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Jules Laforgue: Selected Poems (Penguin Classics), by Jules LaForgue
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Deeply nihilistic yet full of yearning, tender yet savagely self-mocking, Laforgue has a unique voice and vision that nonetheless mark him out as one of the founding fathers of modernism. Like Charles Baudelaire before him, he was determined to face up to the ugly and decadent as well as the conventionally poetic aspects of himself and the world about him. In a career that rivals Arthur Rimbaud's for its tragically brief, accelerated development, he pioneered the use of coarse colloquialism, startling rhymes, and astonishing invented words. His greatest achievement, the posthumous Derniers Vers (1890), was the first complete French volume of free verse. Partly influenced by his translation of Walt Whitman -- the first in the French language -- Derniers Vets is brilliantly effective in capturing the truth of fleeting impressions and inner sensations. It is also, writes Graham Dunstan Martin, "one of the musical masterpieces of literature." This bilingual edition features a generous selection of poems in the original French from Laforgue's Le Sanglot de la Terre, Les Complaintes, L'Imitation de Notre-Dame la Lune, Des Fleurs de Bonne Volonte, and Derniers Vers, with running prose translations at the bottom of each page.
- Sales Rank: #4270617 in Books
- Published on: 1999-07-01
- Released on: 1999-06-01
- Ingredients: Example Ingredients
- Original language: French
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.70" h x .72" w x 5.10" l,
- Binding: Paperback
- 352 pages
Review
Aesthetic Principles
The Affianced Dawn
Another Compliant From Lord Pierrot
Another Lament From The Barrel Organ
Autobiographical Preamble
Bagpipe Tune
Ballad For The End Of Time
The Ballad Of Pierrot's Wedding
Ballad Of The Bells
Ballad Of The Dear Old Moon
Ballad Of The King Of Thule
Ballad Of The Outraged Husband
Ballad Of The Wretched Human Body
Ballad Of Time And Of His Old Crony, Space
Ballade
Ballade Of Home-coming
The Bats
A Case Of Returning A Faulty Article
The Cigarette
Cloud
Complaint About Certain Annoyances
Complaint For The Forgetting Of The Dead
Complaint For The Springtimes
Complaint For These Complaints
Complaint Of A Convalescence In May
Complaint Of Bachelor Twilights
Complaint Of Feeling Home-sick For Primeval Times
Complaint Of Monotonous Autumn
Complaint Of Mournful Literary Debates
Complaint Of The Consolations
Complaint Of The Incurable Angel
Complaint Of The Poor Knight Errant
Complaint Of The Provincial Moon
Complaint Of The Tall Pines In An Abandoned Villa
Complaint Of The Wind Which Gets Bored At Night
Complaint To Our Lady Of The Evenings
Complaint-epitaph
Complaint-litanies Of My Damned Sacred Heart
Cythera
Descriptive Particulars
Dialogue Before The Moon's Rising
Eve As Ever
The First Night
Hypertrophy
The Impossibility Of Tasting The Infinite In Wafers
Lament For Another Sunday
Lament Of Free Will
The Lament Of Respectable Households
Lament Of The Organist Of Notre-dame De Nice
Lament Of The Vigil At Polar Midnights
Lament Of The Wise Man Of Paris
Last Verse: 1. The Onset Of Winter
Last Verse: 10
Last Verse: 11. On A Dead Woman
Last Verse: 12
Last Verse: 2. The Mystery Of The Three Horns
Last Verse: 3. Sundays
Last Verse: 4. Sundays
Last Verse: 5. Petition
Last Verse: 6. Simple Agony
Last Verse: 7. Moonlight Aria
Last Verse: 8. Legend
Last Verse: 9
Let's Get Down To Brass Tacks
The Life They Make Me Lead
Litanies Of The First Two Quarters Of The Moon
Lord Pierrot's Complaint
The Moon Is Sterile
Music By Moonlight
Nightly
Noble And Touching Divagations Under The Moon
The Oh So Wonderful Autumn!
