Et je m'en vais au vent mauvais

I first made the acquaintance of today’s National Poetry Month poem through reading about D-Day.

Throughout the war (WWII, if you’re in any confusion), the BBC broadcast messages to resistance organizations in Nazi-occupied countries. Things like, “Baby needs new shoes” or “Uncle Ralph lost his eyeglasses”. There would be a whole string of this sort of thing, and the “baby” one might mean “blow the bridge tonight” to a group in Bruges, and “Uncle Ralph” could announce “arms drop tomorrow” to a cell in Bordeaux.

As the buildup to the invasion of France progressed, it was decided to use the opening lines from Paul Verlaine’s “Chanson d’automne” to signal resistance groups in France to engage in specific acts of sabotage—destroy lines of communication, railroads, bridges, etc., to hinder the German ability to counterattack in the early days of acquiring a toehold on the continent.

Broadcasting the first three lines meant: invasion is coming within two weeks; get ready. It went out over the airwaves on 1 June, 1944. The next three lines meant: invasion within 48 hours; start the destruction. That was broadcast 5 June, 1944, 45 minutes before midnight, when the armada was on its way.

I’ve read other French poets since then (I was in junior high when I started studying WWII), but—leaving aside the historical reference—I really like the imagery in this one. “Les sanglot longs des violons de l’automne blessent mon coeur”… The long sobs of the violins of autumn wound my heart—doesn’t that just strike home?

“Chanson d’automne”

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

If you’d like the English, here you go:

The long sobs
Of the violins
Of Autumn
Wound my heart
With a monotonous
Languor.

All choked
And pale, when
The hour chimes,
I remember
Days of old
And I cry

And I’m going
On an ill wind
That carries me
Here and there,
As if a
Dead leaf.

  

 

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