Sedulia's Translations

The Complaint of Mandrin

There were twenty or thirty
of us bandits in our group
all dressed in white
in the fashion of, you know,
all dressed in white
in the fashion of merchants.

The first theft I ever
committed in my life
it was when I lifted
the purse of a, you know,
it was when I lifted
the purse of a priest.

I went into his bedroom,
My God, it was so big,
I found a thousand écus,
I swiped them, you know,
I found a thousand écus,
I swiped them for myself.

I went into another,
my God, how high the ceilings!
With gowns and coats,
I filled up three, you know,
with gowns and coats
I filled up three whole carts.

I took them off to sell
at the fair in Holland
I sold them very cheaply
They had cost me, you know,
I sold them very cheaply,
They had cost me nothing.

Those judges from Grenoble,
with their long gowns
and their square hats,
soon had me, you know,
and their square hats,
soon had me convicted.

They condemned me to hang
It was hard to hear
To hang and to strangle,
in the square, you know,
in the square of the market.

I climbed to the scaffold,
I looked at France,
I saw my companions,
in the shade, you know,
I saw my companions
in the shade of a bush.

Companions in misery
go tell my mother
that she'll see me no more
I'm a child, you know,
that she'll see me no more
I'm a child who is lost.

       --"La Complainte de Mandrin" is an anonymous ballad based on the life of the outlaw Louis Mandrin (1725-1755), who fought the royal government's tax authorities. You can hear Yves Montand singing it here. A movie, "Les Chants de Mandrin," has been made about the period just after Mandrin's execution.

La Complainte de Mandrin

Nous étions vingt ou trente
brigands dans une bande,
tous habillés de blanc
à la mode des, vous m'entendez,
tous habillés de blanc
à la mode des marchands.

La première volerie
que je fis dans ma vie,
c'est d'avoir goupillé
la bourse d'un, vous m'entendez,
c'est d'avoir goupillé
la bourse d'un curé.

J'entrai dedans sa chambre,
mon Dieu, qu'elle était grande,
j'y trouvai mille écus,
je mis la main, vous m'entendez,
j'y trouvai mille écus,
je mis la main dessus.

J'entrai dedans une autre,
mon Dieu, qu'elle était haute!
De robes et de manteaux
j'en chargeai trois, vous m'entendez,
de robes et de manteaux
j'en chargeai trois chariots.

Je les portai pour vendre
à la foire de Hollande.
J'les vendis bon marché.
Ils m'avaient rien, vous m'entendez,
j'les vendis bon marché
ils m'avaient rien coûté.

Ces messieurs de Grenoble
avec leurs longues robes
et leurs bonnets carrés
m'eurent bientôt, vous m'entendez,
et leurs bonnets carrés
m'eurent bientôt jugé.

Ils m'ont jugé à pendre,
que c'est dur à entendre
à pendre et étrangler
sur la place du, vous m'entendez,
à pendre et étrangler
Sur la place du marché.

Monté sur la potence
je regardai la France
Je vis mes compagnons
à l'ombre d'un, vous m'entendez,
je vis mes compagnons
à l'ombre d'un buisson.

Compagnons de misère
allez dire à ma mère
qu'elle ne m'reverra plus
J' suis un enfant, vous m'entendez,
qu'elle ne m'reverra plus
j'suis un enfant perdu.

Le Parisien scoop: Interview with Jacques Robert on money laundering by Balladur

Photo LP/Olivier Corsan

Jacques Robert, 83, is a law professor and honorary president of the University of Paris/Pantheon-Assas. He was a member of the Conseil Constitutionnel [France's highest court for ruling on constitutional issues] from 1989 till 1998. In October 1995, in the wake of the election of Jacques Chirac to the French presidency, Robert in his role as a member of this council examined the campaign accounts of the presidential candidates, including those of Edouard Balladur.

 In an interview with Le Parisien/Aujourd'hui en France, he describes the maneuvers that led the Sages [nickname given to judges of the Conseil Constitutionnel] to "whitewash" 10 million francs (1 million euros) of dubious origin.

Do you remember the deliberations concerning Edouard Balladur's campaign accounts?

Jacques Robert: Perfectly. And it's not a good memory. I have a hard time with the way the law was twisted on that occasion.

Which is to say?

Edouard Balladur's case was examined, like all the election cases, by three reporting councillors assigned to us by the Cour des Comptes [a court which audits public institutions] and the Conseil d'Etat [Council of State]. Their report, which was presented in a plenary session, was unequivocal. Edouard Balladur's accounts as a candidate showed 10 million francs of unknown origin. They were irregular.

Did they try to get an explanation from the former presidential candidate?

Yes. They wrote three times to him by certified mail, but Edouard Balladur never answered them. The explanation that his treasurer gave-- that these 10 million came from the sale of t-shirts-- did not hold water. It was an enormous sum. We told each other that Balladur was playing us.

