Six Songs By Jacques Brel
translated by Anne-Marie de Grazia
Jacques Brel (1930-1979), a Belgian, was one of the great modern troubadours
in the French language. A decade before Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen or Jackson Browne,
he was a poet, singer and composer of extraordinary passion and shattering emotional
power. Although his songs are almost impossible to dissociate from his performance,
I have translated a few of them for my non-French speaking friends. Jacques Brel
left the stage at 39 to wage a battle with lung cancer, mostly leading an unabashedly
pleasurable life in French Polynesia. He died in 1979, at age 49. His popularity
in French-speaking countries remains immense and shows no signs of dimming. All
the songs which follow can be found on 2 CD's with the title: "Quand on n'a
que l'amour," available through http://www.amazon.com.
When one only has love
Quand on n'a que l'amour
(1957)
When one only has love
as a give and take
at the dawn of the great journey
of this our great love;
when one only has love,
my love, you and I,
to make burst with joy
every hour of every day;
when one only has love
to live up to our promises
without any other riches
then to believe in it always;
when one only has love
to furnish with wonder
and cover with light
the blight of the suburbs;
when one only has love
as a sole purpose,
as a sole song
and sole recourse;
when one only has love
to clothe at dawn
the poor and the criminal
in mantles of velvet;
when one only has love
to offer in prayer
for the suffering world
as a modest minstrel;
when one only has love
to give to those
whose only fight
is to search for daylight;
when one only has love
to trace a path
and force fate
at every crossroads;
when one only has love
to speak to cannons
and only a song
to change the mind of a drum,
then without having nothing
but the strength to love
we shall hold in our hands
my friend, the entire world!
Don't leave me!
Ne me quitte pas!
(1958)
Don't leave me!
Let's forget -
for all can be forgotten
which is gone by already!
Forget the time
of misunderstandings and
the time
lost
finding out how
to forget those hours
which sometimes killed
by blows of "why?"
the heart
of happiness.
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
I will give you
pearls of rain
come from countries
where it never rains.
I will dig up the earth
even in death
to cover your body
with gold and with light.
I will make a kingdom
where love shall be king
where love shall be law
where you shall be queen.
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
I shall invent
senseless words
which you will understand.
I shall tell you about
those lovers who
saw twice
their hearts
go up in flames.
I shall tell you
the story of this king
dead
for not having succeeded
in finding you.
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
One has often seen
burst anew the fire
of an old volcano
believed to be spent.
There are, it is said,
scorched lands
yielding more wheat
than the best of April.
And when evening comes,
to make the sky flare up,
don't the black and the red
wed?
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
I'll weep no more,
I'll speak no more,
I'll hide right here,
to look at you
dance and smile, to
listen to you
sing
and then laugh...
Let me become
the shadow
of your shadow,
the shadow of your hand,
the shadow of your dog, but
don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
Don't leave me!
The Song of Old Lovers
La Chanson des Vieux Amants
(1967)
Of course we've had our storms,
a twenty-year love, that's love full strength!
A thousand times you picked up your suitcase,
a thousand times I flapped my wings
and every piece of furniture remembers,
in this room without a cradle,
the outbursts of the old hurricanes,
nothing looked liked nothing anymore,
you might have lost the taste for water
and I the taste for conquests!
But my love,
my sweet, my tender,
my marvelous love,
from the clear dawn to the end of day,
I love you still, you know, I love you!
I know all your magic spells,
you know all my magic tricks,
you have kept me in trap after trap,
I lost you from time to time.
Of course, you took a few lovers,
one must pass the time,
needs be, the body must exult!
And in the end, in the end
we needed a lot of talent
to grow old and not become adult.
Oh, my love,
my sweet, my tender,
my marvelous love,
from the clear dawn to the end of day,
I love you still, you know, I love you!
And the more time is our escort,
the more time is our torment.
But is not the worst trap of all
for lovers to live in peace?
Of course, you cry a bit less soon,
I tear up a bit less fast,
we protect less our mysteries,
we leave less to chance,
we mistrust the course of water,
but it still remains - the tender war!
Oh, my love,
my sweet, my tender,
my marvelous love,
from the clear dawn to the end of day,
I love you still, you know, I love you!
Those People
Ces gens-là
(1966)
First - first there is the eldest,
the one who's like a watermelon,
who has a thick nose,
who no longer knows his name, Sir,
so much he drinks,
so much he has drunk,
who doesn't do a thing with his ten fingers,
the one who is at the end of his rope,
who is completely smashed
and takes himself for the king,
who gets drunk every night
with bad wine,
but who is to be found at dawn
at church snoozing,
stiff as a hard-on,
pale as an Easter candle,
and who mumbles,
and whose eyes wander off...
Let me tell you, Sir,
those people,
they don't think, Sir,
they don't think
- they pray!
And then there's the other one,
with tufts in his hair,
who has never seen a comb,
who is mean as a louse,
the kind who'd give his shirt
to the happy poor,
who married that Denise,
a girl from the city,
I mean - from another city,
and that's not all of it -
he does his little business,
with his little hat on,
with his little coat on,
in his little car,
he would like very much to look as if,
but he looks like nothing at all
- one must not try to look rich
when one is without a penny!
