Poems of Renee Vivien translated for THE LADDER

by Abigail Sanford

WOURNFUL BACCHANTE

DAY NO LONGER PIERCES WITH ARROGANT ARROWS THE WOODLANDS MARVELLING AT THE BEAUTY OF NIGHT. IT IS THE TROUBLING HOUR WHEN BACCHANTES DANCE AND THEIR OWN LANGOROUS RHYTHMS OVERWHELM THEM.

FROM THEIR TANGLED HAIR WEEPS SAP OF THE VINES,

LIGHTER THEIR DANCING FEET THAN THE WINGS OF THE WIND,

AND THE ROSE OF THEIR FLESH, THE PLIANT GRACE OF THEIR LIMBS HAVE FILLED THE FOREST WITH THEIR EXCITED SMILES.

THE SINGING OF THE YOUNGEST IS LOW AND HOARSE, HER PASSIONATE BREAST IS HEAVY, HEAVY WITH ^OBS. SHE IS DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHERS SHE IS PALE, HER BROW SHOWS THE BITTER STORM OF A RISING TIDE.

THE WINE THAT HOLDS THE FLAVOR OF SUN-KISSED GRAPES NEVER TO HER BRINGS BLESSED FORGETFULNESS; HALF DRUNK SHE IS, BUT NOT PAST THE POINT OF SORROW, AND THE LEAVES THAT CROWN HER PALLID BROW ARE BLACK.

EVERYTHING IN HER IS WEARY OF COUNTERFEIT PLEASURE, AND THE SURE PREVISION OF MORNINGS CHILLY AND HARSH COMES TO SPOIL THE HONEY AND FLAME OF CARESSES. SHE IS LOST IN DREAM AMONG THE FESTAL ROSES...

FOR THEY REMIND HER OF KISSES SOON FORGOTTEN.

SHE WILL NEVER LEARN TO KNOW DESIRE WITHOUT ANGUISH,

SHE WHO ALWAYS WATCHES WITH MELANCHOLY

THE FLOWERS DYING AFTER A NIGHT OF ORGIES.

14