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1921
|
TO ELEGANT MISS L.
Your soul - so delicate, starched,
Your heart - a spoiled little bitch.
While my soul is, you know,
Used to sleeping in the streets.
Your soul - so delicate, starched.
Pardon me, but do you think
That it could sit on its paws
And howl from longing til dawn?
Could your soul in the streets -
Where one is not even allowed to fight -
With the first dog it meets
Unite, that is mate?
Oh, pardon me, Miss; but although
I am a poet, as you know,
I cannot restrain my feelings
With good manners, as you do.
And without being shy, tomorrow,
As soon as spring starts blooming,
I will let my wandering soul
Unite, that is mate with all.
Although I know that later
When sated it will start to sing,
On the gums of my soul
Blue sores will appear.
However, again on the sidewalks,
Looking for crumbs of bread,
I'll squander my generous soul
And give it to the stray dogs.
Whores will become my sisters,
Dogs - my beloved brothers,
But what a pity you'll remain stranger to me
With your spotless, your starched soul.
1921
|
| |
À L’ÉLÉGANTE L.
Votre âme – délicate, amidonnée
Votre cœur - un chiot cajolé.
Tandis que mon âme, vous savez,
Peut bien dormir dans les rues.
Votre âme – délicate, amidonnée,
Mais excusez... pourrait-elle,
Campée sur ses pattes de derrière,
Hurler de désir jusqu’à l’aube.
Ou bien, pourrait-elle dans la rue,
Où il est même interdit de se battre,
S’unir avec le premier chien venu,
S'unir - je veux dire s’accoupler?
Oh ! excusez-moi, Mademoiselle,
Même si je suis poète, je ne pourrais,
Comme vous le faites, poliment,
Retenir, comme vous, mes émotions.
Demain, sans la moindre pudeur,
Quand le printemps reviendra,
Je laisserai mon âme errante
S’unir, s’accoupler avec tout un chacun.
Même si je sais que plus tard
Quand elle chantera repue,
Des plaies bleuâtres fleuriront
Sur les gencives de mon âme.
Mais toujours sur les trottoirs,
En cherchant des miettes de pain,
Je gaspillerai mon âme prodigue,
Je la donnerai aux chiens.
Les putains seront mes sœurs,
Les chiens - mes frères adorés,
Mais votre âme délicate, amidonnée,
Hélas, me sera toujours étrangère.
1921
|
The Armenian poet Yeghishé Charents was born
in Kars, a provincial Armenian city under the rule of
Imperial Russia. At seventeen, already author of published
poems, he joined an Armenian volunteer army to fight
against the Turks for the liberation of his people.
He witnessed the 
calamities
of World War I, and the extermination of his countrymen
in 1915 by the Ottoman Government. The outcome of his
bitter impressions was the poem, “Dante-esque
Legend” which made him famous at nineteen...
