For Max Jacob
Toward the palace of Rosamund1 at the dream’s end
My dreamy thoughts go barefoot to the gathering
The palace the king’s gift stands like a naked king
With flesh lashed by roses from the rosarium
My thoughts are seen coming from deep in the garden
They smile at the concerto that the frogs have played
They want towering cypresses giant distaves2
And the sun mirror of the roses is broken
The bleeding stigmata of hands against the glass
Which archer pierced them badly wounded by sunset
The resin that renders wine bitter in Cyprus
My mouth with its banquet of white lamb tasted it
On the sharp knees of the king in adultery
In the Maytime of life and dressed up to the nines
Madame Rosamund is rolling with mystery
Her little eyes round like the eyes of the Huns3
Lady in my thoughts with an ass of real pearl
Whose pearl and ass cannot be equal to the east
For whom are you waiting
Dreamy thoughts moving toward the East
Are my prettiest neighbor girls
Knock knock Come into the vestibule the day fades
The night light in shadow is a gem of cooked gold
Please hang up your heads on the hooks by their braids
The sky near nocturnal gives a faint needle glow
As we entered the dining room our nostrils sniffed
Inhaling all the odors of hot fat and roast
We had twenty soups three the color of piss
And the king took two eggs which were poached in some broth
Then the scullions arrived carrying in plates of meat
Roasts of the dead thoughts inside of my head
My beautiful stillborn dreams red and sliced neat
And my fine dry-aged memories minced in croquettes
But these thoughts that had lain dead all these centuries4
Had the insipid taste of mammoths long frozen
The hollowed hopes5 and bones came from ossuaries
In the Dance of Death6 in my creased cerebellum
And these dishes screamed fabulous things without peer But for God’s sake! A hungry belly has no ears And the guests fought each other to chomp one more steak
Ah! for God’s sake!7 what were they crying out these chops
These large pâtés these marrow bones8 and tenderloins
Tongues of fire where are they my pentecosts9
For my thoughts of all countries and of all times
She could be Rosamund, the Lombard queen whose husband, King Alboïn, had killed her father, forced her to marry him, and then to drink out of a cup made from her dad’s skull. (It is understandable that she arranged to have him killed by her lover.) Or she could be Queen Rosemonde from Alfred Jarry’s absurdist play Ubu Roi, though there seems nothing in common but the name. Most likely she is Rosemonde Clifford, favorite mistress of King Henry II of England, who had a house built for her near the royal palace in Woodstock, though it’s always possible she is many Rosamunds in one.
This image, of cypresses in the shape of the traditional yarn-spinning tool the distaff, also appears in the interlude about the swords in “The Song of the Unloved” (“La chanson du Mal-Aimé”).
Attila the Hun was described by a sixth-century historian, quoting a fifth-century source, as always rolling his eyes.
In the original, it is millennia, which makes more sense with the mammoths, but it doesn’t rhyme. So just imagine lots and lots of centuries.
A songe creux (hollow dream) is a wild, improbable fancy.
The danse macabre or Dance of Death was an allegorical entertainment, performed on stage and appearing in works of art, dating to at least the 15th century. In the dance, skeletal or corpse-like figures representing death interact or dance with a lineup of persons representing all the social strata, from popes and emperors to peasants by way of aristocrats and tradespeople, to emphasize that death comes for all. In Alcohols, a danse macabre will later appear in the poem “The House of the Dead” (“La Maison des Morts”).
[This note applies to “Hungry belly has no ears.” I can’t make a footnote on Substack in a block with special spacing.] “Ventre affamé n’a pas d’oreilles” (a hungry belly has no ears) is a slight paraphrase of a proverb from the fable “Le Milan et le Rossignol” (“The Hawk and the Nightingale”) by Jean de La Fontaine: “Ventre affamé n’a point d’oreilles.”
While researching this poem, I stumbled upon some study sample questions about it for the baccalauréat, the French examination that qualifies a student for a high school diploma. (Apollinaire himself failed his bac.) The examination asked for an allusion in this poem to 16th-century French master of the grotesque Rabelais. Apparently, a famous saying from Rabelais exhorts one to treat a book like a bone from which you suck out all the marrow. The exam also believed, in what seems a bit of a stretch, that the pâtés mentioned were a punning allusion to inkblots or typos, a hat tip to the writerly life. I cannot say whether Apollinaire would have got these questions right, but the general scheme certainly has a Rabelaisian flavor, beyond simply a cameo by a bit of bone.
The Christian story of the Pentecost comes from the Acts of the Apostles. In the story, after Jesus’ resurrection, the apostles gather to celebrate the Jewish holiday of Pentecost, which occurs fifty days after Passover. The Holy Spirit comes to them. Tongues of fire appear upon each, and they begin to speak different languages. Tongue is also, of course, a cut of beef.