Were Jacques Chirac's accounts correct?

No. But the irregularities were not as major.

How did the Sages of the Conseil Constitutionnel react?

We were all very annoyed. Then Roland Dumas, president of the Conseil, began speaking. "We're not here to create an uproar," he said. "The French people will not understand if we annul an election because of some cost overruns. We need to find a solution." He turned to the reporting councillors. "Maybe some categories were made to be more costly [than they were] ? It wouldn't be bad for you to lower that amount." The meeting was suspended. The three reporting councillors withdrew to work. After five or six hours, when they returned, the total had been reduced, but the accounts were still far too high. Roland Dumas asked them to make another effort. The reporting councillors left again. They ended up presenting an exact accounting... down to one franc. No doubt to show that they did not appreciate being taken for fools.

What about Chirac?

It happened almost the same way.

 Did you agree to validate the accounts?

I know that I didn't want to do it, but after all these years, I don't remember my vote. Maybe in the end I gave in to Roland Dumas's arguments. You know, the Conseil Constitutionnel is a bit of a club. You are in good company, you call each other "tu." To slam the door, to lecture your colleagues, it isn't done. One thing is for sure: we were not very proud. We had just spent three days in a closed-door session. We were exhausted and ill at ease. We separated without a word, feeling that reasons of state had won a victory over the law.

Have you wondered where Balladur's money came from?

We were certain that it was shady, but we were inclined to think it was [from] an African potentate, a great French fortune, or a secret fund of the Prime Minister. At the time, no one was talking about Karachi, Pakistan or Saudi Arabia. I don't remember if the idea of kickbacks linked to weapons contracts was mentioned.

What do you think about it today?

Right before our vote, Roland Dumas spent an hour at the Élysées [home of the French President] with Jacques Chirac. No doubt he told him that it was a delicate situation and that he had had to be manipulative to regularize the accounts. My impression is that Roland Dumas, Jacques Chirac and Edouard Balladour were each holding each other by the short hairs. And that we served as security to cover a dirty trick.

          --Élisabeth Fleury, in an interview published in the Parisien, 1 December 2011

Professeur de droit et président honoraire de l’université Panthéon-Assas, Jacques Robert, 83 ans, a été membre du Conseil constitutionnel de 1989 à 1998. A ce titre, il a examiné, en octobre 1995, dans la foulée de l’élection de Jacques Chirac à l’Elysée, les comptes de campagne des candidats, notamment ceux d’Edouard Balladur. Pour « le Parisien » - « Aujourd’hui en France », il détaille les manœuvres qui ont conduit les Sages à « blanchir » 10 millions de francs (1,5 M€) à l’origine douteuse.

Vous souvenez-vous du délibéré portant sur les comptes de campagne d’Edouard Balladur? 

JACQUES ROBERT. Parfaitement. Et ce n’est pas un bon souvenir. Je vis très mal la façon dont le droit, à cette occasion, a été tordu.

C’est-à-dire? 

 Comme tous les dossiers électoraux, celui d’Edouard Balladur a été examiné par trois conseillers rapporteurs détachés auprès de nous par la Cour des comptes et le Conseil d’Etat. Leur rapport, présenté en séance pleinière, était sans équivoque : les comptes du candidat Balladur accusaient 10 millions de francs de recettes d’origine inconnue. Ils étaient donc irréguliers.

Ont-ils tenté d’obtenir une explication de l’ex-candidat? 

Oui. Ils lui ont écrit à trois reprises, par lettre recommandée, mais Edouard Balladur ne leur a jamais répondu. L’explication selon laquelle ces 10 millions provenaient de la vente de tee-shirts, esquissée par son trésorier, ne tenait pas la route. C’était une somme énorme. On s’est tous dit que Balladur se fichait de nous.

Les comptes de Jacques Chirac, eux, étaient corrects? 

Non. Mais les irrégularités n’avaient pas une telle ampleur.

 Comment les Sages du Conseil constitutionnel ont-ils réagi? 

Nous étions tous très ennuyés. Roland Dumas, président du Conseil, a alors pris la parole. « Nous ne sommes pas là pour flanquer la pagaille, a-t-il dit. Les Français ne comprendraient pas qu’on annule l’élection pour une affaire de dépassement de crédits. Il faut trouver une solution. » Il s’est tourné vers les rapporteurs. « Des postes ont peut-être été majorés? Si vous baissiez cette somme, ce serait pas mal… » La séance a été suspendue. Les trois rapporteurs se sont retirés pour travailler. Au bout de cinq ou six heures, quand ils sont revenus, le montant avait été réduit, mais les comptes étaient encore largement dépassés. Roland Dumas leur a demandé de faire un effort supplémentaire. Les rapporteurs se sont retirés à nouveau. Ils ont fini par présenter des comptes exacts… à 1 franc près. Sans doute pour montrer qu’ils n’appréciaient pas d’être pris pour des imbéciles.

