Now done with the arrogant rays of day
Penetrating the woods of enchanted nights,
It is the hour when the Bacchantes sway
To languid rhythms and dance in their rites.
Their tangled hair weeps the blood of the vines,
Their feet are fast, light, like wings on the wind,
Their bodies are pink and their supple lines
Like smiles fill the forest from end to end.
The song of the youngest, more like a cry,
Struggles up her throat; it’s swollen, it throbs.
Unlike the others, she’s pale, she could die
From the bitterness, from the swell of sobs.
Preserved in its wine, the harvest sun still glows,
But she’s helpless, she can’t forget her pain.
She’s still half-drunk but her drunkenness knows…
A wreath decorates her brow, but in vain.
She’s tired of fake joys, of false addresses;
The thought of the cold, hard morning after
Corrupts their hot and honeyed caresses.
Pensive, among the roses and laughter,
She doesn’t know desire without regret,
The one on her back but always aware;
She remembers the kisses you forget
And the flowers crushed by the orgies there—
Bacchante triste
Le jour ne perce plus de fleches arrogantes
Les bois émerveillés de la beauté des nuits,
Et c’est l’heure trouble où dansent les Bacchantes
Parmi l’accablement des rythmes alanguis.
Leurs cheveux emmêlés pleurent le sang des vignes,
Leurs pieds vifs sont légers comme l’aile des vents,
Et le rose des chairs, la souplesse des lignes,
Ont peuplé la forêt de sourires mouvants.
La plus jeune a des chants qui rappellent le râle:
Sa gorge d’amoureuse est lourde de sanglots.
Elle n’est point pareille aux autres, – elle est pâle;
Son front a l’amertume et l’orage des flots.
Le vin où le soleil des vendanges persiste
Ne lui ramène plus le généreux oubli;
Elle est ivre à demi, mais son ivresse est triste,
Et les feuillages noirs ceignent son front pâli.
Tout en elle lassé des fausses allégresses.
Et le pressentiment des froids et durs matins
Vient corrompre la flamme et le miel des caresses.
Elle songe, parmi les roses des festins.
Celle-là se souvient des baisers qu’on oublie…
Elle n’apprendra pas le désir sans douleurs,
Celle qui voit toujours avec mélancolie
Au fond des soirs d’orgie agoniser les fleurs.
Renée Vivien (1877-1909) was an Anglo-American poet who chose to write in French. She is associated with the late Symbolist and Decadent movements in France and was an outspoken lesbian author who, in addition to her own creative writing, translated Sappho into French.
Michael Perret is a poet and translator from Austin, Texas. His work has appeared in AzonaL Poetry in Translation, The Decadent Review and Wild Musette. His translation of the short novel Octavia the Quadroon by Sidonie de La Houssaye was published in 2021 by Éditions Tintamarre. Most recently, his poems have appeared in the anthology Beautiful Tragedies 2 (Hellbound Books) and in The Horror Zine Magazine. His story “Monsieur Faustin’s Gris-Gris” is forthcoming from Darkstroke Books.