Henri de Régnier (1864-1936)

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Writen by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. HArianto

BULAN KUNING
Henri de Régnier

Siang panjang itu berakhir dengan satu bulan kuning
Yang pelahan bangkit di antara pepohonan,
Sementara di udara menyerbak dan berkembang:
Bau air yang antara pimping basah bertiduran,

Insyafkah kita, bila, dua-dua, di bawah Surya memanggang
Kita siksa tanah merah dan tunggal jerami yang memberkah,
Takukah kita, bila kaki menginjak pasir gersang
Ia tinggalkan bekas langkah bagai langkahnya darah,

Takukah kita, bila kasih menjulangkan nyalanya
Di hati kita yang renyai dengan siksa putus asa,
Takukah kita, bila padam api yang membakar kita,
Bahwa nanti baranya mesra berasa di senja kita,

Dan bahwa hari getir dekat silamnya, diserbak rangsang,
Bau air yang termenung di antara pimping basah,
Nanti pelahan berakhir dengan itu bulan kuning
Yang di antara pohonan meningkat jadi purnama?


Yellow Moon
Henri de Régnier

The long afternoon ended with a yellow moon
Which slowly rose among the trees,
While in the air it was fragrant and growing:
The smell of water between wet pimping lying down,

Are we realize, when, two by two, under the stinging Sun
We are torturing the raddle and the stalk of straw blessing,
Do we know, if feet stepped on barren sand
It left the sole as such the moves of blood,

Do we know, if love towers it flames
In our drizzly hearts with the torment of despair,
Do we know, if extinguished the fire that burns us,
That its flame will be felt intimate in our twilight,

And that bitter day near its past, fragranced by excitatory,
The smell of water lost in thought among the wet pimping,
It will quietly ended with the yellow moon
Which among the trees it rises up to the full moon?

Henri François Joseph de Régnier (December 28, 1864 – May 23, 1936) is French poet who was born in Honfleur. At first, he was members of faction Parnasse (the stream of overflowing anti-romantic, wants a quiet life, and regularly basis when creating, and also using proper and precise technique) with Paul Verlaine. And then he became followers of Mallarmé, followed the stream of the symbolic, and indistinctly returned on the classical department. Régnier is regarded as an expert that used free poems. At 1911, he was elected as a member of the French Academy. His most important anthology is “Les jeux rustiques et divins,” 1897, “Les Médailles d’argile” (1900), and “La Cité des Eaux” (1902). (taken from the book “Puisi Dunia” (World Poetry), Volume I, compiled by M. Taslim Ali, Balai Pustaka, 1953, which retranslated into English would be more or less like above)
***

Long dry season, and thirst in the throat, and the smell of esophagus is wood charcoal, it has all memories; really thirsty will transform guidance later.

When the sun is greeted with the most brilliant colors, a yellow moon is hanging idle like chatter without any direction, swirling to find space.

I see the point of intoxication tangled on the shadows, which rose slowly among the trees of thought.

While the air is wrapped in a mystery smell of water lying around, or when to stab the wanton body of certainty.

Régnier with his freedom has been calculated in the body of pain; the long atmosphere had been infiltrated and been undergrowth.

His poetry becomes a challenge to color the courage, the contrast similar painting raised the possibility up, which is stored behind the experience.

To be sensed to the nose with the smell of inequality, but it is so mature when the faith surpassed the sleepiness of any afternoon.

Such as soul bounced up into space, and the eyes wait its downfall.

There are echoes shaking the body and frighten the feeling of eerie, when the celestial bodies distant brought near, right in front of the eye of target; heartbeat is words of chronogram.

Like be roasted by fear to sin and hell, spiritual abuse became so crazy than a thousand restless.

There are sharp finger nails ripped the heart and intestinal and bile of foul intentions is hung out in strands, there was penitence that is not quickly dead, keeps to shake the faith and breaks the weak dry straw.

Whether blessed or it is still struck by fear in the tomb that the mouth will be locked. That each step of leaving the self, left the trace of the blood of punishment.

Proclaim repent and forswear with shaky body, could not stand on pain but miss it. As if to dump solid thick black fluid parcel.

Or perhaps, the blood blackened by the hitting of lust, and also the faith that is in conflict without any resistance.

On the verge of experiment is spiritual punishment of believe, besides honey is shadowing smile of teases flirtation, which led to death, not necessarily to determine.

But it is very real, and capable to undermine the mental of seeking.

Régnier was wondering, did we know? The heart was admiring accompanied by the loosing long hair to the twilight, on the crying of red southern coast.

Does despair wicked? His soul was cycling up, rolling like a ball of fire, then disappeared in the darkness of doubt, or in fear of lost.

Is there soul thunderous of fiery spirit? The burning heart, like a plate of iron is ready to be forged by certitude, while their sweet soul had disappeared, before the sun of time struggles the feeling of universe.

Régnier continued his questions in the stone of extinguished dust flame wars, the debris scattered hesitated to vanish.

Which Intimacy is it? If it is not completed the even-numbered nights, before separated of destiny absorbs to be vanished.

Or, what kind of ghost? Allegiance back and forth to look for glory in the jungle.

Wished to accomplish something, but the question turns to hit, as hard as it had been believed, to undermine the bottom of heart and stirring hypocrisy up.

Then I tried to ask the question, Régnier, is it true there are embers of romance in the twilight?

He replied, “The bitter day nears its past” and I was as “the smell of water lost in thought.”

Yes, let’s stimulated until demolished all understanding, with the end of the yellow moon at the lake.

Between the trees enhanced the howling of wind, which is its shoot-bud left trace in the window.

And they see us flying under the moonlight, poems are vanished in units of pulling of the firmament, to be pulsed in every head of human heart.

This is the end of your question, the true answer derived from the breath of heart light; we sip the fragrant of flowers and smell of incense, as well as the stars present in the afternoon.