ANARCHY
An-archy, a crude and tempestuous word in the present, a great relief for the future.
Power and ambition will no longer satisfy the wild appetites at the heart of man.
Foolish and selfish little vanities will be transformed into the pride and joy of the human race.
One wonders, in total stupefaction, how we have fought common sense for so long, professing that a curved line is the most direct path from one point to another.
Anarchy, a small, distant glimmer akin to the lamp shining in the night, I salute you, just as you are, for you are our lighthouse and you will glow into the dawn – the dawn of justice overcoming force.
1883
ANARCHIE
An-archie, mot gros d’orage dans le présent, plein d’apaisement pour l’avenir.
Le pouvoir, l’ambition, n’empliront plus le cœur de l’homme de leurs appétits de fauves.
La petite vanité bête des individus sera transfigurée dans le grand orgueil de la race humaine.
On se demandera avec étonnement comment on a pu lutter si longtemps contre le sens commun, soutenir si longtemps que la ligne courbe est le plus court chemin d’un point à un autre.
Anarchie, petite lueur lointaine, pareille à la lampe qui brille dans la nuit, je te salue, car telle que tu es, tu nous sers de phare et tu grandiras en aurore – l’aurore du droit remplaçant la force.
1883
TO OUR ENEMIES
Splendid and solitary, I am the battered lion
Hunted and cornered on the rock.
I am the crushed lily, dust smothered
In the whirlwind, trampled
By the stray goat and the ignorant shepherd.
I am the brazen eagle, watching my nesting grounds
Crumble in the storm. Perched far above
The lightning bolts, I listen to the thunder.
I am far too exiled for the earth to hear
My tears of anger, withered by fire.
Thank you, for you’ve made me despise this earth;
In fleeing you, I’ve found an azure path.
Your bluster, your deranged wrath are inconsequential.
Behind you, I watch an entire battalion
Of proud revolutionaries, brows splendid and pure.
Their dream is my very own – grand and sublime.
I march forward! Their hearts are generous;
Yours are cold. I march up the summit;
A criminal night will always surround you.
I march to fight and die alongside them.
Paris, January 1862
À DES ENNEMIS
Je suis le lion mourant, superbe et solitaire,
Que la chasse poursuit jusque sur son rocher ;
Je suis le lis brisé, tout couvert de poussière
Par l’orage et les vents, et que d’un pied vulgaire
Foulent la chèvre errante et l’ignorant berger.
Je suis l’aigle hardi, qui voit crouler son aire
Dans l’horrible tourmente, et qui d’un plus haut lieu
Que celui des éclairs écoute le tonnerre,
Exilé de trop haut pour jeter à la terre
De ces pleurs indignés que dessèche le feu.
Merci, car vous m’avez fait horreur de la terre ;
J’ai trouvé pour vous fuir la route de l’azur.
Peu m’importent vos bruits, votre folle colère.
Je vois, bien loin de vous, une phalange entière
De fiers réformateurs, au front superbe et pur.
Leur rêve est le mien même ; il est grand et sublime.
J’y vais à travers tout ! Leurs cœurs sont généreux
Et les vôtres sont froids ; je m’en vais à la cime
Autour de vous toujours tout est nuit et crime.
Je m’en vais pour combattre et mourir avec eux
Paris, janvier 1862
FOR MADAME MARIANNE MICHEL
Mother, why do you tremble when I speak of my dreams?
The slumbering fisherman envisions the strike,
And as for me, I’m not sure which distant mirage
I see blending into dawn, into night, into morning.
I am made of the storm; nothing fazes me.
Oh dear! No need to quiver: the poet’s laurel
Is sometimes a cypress, but cypresses are beautiful,
Visions shine through their branches.
Nothing can be done, can’t you see, I have something
In mind, in my soul, in my heart, an immense tempest.
Do you remember when I was a child and I heard a voice
Calling me in the middle of the night for the very first time?
A dreaming troubadour, watching the fickle mirage
Of countless visions as they slip through the shadows,
Perhaps! And yet, once more,
I do believe I will hear this voice again!
Fortify your heart, dear mother, I beg of you!
