Les poèmes d’Edgar Allan poe
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 www.comptoirlitteraire.com André Durand présente Les poèmes d’Edgar Allan POE Sont cités, traduits et commentés : ‘’Ô tempora ! Ô mores !’’ (page 2) ‘’Song’’ (page 6) ‘’Tamerlane’’ (page 7) ‘’Al Aaraaf’’ (page 12) ‘’Sonnet to science’’ (page 30) ‘’To Helen’’ (page 31) ‘’Lenore’’ (page 32) ‘’The Coliseum’’ (page 34) ‘’The haunted palace’’ (page 36) ‘’The conqueror worm’’ (page 39) ‘’The raven’’ (page 42) ‘’Eulalie’’ (page 50) ‘’Ulalume’’ (page 52) ‘’The bells’’ (page 59) ‘’To Helen’’ (page 65) ‘’For Annie’’ (page 68) ‘’Annabel Lee’’ (page 72) Bonne lecture ! ‘’O tempora ! O mores !’’ (1825) O times ! O manners ! It is my opinion That you are changing sadly your dominion - I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased, For men have none at all, or bad at least ; And as for times, altho' 'tis said by many The "good old times" were far the worst of any, Of which sound doctrine l believe each tittle, Yet still I think these worse than them a little. I've been a thinking - isn't that the phrase? - I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways - I've been a thinking, whether it were best To take things seriously, or all in jest ; Whether, with grim Heraclitus of yore, To weep, as he did, till his eyes were sore, Or rather laugh with him, that queer philosopher, Democritus of Thrace, who used to toss over The page of life and grin at the dog-ears, As though he'd say, "Why, who the devil cares?" This is a question which, oh heaven, withdraw The luckless query from a member's claw ! Instead of two sides, Job has nearly eight, Each fit to furnish forth four hours debate. What shall be done? I'll lay it on the table, And take the matter up when I'm more able, And, in the meantime, to prevent all bother, I'll neither laugh with one, nor cry with t'other, Nor deal in flatt'ry or aspersions foul, But, taking one by each hand, merely growl. Ah, growl, say you, my friend, and pray at what? Why, really, sir, I almost had forgot - But, damn it, sir, I deem it a disgrace That things should stare us boldly in the face, And daily strut the street with bows and scrapes, Who would be men by imitating apes. I beg your pardon, reader, for the oath The monkeys make me swear, though something loth ; I'm apt to be discursive in my style, But pray be patient ; yet a little while Will change me, and as politicians do, I'll mend my manners and my measures too. Of all the cities - and I've seen no few ; For I have travelled, friend, as well as you - I don't remember one, upon my soul, But take it generally upon the whole, (As members say they like their logic taken, Because divided, it may chance be shaken) So pat, agreeable and vastly proper As this for a neat, frisky counter-hopper ; Here he may revel to his heart's content, Flounce like a fish in his own element, Toss back his fine curls from their forehead fair, And hop o'er counters with a Vester's air, Complete at night what he began A.M., And having cheated ladies, dance with them ; For, at a ball, what fair one can escape The pretty little hand that sold her tape, Or who so cold, so callous to refuse The youth who cut the ribbon for her shoes ! One of these fish, par excellence the beau - God help me ! - it has been my lot to know, At least by sight, for I'm a timid man, And always keep from laughing, if I can ; But speak to him, he'll make you such grimace, Lord ! to be grave exceeds the power of face. The hearts of all the ladies are with him, Their bright eyes on his Tom and Jerry brim And dove-tailed coat, obtained at cost ; while then Those eyes won't turn on anything like men. His very voice is musical delight, His form, once seen, becomes a part of sight ; In short, his shirt collar, his look, his tone is The "beau ideal" fancied for Adonis. Philosophers have often held dispute As to the seat of thought in man and brute ; For that the power of thought attends the latter My friend, the beau, hath made a settled matter, And spite of all dogmas, current in all ages, One settled fact is better than ten sages. For he does think, though I am oft in doubt If I can tell exactly what about. Ah, yes ! his little foot and ankle trim, 'Tis there the seat of reason lies in him, A wise philosopher would shake his head, He then, of course, must shake his foot instead. At me, in vengeance, shall that foot be shaken - Another proof of thought, I'm not mistaken - Because to his cat's eyes I hold a glass, And let him see