Stéphane Mallarmé worked as a lycée teacher at Tournon, Avignon and then Paris. His salon in the Rue de Rome became a rendezvous for young writers during the last fifteen years of his life. He was a friend of Degas. His verse often experiments with dislocated punctuation and grammar. more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Stéphane Mallarmé Poems
The flesh is sad, Alas! and I have read all the books. Let’s go! Far off. Let’s go! I sense that the birds, intoxicated, fly deep into unknown spume and sky!
L’Apres-midi d’un Faune
These nymphs, I would perpetuate them. So bright Their crimson flesh that hovers there, light
Her pure nails sprung up exalting their onyx, Anxiety, this midnight, bearing light, sustains, In twilight many dreams burnt up by the Phoenix
All at once, as if in play, Mademoiselle, she who moots a wish to hear how it sounds today the wood of my several flutes
All Summarised The Soul…
All summarised, the soul, When slowly we breathe it out In several rings of smoke By other rings wiped out
The Tomb of Edgar Allan Poe
Such as at last eternity transforms into Himself, The Poet rouses with two-edged naked sword, His century terrified at having ignored
One (translated in english)
Child sprung from the two of us — showing us our ideal, the way — ours! father
I don’t come to conquer your flesh tonight, O beast In whom are the sins of the race, nor to stir In your foul tresses a mournful tempest
Towards your brow my soul oh gentle sister, where there dreams An autumn strewn with ruddy streaks And towards the wandering sky of your
The sun, on the sand, O sleeping wrestler, Warms a languid bath in the gold of your hair, Melting the incense on your hostile features,
Dear dreamer, help me to take off Into my pathless, pure delight, By always holding in your glove My wing, a thin pretence of flight.
To The Sole Concern
To the sole concern in voyaging Beyond an India dark and splendid – Let it be time’s message, this greeting
Sonnet: ‘Le vierge, le vivace…’
The virginal, living and lovely day Will it fracture for us with a drunken wing-blow This solid lost lake whose frost’s haunted below
The Clown Chastised
Eyes, lakes of my simple passion to be reborn Other than as the actor who gestures with his hand
Quotationsmore quotations »
''Alas, the flesh is weary, and I've read all the books.''Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898), French symbolist poet. Poésies (1887). Brise Marine, st. 1, Mallarmé: The Poems, trans. by and ed. Keith Bosley (1977)....
''Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.''Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898), French symbolist poet. La Revue Blanche (Paris, Sept. 1895). Variations on a Subject, "Verse Crisis," Complete Works (1...
''Everything in the world exists to end up in a book.''Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898), French symbolist poet. (Originally published 1886-1896). Variations on a Subject, "As to the Book: The Book, a Spiritua...
''The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.''Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898), French Symbolist poet. repr. In Mallarmé: The Poems, ed. and trans. by Keith Bosley (1977). Variations sur un sujet, "C...
''The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.''Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898), French symbolist poet. repr. In Mallarmé: The Poems, ed. and trans. by Keith Bosley (1977). Variations sur un Sujet, "C...
Comments about Stéphane Mallarmé
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The flesh is sad, Alas! and I have read all the books.
Let’s go! Far off. Let’s go! I sense
that the birds, intoxicated, fly
deep into unknown spume and sky!
Nothing – not even old gardens mirrored by eyes –
can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea,
O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,
on the void of paper, that whiteness defends,
no, not even the young woman feeding her child.
I will go! Steamer, straining at your ropes
lift your anchor towards an exotic rawness!
A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope
still believes in the last ...