Today, omg, I’m just so spaced out and splendid,
as I walk this earth without death, without an apron,
without being a wife and so my heart becomes the nostrils of a winter
workhorse whose exhalation breaks through the iced, tulip sky.
Why does everyone want to torture me?
All people care about are calendars, clocks, wallets
to time the flesh; Well, I can’t take it!
So here ich bin, all balanced and delirious,
tapping into some long forgotten intelligence—
Oh sister, let’s go to the Oregon coast
and relax inside the boxed wine paradise of our dreams.
—© 2014 Sandra Simonds
From the archive; We first posted this highly imaginative translation of Baudelaire's "Le Vin Des Amants" (*literally 'the wine of lovers') on January 17, 2014. Pictured above: Charles Baudelaire.
This is a delight. “Translation” might not be quite the right word for it, but what the heck. Translator must have had just as much fun as the reader does. Baudelaire might be splitting his spleen.
Posted by: Anne Harding Woodworth | January 23, 2021 at 07:50 AM
Yes, a delight.
Posted by: Jill Newnham | January 23, 2021 at 11:38 AM