Three from Max Jacob, via my translations. The last was written the month
he was taken off to Drancy.
If Guillaume Had Died a Christian Death
And I was so certain of his impending death that in tears I sketched the
bed of his final agony. Which is not to deny that I was somewhat
preoccupied by questions of craft. The next day he walked through Paris
strong and sublime. One morning in Montmartre at Sacré-Coeur two black cats
pressed me between them. A voice proclaimed: “Fear not!” Sacré-Coeur seemed
like one of those pink fortresses that decorate the summits of hills in
Italy and he, Guillaume, was like a man-headed bird soaring above it. Was
he dead, the dear singer? My sketch was unfinished. I came upon him leading
a group of disciples: was it he or Dante? Full of life, surely! He was not
dead, Guillaume. A tall intelligent abbot tells me: “One can’t be more
alive than Guillaume Apollinaire. Finish, therefore, your sketch of his
death and place my silhouette to the left beneath it.”
Derniers
poèmes
Prophetic Dreams
I dreamt of a handsome lake and the reflections of cliffs
The cliffs were covered with dark foliage.
The next day I found my emerald again.
I dreamt of a beautiful road thundering with iron-shod hooves.
I had stopped beside a wall of pink rocks
that stretched to the sea and the sky.
I dreamt of an exquisite table where I was offered roast pork
But all I could see was the hostess, a Christian Olympus glowing.
I dreamt of the mass and the altar
and I dreamt of a balustrade
and I dreamt of Benares
and the Hindu Paradise.
Room after room I dreamt of you,
my immaculate youth!
I dreamt of an old man dismembered
by the white phantom of the passing years.
Derniers
poèmes
There are stars that are bees, dark amber and onyx; others are pale sapphire.
God’s eyes are closed.
Derniers
poèmes
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