The Yale Anthology of Twentieth-Century French Poetry

BLAISE CENDRARS

Yesterday morning
Ivan Ulitch’s hair turned white
And Kolia Nikolai Ivanovitch has been biting his fingers for two weeks...
Do what Death and Famine do, do your job
It costs one hundred sous—in Trans-Siberian that’s one hundred rubles
Fire up the seats and blush under the table
The devil is at the keyboard
His knotty fingers thrill all the women
Instinct
OK gals
Do your job
Until we get to Harbin...

‘‘Say, Blaise, are we really a long way from Montmartre?’’

No, hey... Stop bothering me... Leave me alone
Your pelvis sticks out
Your belly’s sour and you have the clap
The only thing Paris laid in your lap
And there’s a little soul... because you’re unhappy
I feel sorry for you come here to my heart
The wheels are windmills in the land of Cockaigne
And the windmills are crutches a beggar whirls over his head
We are the amputees of space
We move on our four wounds
Our wings have been clipped
The wings of our seven sins
And the trains are all the devil’s toys
Chicken coop
The modern world
Speed is of no use
The modern world
The distances are too far away
And at the end of a trip it’s horrible to be a man with a woman...

‘‘Blaise, say, are we really a long way from Montmartre?’’

I feel so sorry for you come here I’m going to tell you a story
Come get in my bed
Put your head on my shoulder
I’m going to tell you a story...

...