himself, a proper ass ! I think he'll take this likeness to himself, But if he won't, he shall, a stupid elf, And, lest the guessing throw the fool in fits, I close the portrait with the name of PITTS. Traduction Ô temps ! Ô moeurs ! selon mon opinion Votre empire évolue de bien triste façon. Le règne des bonnes manières est depuis longtemps achevé, Mauvaises manières ou pas de manières du tout, voilà ce qui reste à l'homme. Et, pour parler des temps, quoiqu'on dise souvent Qu'il n'était rien de pire que le « bon vieux temps » (Saine doctrine à laquelle je souscris dans les moindres détails), Je juge cependant ce siècle pire encore. J'ai réfléchi - est-ce là l'expression? J'aime vos mots yankee et vos façons yankee. J'ai réfléchi, pour savoir s'il vaut mieux Prendre tout au sérieux ou tout à la légère. Si, avec le sombre Héraclite de jadis, Il faut pleurer à s'en meurtrir les yeux, Ou bien rire avec Démocrite de Thrace. Étrange philosophe, qui tournait prestement Les pages de la vie, et riait de les voir cornées, Comme pour dire « Et après ! Qui diable s'en soucie? » Voilà, Ô cieux, une question propre à arracher La malheureuse requête aux griffes du législateur ! Au lieu de deux visages, Job en a huit ou presque, Chacun pouvant fournir quatre heures de débats. Que faire alors? Je vais mettre le problème sur la table, Quitte à l'examiner quand mon talent sera plus grand ; Pour l'instant, évitant tout ennui, je refuse le choix, Le rire de celui-ci, les pleurs de celui-là. Je m'abstiens de flatter ou de calomnier Et, donnant à chacun une main, je ne fais que grogner. Ah ! grogner, dites-vous, mon ami ; et pourquoi, s'il vous plaît ? Eh bien ! pour tout dire, Monsieur, j'avais presque oublié. Mais, pardieu, Monsieur, il me paraît honteux De voir, chaque jour, nous toiser sans vergogne, Parader dans la rue avec force courbettes, Ceux qui, se voulant hommes, sont émules du singe. Je te prierai, lecteur, d'excuser le juron Que ces singes m'arrachent à mon corps défendant ; J'ai quelque tendance à relâcher mon style, Mais, je t'en prie, sois patient ; dans le moment qui vient Je serai différent ; en bon politicien, Je décide d'amender mon rythme et mes manières. De toutes les cités - combien n'en vis-je pas? Car je suis voyageur, ami, autant que toi - Je n'en pourrais trouver, sur mon âme, une seule, Mais j'étends l'idée au groupe tout entier (Logique électorale qui se donne comme un tout, Craignant dans le détail de succomber aux failles), Une seule qui convienne aussi bien que celle-ci et soit mieux adaptée Aux allègres desseins d'un calicot propret ; Ici, il peut, sans crainte aucune, s'en donner à coeur joie, Heureux et frétillant comme un poisson dans l'eau, Secouer ses jolies boucles qui cachent un front charmant ; Tel Vestris s'élevant au-dessus d'un comptoir Parachever le soir l'entreprise du matin Et retrouver ses dupes pour les faire danser ; Car, au bal, quelle belle saurait donc échapper À la jolie menotte qui lui vendit sa dentelle? Quelle belle assez froide, insensible, pour refuser Celui qui, d'un ruban, a paré son soulier? Dieu me garde ! mon sort fut de connaître, De vue, du moins, car je suis de nature timide Et m'efforce toujours de ne point rire quand je le puis, Un garçon de cette eau - le beau par excellence. Mais parlez-lui un peu, et ses grimaces seront telles Que visage humain, Seigneur, peut-il rester sérieux? Le coeur de toutes ces dames ne bat que pour lui, Leurs yeux brillants s'attachent à son Tom and Jerry Et à sa queue-de-pie, obtenus à grands frais ; Leur regard, cependant, ne dévierait jamais Vers l'homme véritable qui par là passerait. Sa voix procure les délices de la musique, Une fois vue, sa personne ne saurait s'estomper ; Bref, son faux col, sa tournure, son style sont Le « beau idéal » que l'on prête à Adonis. Souvent les philosophes ont disputé Du siège de la pensée chez l'homme et l'animal ; Que la faculté de la pensée réside cher ce dernier, Mon ami, le Beau est là pour l'attester. En dépit de ces dogmes qui, de tous temps, abondent, Un fait bien établi vaut mieux que douze sages. Car, pour penser, il pense ! mais bien souvent j'hésite Quant à l'objet précis de ladite pensée. Mais oui ! son pied mignon et sa fine cheville Sont, chez lui, le siège de la raison ; Un docte philosophe remue toujours la tête, Mais lui, bien entendu, c'est le pied qu'il remue. Et de ce pied vengeur serai-je menacé (Autre preuve qu'il pense ou je me trompe fort) Parce qu'à son oeil de chat je présente un miroir Qui renvoie son