 En ce qui concerne Chirac? 

 Cela s’est passé quasiment de la même manière.

 Avez-vous accepté de valider ces comptes? 

 Je sais que je ne voulais pas le faire, mais, après toutes ces années, je ne me souviens pas de mon vote. Peut-être ai-je, finalement, rallié les arguments de Roland Dumas… Vous savez, le Conseil constitutionnel, c’est un peu un club. On est entre gens de bonne compagnie, on se tutoie. Claquer la porte, donner des leçons aux collègues, ça ne se fait pas. Une chose est sûre : nous n’étions pas très fiers. Nous venions de passer trois jours à huis clos. Nous étions épuisés, mal à l’aise. Nous nous sommes dispersés sans un mot, avec le sentiment que la raison d’Etat l’avait emporté sur le droit.

 Vous êtes-vous demandé d’où pouvaient provenir les fonds de Balladur? 

Nous avions la certitude que leur origine était douteuse, mais nous penchions plutôt pour un potentat africain, une grosse fortune française ou les fonds secrets de Matignon. A l’époque, personne ne parlait de Karachi, du Pakistan ou de l’Arabie saoudite. Je ne me souviens pas que l’hypothèse de rétrocommissions liées à des contrats d’armement ait été évoquée.

Aujourd’hui, qu’en pensez-vous? 

Juste avant notre vote, Roland Dumas a passé une heure à l’Elysée avec Jacques Chirac. Sans doute lui a-t-il dit que la situation était délicate et qu’il avait dû manœuvrer pour faire régulariser les comptes. Mon impression, c’est que Roland Dumas, Jacques Chirac et Edouard Balladur se tenaient à l’époque par la barbichette. Et que nous avons servi de caution à une belle entourloupe.

Le Parisien scoop: Conseil Constitutionnel whitewashes millions for Balladur and Mitterrand?

It's a first in the history of the French Fifth Republic [i.e. since 1958]. A former Sage, or member of the Conseil Constitionnel [the highest court in France, which declares on constitutional questions] from 1989 to1998, and bound to secrecy over its deliberations, has agreed to reveal the maneuvers that allowed the campaign accounts of candidates Jacques Chirac and Edouard Balladur, among others, to be validated in October 1995. The story of Jacques Robert, law professor and eminent legal authority, is dizzying.

The noose is tightening

Robert goes into detail on the very partisan role played by Roland Dumas, then-president of the Conseil and already mired in the Elf Aquitaine affair. Evoking the specter of a government crisis, Dumas did everything to make sure that the controllers [reporting judges], who had noticed very serious irregularities in the accounts, rewrote their report. At the request of Dumas, who had been François Mitterrand's Foreign Affairs Minister, the Conseil had to "launder" ten million francs in cash (1.5 m euros) whose provenance Edouard Balladur has never satisfactorily explained.

The surprise revelations of the former Sage should also interest judges investigating the Karachi affair, especially Renaud Van Ruymbeke, whose investigations into the hidden financing linked to weapons contracts have constantly run into the "top-secret: classified" barrier.

The magistrate is especially wondering about where the candidate Balladur's money came from. Could it have been from commissions given to go-betweens for these contracts, with a part coming back to France as kickbacks? The former Prime Minister recently affirmed to the Figaro that "My campaign was financed respecting applicable legislation and this was validated by the Conseil Constitutionnel." According to our colleagues at Paris-match.com, he also wrote to Renaud Van Ruymbeke to explain the terms of purchase of his country house, valued at 7.3 million francs, which was bought in cash in June 1996. With Jacques Robert, the noose is tightening a bit more on former candidate Balladur.

            --Élisabeth Fleury in the Parisien, 1 December 2011

C’est une première dans l’histoire de la Ve République. Un ancien Sage, membre du Conseil constitutionnel de 1989 à 1998 et tenu à ce titre au secret des délibérations, accepte de lever le voile sur les manœuvres qui, en octobre 1995, ont permis la validation des comptes de campagne des candidats, notamment ceux de Jacques Chirac et d’Edouard Balladur. Le récit de Jacques Robert, professeur de droit et éminent juriste, donne le vertige.

L’étau se resserre

Il détaille le rôle très politique joué par Roland Dumas, alors président du Conseil et déjà empêtré dans l’affaire Elf. Agitant le spectre d’une crise de régime, ce dernier a mis tout en œuvre pour que les rapporteurs, qui avaient relevé de très graves irrégularités dans les comptes, revoient leur copie. A la demande de l’ex-ministre des Affaires étrangères de François Mitterrand, le Conseil a dû notamment « blanchir » les 10 millions de francs en liquide (1,5 M€) sur la provenance desquels Edouard Balladur n’a jamais fourni d’explication satisfaisante.
Le témoignage choc de l’ancien Sage devrait aussi intéresser les juges chargés de l’affaire Karachi, notamment Renaud Van Ruymbeke dont les investigations sur les circuits de financement occulte liés aux contrats d’armement se heurtent régulièrement au secret-défense.

