that last an eternity.
###
Les Succubes disent…
Quittons la léthargie heureuse des maisons,
Le carmin des rosiers et le parfum des pommes
Et les vergers où meurt l’ondoiement des saisons,
Car nous ne sommes plus de la race des hommes.
Nous irons sous les ifs où s’attarde la nuit,
Où le souffle des Morts vole, comme une flamme.
Nous cueillerons les fleurs qui se fanent sans fruit,
Et les âcres printemps nous mordront jusqu’à l’âme.
Viens : nous écouterons, dans un silence amer,
Parmi les chuchotis du vêpre à l’aile brune,
Le rire de la Lune éprise de la Mer,
Le sanglot de la Mer éprise de la Lune.
Tes cheveux livreront leurs éclairs bleus et roux
Au râle impérieux qui sourd de la tourmente,
Mais l’horreur d’être ne ploiera point nos genoux.
Dans nos yeux, le regard des Succubes fermente.
Les hommes ne verront nos ombres sur leurs seuils
Qu’aux heures où, mêlant l’ardeur de nos deux haines,
Nous serons les Banshees qui présagent les deuils,
Et les Jettatori des naissances prochaines.
Nos corps insexués s’uniront dans l’effort
Des soupirs, et les pleurs brûleront nos prunelles.
Nous considérerons la splendeur de la Mort
Et la stérilité des choses éternelles.
Everly Lovefield is a writer and translator who lives in a town between Houston and Galveston, TX. She holds a BA in French and Japanese from the University of Texas at Austin and an MA in Translation from Kent State University. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in The Four Faced Liar, Denver Quarterly, and Reunion: The Dallas Review. You can find her on X @everlylovefield.
Renée Vivien (1877–1909) was a British poet, writer, and translator who lived in Paris for most of her life. Her works are largely autobiographical and reflect the values of both the Symbolist and Parnassian literary movements. She is best known for being Sappho’s first lesbian translator and one of the first openly lesbian writers. The Prix Renée Vivien, an annual French literary prize, and the Place Renée Vivien, a public square in Paris, are named after her.
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