“Poèmes saturniens, suivi de Fêtes galantes” de Paul Verlaine

Verlaine offers numerous gardens, women, mandolins, troubled skies — but I have never had the feeling so strongly in a book of poems (possibly augmented by the language being not mine) that the apparent "plots" were irrelevant to the verses’ meaning. Something muscular and blue-purple surges beneath these poetical tales. Is this work "hermetic" — constructed of complex symbols for occult forces? Maybe.

Here is my translation of the first five lines of "The Nightingale," from the series "Sad Landscapes":

Like the loud flight of a bird in turmoil,

All my memories smash against me,

Flail among the yellow leaves

Of my heart revealing its bent birch trunk

To the silvering violet Waters of Regret…