image, celle d'un âne bâté? Je pense qu'il comprendra qu'il s'agit bien de lui. Le sot refuserait-il qu'il serait détrompé Car, pour lui éviter les convulsions du doute, À la fin du portrait je lâche le nom de « Pitts ». Commentaire On pense que Poe écrivit le poème quand il avait environ seize ans. C’est la satire d’un nommé Pitts, employé dans un des magasins les plus à la mode de Richmond. Il était amoureux d’une jeune beauté de l’époque, qui plus tard épousa un éminent politicien virginien, membre du Congrès que trouvaient ridicule certains autres membres qui prenaient pension dans la même maison que lui. Évidemment, la plupart des gens raillés dans le poème sont aujourd’hui tout à fait oubliés, mais le poème reste intéressant, principalement parce qu’il est, pour certains, le plus ancien des poèmes de Poe qu’on connaisse. _________________________________________________________________________________ ‘’Song’’ (1827) I saw thee on thy bridal day - When a burning blush came o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee : And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see. That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame - As such it well may pass - Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas ! Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush would come o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay ; The world all love before thee. Traduction Chanson Je te vis le jour de tes noces Quand te vint une brillante rougeur, Quoique autour de toi fût le bonheur, Le monde tout amour devant toi. Et dans ton oeil une lumière embrasante (Quelque elle pût être) Fut tout ce que sur Terre ma vue douloureuse, Du Charme put voir. Cette rougeur, peut-être, était-ce honte virginale, Si cela peut bien passer pout tel, Bien que son éclat ait suscité une plus fougueuse flamme Dans le sein de celui, hélas ! Qui te vit en ce jour de noces, Quand cette profonde rougeur te vint, Quoique le bonheur fût autour de toi, Le monde tout amour devant toi. Commentaire Dans ce poème à l’allure de ballade, le narrateur parle d’une femme aimée qu’il vit de loin le jour où elle se maria. Une rougeur sur sa joue, en dépit de tout le bonheur étalé autour d’elle, révéla la honte secrète qu’elle devait ressentir pour avoir perdu l’amour du narrateur. On pense que Poe faisait allusion à Sarah Elmira Royster, qui rompit ses fiançailles avec lui sur l’insistance de son père. Elle épousa plutôt le riche Alexander Shelton. Si c’est le cas, Poe s’est permis une licence poétique : il n’était pas à Richmond au moment du mariage. Le poème fut pour la première fois publié dans le recueil ‘’Tamerlane and other poems’’ en 1827. _________________________________________________________________________________ ‘’Tamerlane’’ (1827) Kind solace in a dying hour ! Such, father, is not (now) my theme - I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revell'd in - I have no time to dote or dream : You call it hope - that fire of fire ! It is but agony of desire : If I can hope - Oh God ! I can - Its fount is holier - more divine - I would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine. Know thou the secret of a spirit Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. O yearning heart ! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell ! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again - O craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours ! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness - a knell. I have not always been as now : The fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd and won usurpingly - Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Caesar - this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind. On mountain soil I first drew life : The mists of the Taglay have shed Nightly their dews upon my head, And, I believe, the winged strife And tumult of the headlong air Have nestled in my very hair. So late from Heaven - that dew - it fell (Mid dreams of an unholy night) Upon me with the touch of Hell, While the red flashing of the light From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, Appeared to my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy, And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of human battle, where my voice, My own voice, silly child ! - was swelling (O ! