My next poem is Le Dormeur du Val (The Sleeper in the Valley), by Arthur Rimbaud. I first read this poem, in French, Junior year in high school for my independent study class. This was one of five poems we had to memorize, and which I do still have memorized. What I remember most is how...animated my teacher was when discussing this poem. The main thing I remember about the language was the word "trou," which basically translates to hole.
The poem starts off very pleasantly, with the image of a sun-dappled valley. Next to a river lies a soldier, at first seeming at rest and peacefully sleeping there in the sunlight. Except...one thing: "Souriant comme / Sourirait un enfant malade." "Smiling like a sick child would smile." Despite the sunlight shining down on him, he's cold. We see then that he's unable to enjoy the surrounding valley, the flowers and the light. The last line we learn that there are two red holes in his side.
That's where the word "trou" comes in. The valley is a "trou," a hole in the mountains. Then at the end, the last line, there are two "trous," two holes in his side. My professor loved the way Rimbaud was able to tie the first and the last line together with that one word, and also the way the two had such vastly different meanings and atmospheres to them. It's one thing that really made me understand that translations can never really get the full meaning across. The English translation I've linked uses the word "hole," but I don't the other translation that I first read did. Now whenever I read Neruda or Guillen, no matter how beautiful those poems are, I just have to wonder what I'm missing.
The language Rimbaud uses is beautiful and it just flows, almost like a whisper, when read aloud. The image is created so perfectly inside the mind as each line is read, building to that final moment where the dead soldier sleeps, returning to the nature that now cradles him. The English translation is ok, but if you can read the French, it's absolutely beautiful. Or just have someone read it to you and close your eyes and listen to the delicate cadence.
3 comments:
Hi Patricia:
You got it perfectly right. Difficult to translate all the nuances AND the rhymes.
This is what I read - in the French text - on certain days when our soldiers fall, in the war on terror, or on special occasions to honor our fallen ones.
It never fails to bring out the emotion the last place they went to rest exudes.
I read this poem as a child in the 70's. To me it is a poem that is associated with an image, Mstislav Rostropovich playing cello in front of the crumbling Berlin Wall. These thought were turning in my 20 year old french head: the cold war's over, we won, I don't have to die...
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