On The Deep Ocean
An Opening Word To The Sun
Our Little Companion
Pastimes
Piece For Guitar
Pierrot's Melancholy
Pierrots
Pierrots
Pierrots
Plea-complaint Of Faust The Younger
Please Permit Me To Announce
Propitiatory Complaint To The Unconscious
Sancta Simplicitas
The Sanctimonious Fraud
Sentimental Ballad
Small August Miseries
Small Autumn Miseries
Small Miseries Of Winter
Small Mysteries
Small October Miseries
The Song Of The Hypertrophic Child
Station By The Seaside
Sundays
Sundays
Sundays
Sundays
Sundays
Sundays
Sundays
The Things That Pierrots Say
To Paul Bourget
Too Pernickety
Warning
-- Table of Poems from Poem Finder�
Language Notes
Text: English, French (translation)
Original Language: French
Most helpful customer reviews
6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
Clowns, Moons, and Youth!
By Christopher Nelson
Jules Laforgue was a contemporary of Rimbaud, yet they never knew one another because just as Rimbaud had stopped writing poetry and was leaving for Abyssinia, Laforgue was arriving in Paris from South America (where he was born). There is some debate over who really wrote the first "free verse", as Rimbaud had already written his "Illuminations", however Laforgue was the first to actually have his vers libres published. And so, his influence on modern English poetry through Eliot, and Crane was established.
Where Rimbaud is "harsh", and "brusque", Laforgue is subtle and melancholy. The former is more the visionary, whereas Laforgue seems to me more the dreamer/imaginary. Either-way, Laforgue is wonderful to read, and a nice change of pace from Rimbaud. Even though he wrote more than Rimbaud, his life was shorter - he died of tuberculosis at 27! The translations in this Penguin edition by Graham Dunstin Martin are literal, and so the poetic affect is limited unless you are able to read a little of the French (printed right above the translations in more prominent print). For verse translations, I highly recommend William Jay Smith ("Selected Readings of Jules Laforgue", 1956.)
I have yet to read all of Laforgue's works (there are the "Moral Tales", and essays on "Berlin", art, and landscapes), but my overall impression of his five books of poems presented here is of seemingly schizophrenic conversations with the moon, clowns, and inanimate objects like cigarettes, pianos, and buildings. His imagery is incredible ("skeletons of wisteria", "stewpot, poor Earth!", "heart of gold stuffed with literary spices", "brain pickled in the alchohol of pride") and the French rhymes magnificently musical. Laforgue is playful, melancholy, and pessimistic using an attractive poetic style. Both Rimbaud and Laforgue are princes of modernity, following up on the Master, Baudelaire's dark revolution against and away from romanticsm. Laforgue captures fleeting sensations and moments more playfully than Rimbaud, I think, using more colloquial language than his peer, but Rimbaud is second to none for obscure visions and acerbic wit. All in all, Laforgue's poems will make you smile at times in their innocence and lunacy, but most importantly, they are a conversation with various muses (lunar, pierrot, the feminine, amor, etc.) which are inspiring, thought-provoking, and astonishing all at once.
2 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Thrilling verse from the father of modern poetry.
By darragh o'donoghue
Jules LaForgue, for so long underrecognised in his own country, is now seen as the father of modern poetry, especially influential on the work of Eliot and Pound in terms of persona, language, reaction to modernity, and the violent incongruity of his metaphors and images.
This edition boasts excellent prose translations of the poems by Graham Dunstan Martin. These may be insufficient for the non-French speaker, but the problem with translations that try to catch the spirit of the original rather than the detail, such as Ron Padgett's translations of Blaise Cendrars, is that necessary omissions can lead to dilution and distortion. So, I suppose, this book is best recommended for those, like myself, who have a smidgeon of mediocre French, and can compare their own efforts against Martin's grammatically correct translations.