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry) The battle-cry of Victory ! The rain came down upon my head Unshelter'd - and the heavy wind Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me : and the rush - The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires - with the captive's prayer - The hum of suitors - and the tone Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp'd a tyranny which men Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, My innate nature - be it so : But father, there liv'd one who, then, Then - in my boyhood - when their fire Burn'd with a still intenser glow, (For passion must, with youth, expire) E'en then who knew this iron heart In woman's weakness had a part. I have no words - alas ! - to tell The loveliness of loving well ! Nor would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are - shadows on th' unstable wind : Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters - with their meaning - melt To fantasies - with none. O, she was worthy of all love ! Love - as in infancy was mine - 'Twas such as angel minds above Might envy ; her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense - then a goodly gift, For they were childish and upright - Pure - as her young example taught : Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light? We grew in age - and love - together, Roaming the forest, and the wild ; My breast her shield in wintry weather - And when the friendly sunshine smil'd, And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven - but in her eyes. Young Love's first lesson is - the heart : For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears - There was no need to speak the rest - No need to quiet any fears Of her - who ask'd no reason why, But turn'd on me her quiet eye ! Yet more than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and strove, When, on the mountain peak, alone, Ambition lent it a new tone - I had no being - but in thee : The world, and all it did contain In the earth - the air - the sea - Its joy - its little lot of pain That was new pleasure - the ideal, Dim vanities of dreams by night - And dimmer nothings which were real - (Shadows - and a more shadowy light !) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly, became Thine image, and - a name - a name ! Two separate - yet most intimate things. I was ambitious - have you known The passion, father? You have not : A cottager, I mark'd a throne Of half the world as all my own, And murmur'd at such lowly lot - But, just like any other dream, Upon the vapour of the dew My own had past, did not the beam Of beauty which did while it thro' The minute - the hour - the day - oppress My mind with double loveliness. We walk'd together on the crown Of a high mountain which look'd down Afar from its proud natural towers Of rock and forest, on the hills - The dwindled hills ! begirt with bowers, And shouting with a thousand rills. I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically - in such guise That she might deem it nought beside The moment's converse ; in her eyes I read, perhaps too carelessly - A mingled feeling with my own - The flush on her bright cheek, to me Seem'd to become a queenly throne Too well that I should let it be Light in the wilderness alone. I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then, And donn'd a visionary crown - Yet it was not that Fantasy Had thrown her mantle over me - But that, among the rabble-men, Lion ambition is chained down - And crouches to a keeper's hand - Not so in deserts where the grand - The wild - the terrible conspire With their own breath to fan his fire. Look 'round thee now on Samarcand ! Is not she queen of Earth? her pride Above all cities? in her hand Their destinies? in all beside Of glory which the world hath known Stands she not nobly and alone? Falling - her veriest stepping-stone Shall form the pedestal of a throne - And who her sovereign? Timour - he Whom the astonished people saw Striding o'er empires haughtily A diadem'd outlaw ! O, human love ! thou spirit given On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven ! Which fall'st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc - wither'd plain, And, failing in thy power to bless, But leav'st the heart a wilderness ! Idea ! which bindest life around With music of so strange a sound, And beauty of so wild a birth - Farewell ! for I have won the Earth. When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see No cliff beyond him in the sky, His pinions were bent droopingly - And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye. 