Le magistrat s’interroge notamment sur la provenance des fonds du candidat Balladur. Ceux-ci ne pourraient-ils pas provenir des commissions versées à des intermédiaires des contrats et dont une partie serait revenue en France sous forme de rétrocommissions? « Ma campagne a été financée dans le respect de la législation en vigueur et validée par le Conseil constitutionnel », a récemment affirmé l’ex-Premier ministre au « Figaro ». Selon nos confrères de Paris-match.com, il aurait également écrit à Renaud Van Ruymbeke pour détailler les conditions d’achat en juin 1996, sans recours à l’emprunt, d’une maison de campagne d’une valeur de 7,3 millions de francs. Avec le témoignage de Jacques Robert, l’étau se resserre un peu plus sur l’ancien candidat Balladur.

Victor Hugo: This century was two years old

 
This century was two years old! Rome was replacing Sparta,
already Napoleon was piercing through Bonaparte,
and already in many places the emperor's forehead
was cracking the stiff mask of the First Consul.
Then in Besançon, an old Spanish town,
thrown like a flying seed to the mercy of the air,
was born to Breton and Lorraine blood
a child with no color, sightless and voiceless;
so weak that he was abandoned by all, like a chimera,
except for his mother,
and his neck, bent like a frail reed
made them build his bier and his cradle at the same time.
This child whom life was erasing from its book,
and who had not even one more day to live,
it's me.

Maybe some day I will tell you
how the pure milk, the cares, the wishes, the love,
poured out for my life when I was born doomed,
made me twice the child of my obstinate mother,
an angel who spread her love over three sons attached to her steps
and never spared it!
O the love of a mother! Love that cannot be forgotten!
Marvelous bread that a god shares and multiplies!
The table always spread in the paternal home!
Everyone has his part, and all have it all.

I will be able to tell you one day, when the dubious night
makes my old age talkative in the evenings,
how that high destiny of glory and terror
that moved the world at the heels of the emperor,
carrying me defenseless in its stormy breath,
made my childhood drift in every wind of the air.
For, when the north wind drives its pulsing waves,
the convulsing ocean torments
both the three-master ship that thunders with the storm
and the leaf that escapes from the trees on the shore!

Now, still young and often tested,
I have more than one memory deeply engraved,
and it's easy to see many past events
in these lines of my forehead dug by my thoughts.
True, more than one old man with no fire left, nor hair,
fallen into weariness at the end of all his plans,
would blanch if he saw, like an abyss in the sea,
my soul where my thought lives, like a world,
all that I've suffered, all that I've tried,
all that has lied to me like an aborted fruit,
my best years passed with no hope they'll be reborn,
loves, work, the griefs of my youth,
and though still at the age where the future smiles,
the book of my heart has every page written!

 
If sometimes my thoughts, my songs fly out of my breast,
scattered through the world in rags,
if it pleases me to hide love and sorrow
in the corner of an ironic, mocking novel,
if I shake up the scene with my fantasy,
if I clash in the eyes of a chosen crowd
with other men like them, who live
from my breath and speak to the people with my voice;
if my head, a furnace where my spirit catches fire,
throws out lines of bronze that boil and smoke
in a deep rhythm, a mysterious mold
from which comes the verse opening its wings in the skies;
it's because love, the grave, and glory, and life,
the waning wave, followed ceaselessly by wave,
every breath, every ray, lucky or fatal,
makes my crystal soul glitter and throb,
my thousand-voiced soul, which the God I worship
put in the center of everything like a sonorous echo!

Besides I have had only bad days,
and I know where I come from, if I don't know where I'm going.
The storm of those who are gone, with its wind of flame,
has stirred my soul without changing the wave.
No filth in my heart, no impure silt,
which waits only for a wind to trouble the blue!

After having sung, I listen and reflect,
building a temple to the fallen emperor in the shade,
loving freedom for its fruits, its flowers,
the throne for its right, the king for its wrongs;
faithful at last to the blood poured into my veins
by my old soldier father, my mother from Vendée!

    --Victor Hugo (1802-1885). This is one of his most famous poems.