His introduction is refreshingly free of jargon, and with great simplicity, he details LaForgue's tragically early life, his intellectual precusors, his cultural milieu, his themes and his methods. LaForgue's poetic skill often has to transcend the essential banality of his philosophy, and Martin's discussion of LaForgue's pervasive irony seems to suggest that his work is often about nothing at all if every comment, even if it's 'ironic' is ironically cancelled out by irony (oh yes).
The first selection of which I've just read is largely juvenelia entitled 'The Grief Of the Earth'. Martin warns of the young LaForgue's vulnerablility to Hugo's influence, based on considerable rhetorical bombast, and these poems aren't free of railing against God, the weather, 'ordinary' people, the world, the Unconscious.
But even this early in his oeuvre, LaForgue shows remarkable brilliance. He uses conventional forms, such as the sonnet or lyric, but rends their frames with the exciting violence of his vocabulary, the unnerving juxtapositional clashes he achieves. His poems often start out as one thing, offering a certain set of emotions, which, through irony, and exagerration, become something totally different, more disturbing. The 'Lament of the Notre-Dame organist' is a case in point. The hero begins grieving movingly for his dying lover, but he gets so carried away by his grand sentiments, that he thinks her already dead, and savours the lashing he'll give to the Almighty, and the eternal doleful Bach fugues he'll play. A pitiable, Romantic, lover has become something much more modern and disturbing.
It's not all violence though. There is a lovely debate between a clown and Jesus over the paradox of free-will and God's omniscience; a strange lament by lonely Parisians for the superficial, but gay and alive, high society that has abandoned them during winter; a danse macabre by a grotesque infant whose mother calls him beyond the grave; and a mellow, despairing tribute to poetry, cigarettes and dreams as escapes from the living death that is our existence. I can't wait to try LaForgue's more mature work.
2 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
Startling juvenelia from the father of modernist poetry.
By darragh o'donoghue
Martin's introduction is so jargon-free that it almost feels unscholarly. However, he manages to essay economically LaForgue's biography, his times, ideas, personality, themes, development, method and their demonstration in his work. Sometimes this can be a little simplistic, at others a little confusing. For example, Martin discusses at great length LaForgue's irony. This is fair enough, it is an important weopon in any writer's arsenal, especially one so phlegmatically iconoclastic as LeForgue.
However, whenever Martin decides what LeForgue's theme is, or whenever he does something a little gauche, he negates with irony. If everything LeForgue says is ironical, even the irony, than he's not really saying anything, is he? Better is his analysis of LeForgue's immense influence on modern poetry, especially on Pound and Eliot. His sensibly chosen examples show how indebted Prufrock and Other Poems was to LaForgue, in the persona developed, the language used, and the startling, non-conventional effects of clashing images and metaphors.
I have just read LaForgue's first works, Le Sanglot De La Terre (the grief of the earth). This is essentially his juvenelia, and Martin warns of his indebtedness to Hugo, his youthful pomposity and arrogance. This may be true, but if you're used to timid English poetry, even adolescent stuff like this is astonishing. LaForgue is most famous for developing the first French free verse style, but in these poems he adopts conventional forms. However, these burst with such violence, his words are barely containable ravages at decorum, his daring is so wildly out of proportion that one cannot fail to be excited.
Some of these poems are extraordinary. In one a church organist laments his dying lover. So carried away is he with his sorrow that he dreams already of her death and the immense grieving he is going to offer. In another he extols the escapist pleasures of narcotics as an antidote to the living death that is life. There are wailings against God, the elements, fate, the Unconscious. One lovely poem frames a debate between Jesus and a clown over free will and God's omniscience, with the former fudging the matter.
But there are also quieter, more gently melancholic poems, such as the lament of the Parisian poor for the gay bright aristocracy, whose winter absence makes the city seem desolate, and yet whose transformative power is also a kind of death. These are so good I cannot wait to try LaForgue's more mature work.
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