Let me tell you, Sir,
those people,
they don't live, Sir,
they don't live
- they cheat!
And then, there are the others...
The mother who says nothing,
or just anything;
and from night till morning,
in his handsome apostle's face
and in its wooden frame,
there's the father's moustache,
- he died from a slip,
and he looks down at his flock
gulping their cold soup
and one hears big shlrrps,
and one hears big shlrrps!
And there is the very old one,
who doesn't stop rattling,
and they wait for her to croak,
because she holds the dough,
and they don't even listen
to what her poor hands try to tell...
Let me tell you, Sir,
those people,
they don't talk, Sir,
they don't talk
- they count!
And then, and then, and then -
there is Frieda
who is beautiful as the sun
and who loves me as much
as I love Frieda!
Even we often tell each other
that we'll get ourselves a house
with lots of windows,
with almost no walls,
and that we'll live there,
and that it will feel good,
and that if it is not a sure bet,
it's still a maybe...
Because - the others are against,
because - the others are against!
The others, they say so,
that she is too beautiful for me,
that I am just good
to skin cats -
I have never killed no cats,
or then, it was a long time ago,
or maybe, I forgot,
or they smelled funny...
I mean, they are against...
they are against...
Sometimes, when we see each other,
pretending it was not planned,
with her big wet eyes,
she says that she'll leave,
she says that she'll come with me,
then for a moment,
only for a moment,
then do I believe her, Sir,
for a moment,
only for a moment,
because, those people, Sir,
they don't leave!
They don't leave, Sir,
they don't leave...
But it's getting late, Sir,
I 'd better go home...
Amsterdam
Amsterdam
(1964)
In the harbor of Amsterdam
there are sailors who sing
about the dreams that haunt them
away from Amsterdam.
In the harbor of Amsterdam
there are sailors who sleep
stretched out like pennants
along the dead waters.
In the harbor of Amsterdam
there are sailors who die
full of beer and tragedy
at the first light of dawn
In the harbor of Amsterdam
there are sailors being born
in the thick heat
of oceanic languors.
In the harbor of Amsterdam
there are sailors who eat
on bright white table cloths
shimmering fish,
and they show you their teeth
made to bite into fate,
to unhook the moon,
to eat up the mast-ropes.
And there is a smell of cod
even to the heart of the French fries
which their thick hands invite
to come back for more;
then they get up laughing
they holler like a storm,
they close up their fly
and get out belching.
In the harbor of Amsterdam
there are sailors who dance
rubbing their bellies
against the bellies of women,
and they turn and they dance,
like spit suns
in the torn-up sound
of a rancid accordion.
They twist up their necks
to hear themselves laugh
until all of a sudden
the accordion gives out...
Then with a grave gesture,
then with a proud glance,
they bring out their Dutchman
into the bright light...
In the harbor of Amsterdam
there are sailors who drink
and drink and drink again
and again drink.
They drink to the health
of the whores of Amsterdam
of Hamburg and others places,
in short, they drink to the ladies
Who give them their pretty bodies
who give them their virtue
for a piece of gold,
and when they have drunk enough,
they stand firmly, their noses to the sky
they blow their noses in the stars
and they piss hot tears
over unfaithful women..
In the harbor of Amsterdam,
In the harbor of Amsterdam...
Note: Chrysanthemum ("mums...") are the flowers of death in French speaking countries. They are used to flower tombs on the Day of the Dead (November 2nd.) Never bring mums to a French hostess!
I'm coming!
J'arrive!
(1968)
From chrysanthemum,
to chrysanthemum,
our friendships are taking leave.
From chrysanthemum,
to chrysanthemum,
death cuts off our loves.
From chrysanthemum,
to chrysanthemum,
the other flowers try their best.
From chrysanthemum,
to chrysanthemum,
Men weep, women weep.
I'm coming!
I'm coming!
But how much I would have loved
once more
to drag my bones
into the sun
until summer,
until spring,
until to-morrow!
I'm coming!
I'm coming!
But how much I would have loved
once more
to see if the river
is still a river,
see if the harbor
is still a harbor,
see myself there once more!
I'm coming!
I'm coming!
But why me,
why now,
why so soon,
and where am I to go?
I'm coming!
of course, Im coming!
And have I ever done anything else but - come?
From chrysanthemum,
to chrysanthemum,
at each turn more solitary.
From chrysanthemum,
to chrysanthemum,
at each turn the odd one out.
I'm coming!
I'm coming!
But how much I would have loved
once more
to take a love
as one takes a train,
to be alone no longer;
to be elsewhere,
to feel good!
I'm coming!
I'm coming!
But how much I would have loved
once more
to fill with stars a body that quivers
and fall dead,
burned up by love,
my heart in ashes!
I'm coming!
I'm coming!
It's not even you who are early,
it's already I who am late!
I'm coming!
of course, I m coming!
And have I ever done anything else but - come?