Ce siècle avait deux ans ! Rome remplaçait Sparte,
Déjà Napoléon perçait sous Bonaparte,
Et du premier consul, déjà, par maint endroit,
Le front de l'empereur brisait le masque étroit.
Alors dans Besançon, vieille ville espagnole,
Jeté comme la graine au gré de l'air qui vole,
Naquit d'un sang breton et lorrain à la fois
Un enfant sans couleur, sans regard et sans voix ;
Si débile qu'il fut, ainsi qu'une chimère,
Abandonné de tous, excepté de sa mère,
Et que son cou ployé comme un frêle roseau
Fit faire en même temps sa bière et son berceau.
Cet enfant que la vie effaçait de son livre,
Et qui n'avait pas même un lendemain à vivre,
C'est moi. -

Je vous dirai peut-être quelque jour
Quel lait pur, que de soins, que de voeux, que d'amour,
Prodigués pour ma vie en naissant condamnée,
M'ont fait deux fois l'enfant de ma mère obstinée,
Ange qui sur trois fils attachés à ses pas
Épandait son amour et ne mesurait pas !
Ô l'amour d'une mère ! amour que nul n'oublie !
Pain merveilleux qu'un dieu partage et multiplie !
Table toujours servie au paternel foyer !
Chacun en a sa part et tous l'ont tout entier !

Je pourrai dire un jour, lorsque la nuit douteuse
Fera parler les soirs ma vieillesse conteuse,
Comment ce haut destin de gloire et de terreur
Qui remuait le monde aux pas de l'empereur,
Dans son souffle orageux m'emportant sans défense,
A tous les vents de l'air fit flotter mon enfance.
Car, lorsque l'aquilon bat ses flots palpitants,
L'océan convulsif tourmente en même temps
Le navire à trois ponts qui tonne avec l'orage,
Et la feuille échappée aux arbres du rivage !

Maintenant, jeune encore et souvent éprouvé,
J'ai plus d'un souvenir profondément gravé,
Et l'on peut distinguer bien des choses passées
Dans ces plis de mon front que creusent mes pensées.
Certes, plus d'un vieillard sans flamme et sans cheveux,
Tombé de lassitude au bout de tous ses voeux,
Pâlirait s'il voyait, comme un gouffre dans l'onde,
Mon âme où ma pensée habite, comme un monde,
Tout ce que j'ai souffert, tout ce que j'ai tenté,
Tout ce qui m'a menti comme un fruit avorté,
Mon plus beau temps passé sans espoir qu'il renaisse,
Les amours, les travaux, les deuils de ma jeunesse,
Et quoiqu'encore à l'âge où l'avenir sourit,
Le livre de mon coeur à toute page écrit !

Si parfois de mon sein s'envolent mes pensées,
Mes chansons par le monde en lambeaux dispersées ;
S'il me plaît de cacher l'amour et la douleur
Dans le coin d'un roman ironique et railleur ;
Si j'ébranle la scène avec ma fantaisie,
Si j'entre-choque aux yeux d'une foule choisie
D'autres hommes comme eux, vivant tous à la fois
De mon souffle et parlant au peuple avec ma voix ;
Si ma tête, fournaise où mon esprit s'allume,
Jette le vers d'airain qui bouillonne et qui fume
Dans le rythme profond, moule mystérieux
D'où sort la strophe ouvrant ses ailes dans les cieux ;
C'est que l'amour, la tombe, et la gloire, et la vie,
L'onde qui fuit, par l'onde incessamment suivie,
Tout souffle, tout rayon, ou propice ou fatal,
Fait reluire et vibrer mon âme de cristal,
Mon âme aux mille voix, que le Dieu que j'adore
Mit au centre de tout comme un écho sonore !

D'ailleurs j'ai purement passé les jours mauvais,
Et je sais d'où je viens, si j'ignore où je vais.
L'orage des partis avec son vent de flamme
Sans en altérer l'onde a remué mon âme.
Rien d'immonde en mon coeur, pas de limon impur
Qui n'attendît qu'un vent pour en troubler l'azur !

Après avoir chanté, j'écoute et je contemple,
A l'empereur tombé dressant dans l'ombre un temple,
Aimant la liberté pour ses fruits, pour ses fleurs,
Le trône pour son droit, le roi pour ses malheurs ;
Fidèle enfin au sang qu'ont versé dans ma veine
Mon père vieux soldat, ma mère vendéenne !

Victor Hugo: My father, that hero

After the Battle

My father, that hero with the sweetest smile,
followed by a single hussar whom he loved above all others
for his great bravery and his great height,
was riding, the evening after a battle,
across the field covered with the dead on whom night was falling.
He thought he heard a weak noise  in the shadow.
It was a Spaniard from the routed army
who was bleeding, dragging himself by the road.
groaning, broken, ashen, and more than half dead,
and who said, "Drink! Drink, for pity's sake!"
My father, moved, handed to his faithful hussar
a canteen of rum that hung from his saddle,
and said, "Here, give the poor wounded man something to drink."
Suddenly, at the moment when the hussar bent
leaning over him, the man, a kind of Moor,
seized a pistol that he was still gripping,
and aimed at my father's forehead crying "Caramba!"
The bullet passed so near that his hat fell off
and his horse shied backwards.
"All the same give him something to drink," said my father.