'Twas sunset : when the sun will part There comes a sullenness of heart To him who still would look upon The glory of the summer sun. That soul will hate the ev'ning mist, So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hearken) as one Who, in a dream of night, would fly But cannot from a danger nigh. What tho' the moon - the white moon Shed all the splendour of her noon, Her smile is chilly, and her beam, In that time of dreariness, will seem (So like you gather in your breath) A portrait taken after death. And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one - For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown - Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall With the noon - day beauty - which is all. I reach'd my home - my home no more For all had flown who made it so. I pass'd from out its mossy door, And, tho' my tread was soft and low, A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had earlier known - O, I defy thee, Hell, to show On beds of fire that burn below, A humbler heart - a deeper woe. Father, I firmly do believe - I know - for Death, who comes for me From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate ajar, And rays of truth you cannot see Are flashing thro' Eternity - I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in every human path - Else how, when in the holy grove I wandered of the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of burnt offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven, No mote may shun - no tiniest fly - The lightning of his eagle eye - How was it that Ambition crept, Unseen, amid the revels there, Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love's very hair? Commentaire Dans une confession faite au soir de sa vie, sur son lit de mort, le conquérant mongol Tamerlan livre le secret d’un coeur las de l’orgueil et du déshonneur. Il raconte comment il ne tint pas compte « d’un amour qui eût fait envie aux anges eux-mêmes », qu’il eut dans sa jeunesse pour la paysanne Ada, car lui était venu le goût des conquêtes, le désir d’affirmer sa volonté de puissance, de « créer un royaume en échange d’un coeur brisé ». Sans doute ses rêves de grandeur ne l’auraient-ils jamais mené aussi loin s’il n’avait, joignant l’amour à l’ambition, voulu donner à sa Dame un empire. Parvenu à la toute-puissance, il n’est, au fond, qu’un « proscrit ceint du diadème », et, lorsqu’après tant de conquêtes il regagne sa capitale, c’est pour constater que la jeune fille qu’il aimait n’est plus, et qu’elle est morte peut-être de douleur et d’abandon. Tamerlan est une version latinisée de Timur, un seigneur de la guerre du XIVe siècle. Mais ce poème épique d'inspiration byronienne (« Ada » était le nom de la fille de Byron, et le vers « I reach'd my home - my home no more » en rappelle un de ‘’Don Juan’’ de Byron) n’a aucune précision historique, Poe ayant, dans des notes où il expliqua quelques-unes de ses allusions, confessé qu’il en savait peu sur le personnage historique, « et qu’avec ce peu, j’ai pris la pleine liberté d’un poète ». Le personnage, auquel Poe peut s’être identifié (comme pour lui, sa filiation était incertaine et il avait « a feigned name » ; de plus, il utilisa son nom comme un pseudonyme pour deux de ses poèmes à leur première publication dans ‘’The Baltimore Saturday visiter’’ en 1833, "Fanny" and "To..."), est moins une créature vivante qu’un symbole. Les principaux thèmes sont le conflit entre l’amour et l’ambition, l’indépendance et la fierté, la perte et l’exil. Poe peut avoir écrit ce poème à la suite de sa perte de son amour de jeunesse, Sarah Elmira Royster, comme à la suite de la mort de sa mère biologique et de sa mère adoptive. Comme il avait seulement dix-neuf ans quand il l’écrivit, son propre sentiment de perte pouvait venir de la disparition de ses possibilités de profiter d’un héritage et d’une bonne éducation. Mais on y trouve aussi des thèmes qu’il allait traiter toute sa vie, en particulier sa tendance à l’autocritique et ses efforts pour atteindre la perfection. La version originale (dans le recueil ‘’Tamerlane and other poems’’) avait 403 vers qui furent réduits à 223 lors de son inclusion dans ‘’Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and minor poems’’. _________________________________________________________________________________ ‘’Al Aaraaf’’ (1829) A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared suddenly in the heavens - attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter - then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been seen since. E.A.P. |
