#Léo Ferré Legacy

[jbgravereaux]

Yves Rousseau, Maria Laura Baccarini et Claudia Solal... (Yves Rousseau sextet, “Poète, vos papiers !”) - Le hibou de Paris (Léo Ferré - musique d’Yves Rousseau)                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              "Le hibou de Paris" enregistré au Théâtre 71 de Malakoff le 4 avril 2013   https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x141w1n                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Le hibou de Paris                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    L'automne dans les bois est cousu de ouatine On y entend les pattes douces de la vie Quelque oiseau malhabile en sifflant dès matines A tiré de sa sieste un hibou de Paris La chlorophylle s'est caillée au bout des branches C'est l'amour qui s'enchante et se meurt à la fois Et la feuille d'automne agonise un dimanche Et le lundi matin on la montre du doigt L'automne caraïbe a des printemps qui flânent C'est le tropique qui trop pique et goulûment Délave son été dans un azur où plane Un soleil gominé qui ne fout pas le camp Ça c'est la poésie monsieur, où meurt l'automne Le poète va pondre un œuf impunément L'automne est mort qu'importe une chanson rayonne Et enroue les pick-up comme un emmerdement Et ce jazz qui vous tape au siphon comme un pic Un vrai déhanchement d'épopée en surtax Un potentiel de brouhaha qui tombe à pic Dans cette épique époque où syntaxent les saxs Et ces nouvelles qu'on vous tend comme une perche Et ces désirs blessés miile fois rapiécés Ces manettes truquées où vainement l'on cherche Une voix bienheureuse à l'horizon clouée                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Poète, vos papiers! Léo Ferré enchanté par le sextet d'Yves Rousseau -              LEO FERRE Legacy - Vidéo dailymotion

[morebedsidebooks]

Arthur Rimbaud

A côté de son cher corps endormi, que d'heures des nuits j'ai veillé, cherchant pourquoi il voulait tant s'évader de la réalité. Jamais l'homme n'eut pareil vœu. Je reconnaissais, — sans craindre pour lui, — qu'il pouvait être un sérieux danger dans la société. — Il a peut-être des secrets pour changer la vie? Non, il ne fait qu'en chercher, me répliquais-je. Enfin sa charité est ensorcelée, et j'en suis la prisonnière. Aucune autre âme n'aurait assez de force, — force de désespoir! — pour la supporter, — pour être protégée et aimée par lui. D'ailleurs, je ne me le figurais pas avec une autre âme: on voit son Ange, jamais l'Ange d'un autre, — je crois. J'étais dans son âme comme dans un palais qu'on a vidé pour ne pas voir une personne si peu noble que vous: voilà tout.

How many night hours have I stayed awake beside his dear sleeping body, wondering why he wanted so much to escape from reality. Never did a man have such a wish. I recognized – without fearing for him – that he could be a serious danger for society. – Does he have perhaps secrets for  changing life? No, he is only looking for them, I told myself. In a word, his charity is bewitched, and I am its prisoner. No other soul would have enough strength – strength of despair – to endure it, to be protected and loved by him. Besides, I could not imagine him with another soul. I believe we see our own Angel, never anyone else’s Angel. I was in his soul as in a palace that had been emptied in order not to see so mean a person as myself, that is all.

La littérature française de Moyen Âge á aujourd'hui, octobre (XIX e siècle): Arthur Rimbaud

Continuing a Year of French Literature from the Middle Ages to Today, for October (19th Century): Arthur Rimbaud

Hailing from a country town in Northern France, Jean-Nicholas-Arthur Rimbaud had a talent for writing at an early age. Shortly before turning 17 in 1871 he would gain the mentorship of poet Paul Verlaine, after sending some poetry in letters. It would mark the beginning of mutual inspiration and a volatile sexual relationship. Verlaine was an alcoholic and abuser, starting a family with a young wife. Rimbaud could likewise be wild, at his hand Verlaine’s body bearing marks from knives. The pair would seem to enjoy fighting as much as lovemaking. Nevertheless it would be Verlaine, despite the disasters he experienced over his poor judgments involving the affair, who would later help to conserve Rimbaud’s writing.

Dubbed an “enfant terrible”, Rimbaud was treated by the Paris literary world for his antics and atypical writing as one might a child throwing a tantrum. He wrote for a small number of years publishing little of his work himself, eventually turning to other trade and dying at only 37. Nonetheless his brilliance was real. So over the years his life and writing has become something to relate to, a voice of youth, part of the curriculum in many schools, also used in political movements and the basis along with Verlaine’s legacy for a cultural charity in the UK.

I first encountered Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell in French as a teenager. It’s hard to describe just exactly how mesmerizing, weird and wonderful it can be. Meta would be a good descriptor since in passages I quoted from above like The Foolish Virgin, The Infernal Bridegroom Rimbaud is the writer, composing a lover’s perspective (Verlaine), which is looking back at himself. Composer Léo Ferré put the prose poem to music in 1991, only one example of how Rimbaud’s work has been repurposed in music. In 1995 audiences were also treated to the film Total Eclipse based from a play on Rimbaud’s life, Leonardo DiCaprio in the lead role.

From DiCaprio’s pre-Titanic days, after that blockbuster and other successes in literary film adaptations Total Eclipse was re-released on home video taking advantage of the DiCaprio fever. However, DiCaprio deserves every bit of praise for his performance and it’s a fine film all around. (Interestingly had River Phoenix still been alive he may had received the role instead. It should be noted it was also not the first film based on Rimbaud’s life.)  

English readers have been able to access much of Rimbaud’s writing for a number of years, with a few editions and revisions along with books on literary history and criticism. I own the bilingual edition Rimbaud Complete Works, Selected Letters from 2005, translated by Wallace Fowlie and revised by Seth Whidden among an older French book. The first edition was in 1966, an interesting time of social upheaval. The original introduction mentions a world in revolt and how Rimbaud’s writing was relevant. Thirteen years on from the updated edition where Whidden writes of the apathy regarding political injustice and a challenging publishing landscape, Rimbaud’s words once again feel modern. It’s a fitting achievement as is pointed to in his writing the necessity to be just that.

Rimbaud Complete Works, Selected Letters, translated by Wallace Fowlie and revised by Seth Whidden is available from the University of Chicago Press