Nerval Imposture (II) : Rime Argile, à Dr. I. H. Gryx

Tu me perces, tu me lèses, docteur Gryx,
Avec ton pavois liant, soit maniable
Même au frottage inouï, clastique, pliable
Des raies saillies avec l’arc de ma cervix.

Dans ma croupe aussi tu avais mis l’hélix
D’analyse de ton ouïe conciliable,
Et m’avais doigté de l’allure oubliable,
Car ta musse m’a fait un enfant du Styx.

Je me sens depuis comme une source ouverte
Où tu me lèches, tu me pinces au strigile
Des sentences ascèses, de la langue verte...

Tu m’avais initié à la rime argile,
Docteur Gryx, afin que mon âpre vigile
Unit le mythe à la phrase découverte!


You pierce me, you wound me, Dr. I. H. Gryx,
With the lithe and oh so limber bulwark’s cut
Across the wondrous, pliable, clastic rut
Of your bulging veins and my gaping cervix.

You sounded my nates with the otic helix
Of your analytical grace’s gamut,
And effaced with your digits my glum input:
Your lacuna made me a child of the Styx.

Since then I feel like a playtoy of remorse
Flayed and excoriated by the strigil
Of your stern sentences, your spry lingo’s force...

You inducted me into the rhyme argil,
Doctor Gryx, in order that my harsh vigil
Bind timorous myth to the found word’s hard source!

Nerval Imposture (I) : El Descosido

Je suis l’unique toxophile exilé,
Le prince poldève à l’atout abattu:
Ma seule étoupe est moite, et mon lut huilé
Pose le sol nul sous le mâle pattu.

Dans le nid d’étuve où tu m’as effilé,
Me rendant pause dans la mer Arathu,
La flèche perçait tant à mon coin filé,
Et la trame ouvrait pan au rat courbatu.

Suis-je l’amont de l’El? Ou l’aval de l’Os?
Ma source se rugit encore du bruit:
J’ai ravi la grue, et j’ai nargué le fruit...

Et j’ai, au fond vaincu, travesti l’Éros:
Modelant, tourmenté, le lis de l’oracle,
Son appât d’anse, et ses crins du réceptacle.


I am the toxophile uniquely exiled,
The Poldevian prince of squandered asset:
My only oakum is damp, and my grume, oiled,
Sticks the fool glebe under the megapode pet.

In the brood-nest where you had me stropped, uncoiled,
Making me take pause in the Arathu Sea,
The arrow pierced so deep into my engrailed
Crotch, that the loose plot snared the insipid beast.

Should I trace the El upstream? Or down, the Os?
My source is still gurgling like a growling stoup:
I ravished the crane, and I flouted the drupe...

And I, seduced at heart, perverted Eros:
Molding, tormented, the oracle’s lily,
Its antrum’s thrall, its receptacle’s villi.

PPP

He *erceived he was being given to understand that this was a *aragon of *urity, and that she was the *articular *roperty of *arkson.
— H. G. Wells, Love and Mr. Lewisham. London: MacMillan, 1906, p. 157.

Idea

Mi padre aún tenía una * romántica del bibliotecario. Y durante aquel inexplicable verano hice la prueba de apuntarme a esa *.
— N. Amat, La intimidad. (Madrid: Alfaguara, 1997, p. 99).

Vicarage

The window was lead framed and diamond paned, and through it one saw the corner of the * and a pleasant hill crest, in dusky silhouette against the twilight sky.
— H. G. Wells, The wheels of chance. (London: MacMillan, 1896, p. 97).

In five minutes’ time he found himself watching the swallows curving through the blue over the * garden.
— H. G. Wells, Love and Mr. Lewisham. (London: MacMillan, 1903, p. 7).

Alien

The large, careless promiscuity of the Anglo-Saxon peoples is absolutely * to the modern French mind.
— H. G. Wells, Brynhild, or The show of things. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, p. 288).

Maori

In New Zealand, as Mrs. Ettie Hornibrook showed so ably and interestingly in her * Symbolism, the decorations on a beam or a pillar may be expanded by an understanding imagination into the most complete and interesting of patterns, and so it is with this book. It is a novel in the * style, a presentation of imaginative indications.
— H. G. Wells, Brynhild, or The show of things. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, p. 302).