Banalities

Song Cycle by Francis Poulenc (1899 - 1963)

View original-language texts alone: Banalités

1. Chanson d'Orkenise
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Par les portes d'Orkenise
Veut entrer un charretier.
Par les portes d'Orkenise
Veut sortir un va-nu-pieds.

Et les gardes de la ville
Courant sus au va-nu-pieds :
« Qu'emportes-tu de la ville ?»
« J'y laisse mon coeur entier. »

Et les gardes de la ville
Courant sus au charretier:
« Qu'apportes-tu dans la ville ?»
« Mon cœur pour me marier.»

Que de cœurs dans Orkenise !
Les gardes riaient, riaient,
Va-nu-pieds, la route est grise,
L'amour grise, ô charretier.

Les beaux gardes de la ville
Tricotaient superbement ;
Puis les portes de la ville
Se fermèrent lentement.

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by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki (1880 - 1918), as Guillaume Apollinaire
1. Song of Orkenise
Language: English 
Through the gates of Orkenise
a carter wants to enter.
Through the gates of Orkenise
a tramp wants to leave.

And the sentries of the town,
rush up to the tramp and ask:
"What are you taking out of the town?"
- "I'm leaving my whole heart behind."

And the sentries of the town,
rush up to the carter and ask:
"What are you bringing into the town?"
- "My heart: I'm getting married."

What a lot of hearts in Orkenise!
The sentries laughed and laughed.
Oh tramp, the road is dreary;
oh carter, love is heady.

The handsome sentries of the town
knitted superbly;
Then the gates of the town
slowly swung shut.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2001 by Peter Low, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 112

Translation © by Peter Low
2. Hôtel
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Ma chambre a la forme d'une cage,
Le soleil passe son bras par la fenêtre.
Mais moi qui veux fumer pour faire des mirages
J'allume au feu du jour ma cigarette.
Je ne veux pas travailler - je veux fumer.

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First published in the revue "Lacerba", n°8, April 15, 1914


by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki (1880 - 1918), as Guillaume Apollinaire
2. Hotel
Language: English 
My room has the form of a cage.
The sun reaches its arm in through the window.
But I want to smoke and make shapes in the air,
and so I light my cigarette on the sun's fire.
I don't want to work, I want to smoke.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2001 by Peter Low, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 5
Word count: 47

Translation © by Peter Low
3. Fagnes de Wallonie
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Tant de tristesses plénières
Prirent mon cœur aux fagnes désolées
Quand las j'ai reposé dans les sapinières
Le poids des kilomètres pendant que râlait
le vent d'ouest.

J'avais quitté le joli bois
Les écureuils y sont restés
Ma pipe essayait de faire des nuages
        Au ciel
Qui restait pur obstinément.

Je n'ai confié aucun secret sinon une chanson énigmatique
Aux tourbières humides

Les bruyères fleurant le miel
Attiraient les abeilles
Et mes pieds endoloris
Foulaient les myrtilles et les airelles
Tendrement mariée
     Nord
     Nord
La vie s'y tord
En arbres forts
      Et tors.
La vie y mord
      La mort
À belles dents
 Quand bruit le vent

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by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki (1880 - 1918), as Guillaume Apollinaire
3. Walloon moorlands
Language: English 
So much deep sadness
seized my heart on the desolate moors
when I sat down weary among the firs, unloading
the weight of the kilometres
while the west wind growled.

I had left the pretty woods.
The squirrels stayed there.
My pipe tried to make clouds of smoke
        in the sky
which stubbornly stayed blue.

I murmured no secret except an enigmatic song
which I confided to the peat bog.

Smelling of honey, the heather
was attracting the bees,
and my aching feet
trod bilberries and whortleberries.
Tenderly she is married
      North!
      North!
There life twists
in trees that are strong
      and gnarled.
There life bites
      bitter death
with greedy teeth,
when the wind howls.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2001 by Peter Low, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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Line count: 26
Word count: 120

Translation © by Peter Low
4. Voyage à Paris
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Ah ! la charmante chose
Quitter un pays morose
Pour Paris
Paris joli
Qu'un jour dût créer l'Amour.

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by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki (1880 - 1918), as Guillaume Apollinaire
4. Going to Paris
Language: English 
Ah, how delightful it is
to leave a dismal place
and head for Paris!
Beautiful Paris,
which one day Love had to create!

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2001 by Peter Low, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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Line count: 5
Word count: 23

Translation © by Peter Low
5. Sanglots
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
      Notre amour est réglé par les calmes étoiles
      Or nous savons qu'en nous beaucoup d'hommes respirent
      Qui vinrent de trés loin et sont un sous nos fronts
 C'est la chanson des rêveurs
 Qui s'étaient arraché le coeur
 Et le portaient dans la main droite ...
      Souviens-t'en cher orgueil de tous ces souvenirs
      Des marins qui chantaient comme des conquérants.
      Des gouffres de Thulé, des tendres cieux d'Ophir
      Des malades maudits, de ceux qui fuient leur ombre
      Et du retour joyeux des heureux émigrants.
 De ce coeur il coulait du sang
 Et le rêveur allait pensant
 À sa blessure délicate ... 
      Tu ne briseras pas la chaîne de ces causes...
 ...Et douloureuse et nous disait:
       ...Qui sont les effets d'autres causes
 Mon pauvre coeur, mon coeur brisé
 Pareil au coeur de tous les hommes...
       Voici nos mains que la vie fit esclaves
 ...Est mort d'amour ou c'est tout comme
 Est mort d'amour et le voici.
       Ainsi vont toutes choses
 Arrachez donc le vôtre aussi!
       Et rien ne sera libre jusq'à la fin des temps
       Laissons tout aux morts
       Et cachons nos sanglots

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First published in the revue Nord-Sud no. 4-5, June-July 1917, and then in 1925 in Il y a, Paris, Éd. Messein.


by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki (1880 - 1918), as Guillaume Apollinaire
5. Sobs
Language: English 
     Human love is ruled by the calm stars.
      We know that within us many people breathe
      who came from afar and are united behind our brows.
 This is the song of that dreamer
 who had torn out his heart
 and was carrying it in his right hand...
      Remember, oh dear pride, all those memories:
      the sailors who sang like conquerors,
      the chasms of Thule, the tender skies of Ophir,
      the accursed sick, the ones who flee their own shadows,
      and the joyful return of the happy emigrants.
 Blood was flowing from that heart;
 and the dreamer went on thinking
 of his wound which was delicate ...
      You will not break the chain of those causes...
 ...and painful; and he kept saying to us:
       ...which are the effects of other causes.
 "My poor heart, my heart which is broken
 like the hearts of all men...
      Look, here are our hands which life enslaved.
 "...has died of love or so it seems,
 has died of love and here it is.
      That is the way of all things.
 "So tear your hearts out too!"
      And nothing will be free until the end of time.
      Let us leave everything to the dead,
      and let us hide our sobbing.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2001 by Peter Low, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
    Contact: 

Based on:

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This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 27
Word count: 204

Translation © by Peter Low