"Poèmes saturniens, suivi de Fêtes galantes" de Paul Verlaine
Verlaine offers numerous gardens, women, mandolins, troubled skies -- but I have never had the feeling so strongly in a book of poems (possibly augmented by the language being not mine) that the apparent "plots" were irrelevant to the verses' meaning. Something muscular and blue-purple surges beneath these poetical tales. Is this work "hermetic" -- constructed of complex symbols for occult forces? Maybe.
Here is my translation of the first five lines of "The Nightingale," from the series "Sad Landscapes":
Like the loud flight of a bird in turmoil,
All my memories smash against me,
Flail among the yellow leaves
Of my heart revealing its bent birch trunk
To the silvering violet Waters of Regret...
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