     --Victor Hugo (1802-1885). His father fought in Spain as a general under Napoleon.

Après la bataille

Mon père, ce héros au sourire si doux,
Suivi d'un seul housard qu'il aimait entre tous
Pour sa grande bravoure et pour sa haute taille,
Parcourait à cheval, le soir d'une bataille,
Le champ couvert de morts sur qui tombait la nuit.
Il lui sembla dans l'ombre entendre un faible bruit.
C'était un Espagnol de l'armée en déroute
Qui se traînait sanglant sur le bord de la route,
Râlant, brisé, livide, et mort plus qu'à moitié.
Et qui disait: " A boire! à boire par pitié ! "
Mon père, ému, tendit à son housard fidèle
Une gourde de rhum qui pendait à sa selle,
Et dit: "Tiens, donne à boire à ce pauvre blessé. "
Tout à coup, au moment où le housard baissé
Se penchait vers lui, l'homme, une espèce de maure,
Saisit un pistolet qu'il étreignait encore,
Et vise au front mon père en criant: "Caramba! "
Le coup passa si près que le chapeau tomba
Et que le cheval fit un écart en arrière.
" Donne-lui tout de même à boire ", dit mon père.

Ronsard on the Iliad of Homer

I want to read Homer's Iliad in three days,
and for that, Corydon, shut the doors fast on me;
if anything comes to bother me, I assure you by God
you will feel how heavy my anger is.

I don't even want our chambermaid
to come make up my bed, not your friend nor you;
I want three entire days to live alone
and afterwards go wild for a whole week.

But if anyone comes from Cassandra,
open the door quickly, and don't make him wait,
come suddenly into my room and get me ready.

I want so much to show myself only to her;
for the rest, if a god wanted to come down for me
from heaven, close the door and don't let him in.

      --Pierre Ronsard (1524-1585)

Je veux lire en trois jours l'Iliade d'Homère,
Et pour ce, Corydon, ferme bien l'huis sur moi ;
Si rien me vient troubler, je t'assure ma foi,
Tu sentiras combien pesante est ma colère.

Je ne veux seulement que notre chambrière
Vienne faire mon lit, ton compagnon ni toi ;
Je veux trois jours entiers demeurer à recoi,
Pour folâtrer après une semaine entière.

Mais, si quelqu'un venait de la part de Cassandre,
Ouvre-lui tôt la porte, et ne le fais attendre,
Soudain entre en ma chambre et me viens accoutrer.

Je veux tant seulement à lui seul me montrer ;
Au reste, si un dieu voulait pour moi descendre
Du ciel, ferme la porte et ne le laisse entrer.

New York City sends homeless family to Granville, Normandy

The "Normandy Invasion": New York exports its homeless to Normandy

To save taxpayers' money, the mayor "offers" one-way trips to the homeless anywhere in the world.

Michael Bloomberg, mayor of New York City (once a Democrat, then elected as a Republican, he turned in his Republican party card two years ago), has found the miracle solution to resolve the problem of poverty in his town: offer the homeless a no-return ticket to a destination wherever they want in the world... including to France. And in fact to Granville, a little port in Normandy. Whose mayor can't get over it.

In two years, 550 families have benefited from this "favorable treatment," according to the New York Times. Destinations: five continents and 24 different countries. The only condition for eligibility is that the candidate must have someone close who accepts taking him or her in.

And that is how a family of five Americans (two parents and their three children) is going to find itself in Granville, where a relative of the mother lives. Cost of the trip: $6332 including five airplane tickets and the train as far as Granville.

A good deal for New York City finances. The town is in fact legally obligated to take responsibility for lodging its homeless, through the funding of the program of help and refuge for the homeless, at a cost of $36,000 per family per year.

The goal is therefore to save money "in the interest of the taxpayer," according to the words of the mayor, but for a good cause: elsewhere, the grass is much greener, and it would be really stupid not to seize the chance to start over, Michael Bloomberg explains, in substance.

As for his counterpart in Granville, he finds this "absolutely a scandal."

"What cynicism! When I heard about this, I immediately made the comparison with the charters that France arranges to send immigrant workers from Mali or Senegal back to their homes.... It's the mercantilization of misery!"

The people of Granville themselves are "outraged," says the mayor. "The locals feel very concerned. They say to each other, 'It's the first time, but it could happen again.' You know, Granville is a little town open to the sea and to the world, we will welcome this family, and we are ready to help them. It must be very painful for them."

