To a person, they say, frigid, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem: A celle que l’on fit froide by T. Wignesan
To a person, they say, frigid, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem: A celle que l’on fit froide
by T. Wignesan
To the person, they call, frigid, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : A celle que l’on dit froide
(Poem written on September 5, 1889 at Aix-les-Bains, which I found a bit jarring with abrupt exclamations and interrogations, not to mention the repetitive « jusqu’à/aux » which somewhat marrs the tour de terrain of the young lady’s seductive contours. The second person familiar pronoun « tu » is used throughout by the persona. T. Wignesan)
You are not the most loving Of those who partook of my flesh ; You’re not the most appetising Of women other winters me enmesh.
But I adore you all the same ! Besides your body sweet and benign Overall in its supreme calm, So generously endowed feminine.
So voluptuous that words cannot suffice, From the feet upwards lingeringly kissed Up to those clear pure ecstactic eyes So much for the good or better be appeased !
Rising from the legs and the thighs Green fresh under the taut young skin, Your odour of medical splnts well-nigh Comes through the smell of crayfish*, looking
Winsome, discreet, a soft little Thing Hardly slender or the shadow of one, Out as an apotheose unfurling To my raucous desire numb.
Upto the budding nipples infantile, Peaking hardly at puberty of a miss, Upto your neck triumphant while Swan-like sail down your body Venus,
Upto these shoulders lush and glowing, Surging over the mouth on to the forehead Looks so naïve innocent-looking Such that the truth may be forfeited,
Upto her close-cut haïr curling as The tonsure of a handsome young lad, But whose waves, overall, charm us, The way they dress without fuss or fad.
Then, going past slowly down the spine Made for pleasure undulating, up to The sumptuous buttocks, whiteness divine, Roundness by the scissor legs apt to
Fluffy Canova ! Upto the thighs That we salute yet once more, Down the calves, deliciously tight, Down to the heels of golden rose !
Were the ties that bound us unforced ? No, but they were their own attraction. Was the fire engendered by us mad ? No, but it provided the heat in unison.
As for the Point, Frigid ? Not at all. Fresh. I said that our « earnest concentration » Was above all and I lick my lips, Something surely better than masturbation.
Although this’s also those propensities Which got you prepared well together, As you/they say, such improprieties , Made of me a Lodger.
And I keep you among the/my women, With regret, but not without some hope That by the way we may make love when We see ourselves again, I hope !