The five new emigrants certainly could have chosen a worse place. But how will other homeless people integrate? Will the countries chosen have a say in the matter? The assistant director of Eric Besson's office assure us that he knows nothing about it. "For us, this does not exist. We have no knowledge of this business. We have not been contacted by the consulate nor by the border police. I am asking questions. We are going to carry out a thorough inquiry."

On the side of the border police, "no one has heard" of this. As for the prefecture of La Manche (Normandy), it has received no request for residency papers.

       --Marina Bellot, Journalist. August 7, 2009 at Rue89.com, a French site where professional journalists blog

Liliane Wouters: To the child I did not have

Will and Testament

For Alain Bosquet

To the child I did not have
but which I received from a man
seventy-seven times and more, to the good child
whose breath and face I formed
seventy-seven times, in a belly like mine,
by nights red with the sun,
by crystalline days of northern dawns,
to the child whose secret initials
I carry inside me, along with your name, Yahweh,
a child conceived, but still unfinished,
that they make in me, that I make, each time I love,
that is undone inside me to give a poem,
to the child that will not come
to close my eyes, to choose the winding-sheet,
to walk behind my weight of bones, of ashes,
to watch me descend into the grave,
to this child I bequeath before God, before
men and my dog, before the living day
(which is only because I am and which will die
as I die) I bequeath, as much as can be,
as much as can be used instead of, in place of
me, its mother and father in one being,
I bequeath all my fleshly and spiritual goods,
of time still counted and of illusory space:

the corner of the sky I have stared at in vain,
the acre of land where I wore out my shoes,
the four walls inside which I stayed,
the six partitions that were their twins;
the money that ran through my fingers--
for the pleasure I had in spreading it--
the false knowledge that they thought they passed me
-- for the happiness of unlearning it just as soon--;

the days I passed that I did not live,
the days lived where I passed nearby,
the mortal time I survived,
the hour, eternal and yet erased;

the love thrown away whose price I did not know,
 the love given to those who could not take it,
the love offered that I took back right away,
the love lost that you can still see waiting outside.

To the child that I did not have,
whom I have all the same, formed
of my seed, conceived in my flesh,
whose existence is perfected in every embrace,
to this child I bequeath for the better but especially for
the worst, what the day has lent me:

the I which I use on credit
at an interest I can't afford,
whose face and sex I could not choose
(you have to take what you get):

a hollow brain in a full head,
a body too soft on bones too strong,
blood too lively for a short breath,
a heart too gentle for this furious blood,

feet that have raised nothing but dust,
arms surprised to have embraced the wind,
knees trapped by prayers,
hands staying empty as before;

eyes closed on a side of things,
-- that half that we all are missing--,
eyes open under their closed pupils
and in the dark seeing more than they should.

To the child I did not have
I bequeath lastly, so that it will pay
attention, so that it will remember
through stubbornness, when the hem
of my passage is ripped out of the ancient fabric:

the fifteen things that I never could do:
bow my head before those greater than I,
walk on those lower, point a finger,
shout with the crowd, or else be silent,
recognize the Black among the Whites,
choose the ten just men, name a guilty party,
find that suitable attitude,
read someone besides myself in the mirrors,
conjugate love in several persons,
resist temptation, wound on purpose,
stay indecisive, say "Nuts"
instead of "Shit," which is more French.

   --Liliane Wouters (1930-). This poem is from the book  Poèmes à dire, ed. by Zéno Bianu, Gallimard (2002). Here is an excerpt from the beginning.

Testament

Pour Alain Bosquet

À l'enfant que je n'ai pas eu
mais que d'un homme je reçus
septante fois sept fois et davantage, à l'enfant sage
dont je formai le souffle et le visage
sept fois septante fois, dans un ventre pareil
au mien, par des nuits rouges de soleil,
par des jours cristallins d'aurore boréale,
à l'enfant dont je porte en moi les initiales
secrètes, ainsi que ton nom, Yahvé,
enfant conçu, toujours inachevé,
qu'on me fait, que je fais, à chaque fois que j'aime,
qui se défait en moi pour donner un poème,
à l'enfant qui ne viendra pas
clore mes yeux, choisir l'ultime drap,
marcher derrière mon poids d'os, de cendres,
me regarder dans la fosse descendre,
à cet enfant je lègue devant Dieu, devant
les hommes et mon chien, devant le jour vivant
(qui n'est que parce que je suis et qui mourra
comme je meurs) je lègue, pour autant qu'on pourra,
pour autant qu'il en fasse usage en lieu et place
de moi, ses père et mère en un seul être pris,
je lègue tous mes biens de chair, d'esprit,
de temps toujours compté et d'illusoire espace....

Sabine Sicaud: Speak to you? No. I cannot.

Speak to you? No. I cannot.
I prefer to suffer like a plant,
like the bird that says nothing on the linden tree.
They wait. That's fine. Since they aren't tired
of waiting, I'll wait, with the same waiting.

They suffer alone. One should learn how to suffer alone.
I don't want indifferent people ready to smile
nor friends groaning. No one should come.

The plant says nothing. The bird is silent. What would they say?
This pain is alone in the world, whatever one wants.
It is not the pain of others, it is mine.

A leaf has its ache that the other leaf ignores.
And the bird's ache-- the other bird knows nothing about it.

One doesn't know. One doesn't know. Who is like another?
And if they were, what matter. This evening
I don't want to hear a single vain word.

I wait-- like the old motionless tree
and the mute finch behind the window...
A drop of pure water, a little wind, who knows?
What are they waiting for? We will wait for it together.
The sun has told them it will come back, perhaps....

      --Sabine Sicaud (1913-1928) died at age 15 after much suffering.

Vous parler? Non. Je ne peux pas.
Je préfère souffrir comme une plante,
comme l'oiseau qui ne dit rien sur le tilleul.
Ils attendent. C'est bien. Puisqu'ils ne sont pas las
d'attendre, j'attendrai, de cette même attente.

Ils souffrent seuls. On doit apprendre à souffrir seul.
Je ne veux pas d'indifférents prêts à sourire
ni d'amis gémissants. Que nul ne vienne.

La plante ne dit rien. L'oiseau se tait. Que dire?
Cette douleur est seule au monde, quoi qu'on veuille.
Elle n'est pas celle des autres, c'est la mienne.

Une feuille a son mal qu'ignore l'autre feuille.
Et le mal de l'oiseau, l'autre oiseau n'en sait rien.

On ne sait pas. On ne sait pas. Qui se ressemble ?
Et se ressemblât-on, qu'importe. Il me convient
de n'entendre ce soir nulle parole vaine.

J'attends - comme le font derrière la fenêtre
le vieil arbre sans geste et le pinson muet...
une goutte d'eau pure, un peu de vent, qui sait ?
Qu'attendent-ils ? Nous l'attendrons ensemble.
Le soleil leur a dit qu'il reviendrait, peut-être...          

Lounès Matoub on the death of Mohamed Boudiaf: Algeria will rise from this evil

Hymn to Boudiaf

For so many years far from your country!
You revolted, you turned against tyranny
We were waiting for the new clearness from you
about what the criminals had devoured
but behind you, death rose up
guided by unforeseeable traitors
Miserable ones, may he remind you of it--  
you are the ones who lit the furnace.

Alas, alas, sad widows!
[woman's voice]
We are torn from men who did not deserve to die.
{repeat}

The plotters called you
in that air of terrible oppression
they invited you to the no-man's-land
You came, careless of the tufts of nettles
They undid the bonds of our land
she sank into a bottomless pool
she sank head first
the nations watched her being swallowed up.

Alas, alas, sad widows!
[woman's voice] We are torn apart from men who did not deserve to die.
{repeat}

 You found the country being ravaged
It is torn, gone to rags
Some exalt themselves: "We are Arabs
and nothing was here before us."
As for the know-nothings and their henchmen 
they have sworn never to relent.
They are sharpening the last judgment
against those who affront their plans.

Alas, alas, sad widows!
[woman's voice:] We are torn apart from men who did not deserve to die.
{repeat}

Your name has gone into history,
future generations will find it
this time of suffering is not for always
although today, the Furies are burning us.
Algeria will rise again from this evil
knowledge will put out buds,
you have opened the way to the dignity of our people
rest in peace, honorable Boudiaf.
you have opened the way to the dignity of our people
At present, be in peace, honorable Boudiaf...

[Over, in French: From Abane to Boudiaf, how many crimes have been orchestrated!
Krim, Khider, and others...
Will we leave this ancestral land in the hands of these sad cases who have plunged it into chaos?
Or in the claws of these "lit-up*" cowards? 

          --Mohamed Boudiaf (1919-1992) was an Algerian patriot who became head of state briefly after a long period of exile, but was assassinated after only four months. The country slid into a long period of violence and civil war, and is only recently emerging. The Berbers (Algerian Berbers are Kabyles) are the original inhabitants of North Africa, and were conquered by the Arabs and converted from Christianity to Islam in the early 700s. Today, the Berber language is a focus of a new sense of Berber pride. Lounès Matoub (1956-1998), a famous Algerian Berber singer, wrote this song about him. Lounès Matoub was himself assassinated in 1998.

You can see Lounès Matoub singing the song here, in the Berber language, with French subtitles. I came across his music for the first time in the French movie Là-bas... mon pays ("Over there...my country"), about a Frenchman who grew up in colonial Algeria and goes back many years later. The music wails across the landscape through most of the film and powerfully evokes a mood of nostalgia, longing, and rebellion.

*The word in the French translation is illuminés, which means "the enlightened ones," but is sarcastic and refers to religious fanatics and crazy people.