Fortune is inconsequential, life is inconsequential
To those whose love exists beyond the skies,
In immense infinity, replete with celestial bodies.
Well, yes, for the impoverished human soul,
A firefly casting an uncertain glimmer,
It is madness to love the expanding universe
When she can barely find her place on earth.
But she too is made of a desperate love
Wishing for eternity in the rat race.
Mother, why cry when your blessed name
Alone in this vast infinity could dispute it?
Château de Vroncourt, 1867
À MADAME MARIANNE MICHEL
Mère, pourquoi frémir quand je te dis mon rêve ?
Le pêcheur endormi voit en songe la grève ;
Moi, je vois je ne sais quel mirage lointain
Qui se mêle à l’aurore, à la nuit, au matin.
Je suis toute en orage, et rien ne m’inquiète.
Oh ! non, ne frémis pas : le laurier du poète
Est souvent un cyprès ; mais les cyprès sont beaux,
La vision rayonne à travers leurs rameaux.
Et puis rien n’y ferait, vois-tu, j’ai dans la tête,
Dans l’âme, dans le cœur, une immense tempête.
Te souviens-tu qu’enfant, j’entendis une voix,
M’appeler dans la nuit une première fois ?
Rêve de troubadour, qui voit passer dans l’ombre
Le mirage trompeur des visions sans nombre,
Peut-être ! Et, cependant, une seconde fois,
Ma croyance est ainsi, j’entendrai cette voix !
Raffermis donc ton cœur, ô mère, je t’en prie !
Qu’importe la fortune et qu’importe la vie
À celui dont l’amour est par delà les cieux,
Dans l’immense infini plein d’astres radieux.
Eh bien, oui, c’est folie à la pauvre âme humaine,
Luciole jetant sa lueur incertaine,
D’aimer les univers répandus dans l’espace,
Tandis que, sur la terre, à peine elle a sa place.
Mais elle est faite ainsi d’amour toujours avide,
Voulant l’éternité, dans sa course rapide.
Pourquoi pleurer quand, seul, à ce vaste infini,
Pourrait le disputer, mère, ton nom béni ?
Château de Vroncourt, 1867
Translator’s Note:
Louise Michel holds a place of honor in anarchist memory, revered for her participation in the 1871 Paris Commune, a 72 day revolutionary takeover of the city that shortly followed France’s defeat in the Franco-Prussian war. Less known is her large body of literary work spanning poetry, memoir, and fairy tales. The poems here were written at different points of Michel’s life, ranging from 1862 to 1883, but her distinct anarchist lexicon is evident throughout. There are recurring motifs: revolutionaries forged in the storm, liberation rising at dawn. Underneath her utopian mysticism is a steely pragmatism about one’s enemies. She does not underestimate their power, and yet she refuses to cede any ground. For Michel, there is no doubt: we will win.
Michel’s writing reflects the formal concerns of the 19th century, especially in her use of rhyme and the alexandrine (a poetic meter composed of 12 syllables and divided by a mid-line caesura). In classic French poetry, rhymes ending on a silent “e” are classified as “feminine;” all others are considered “masculine.” Poets were expected to alternate between feminine and masculine end rhymes, with set patterns to choose from. The thundering call to arms “À des ennemis” employs a unique F/M/FF/M structure. Writing to assuage her mother’s worries in “À Madame Marianne Michel,” she uses melodic couplets with a FF/MM scheme. Later, her piece “Anarchie” eschews traditional prosody in favor of prose poetry. Beyond formal constraints, the musicality of her work held a mnemonic function for fellow revolutionaries and future comrades. In the recordings, I’ve done my best to capture the sonic gravitas of the originals.
In my translations, I’ve taken some liberties to register her work in a more contemporary vernacular better suited to the strange music of our times. Shifting Michel’s poetry into the natural rhythms of speech places her in conversation with 20th and 21st century revolutionary literature. I brought in the Athenian anarchist Katerina Gogou, who fought military rule and police violence under the 1967-1974 Greek junta, and the Brighton-born anarcho-communist Sean Bonney, whose participation in the 2011 London uprising (a response to the police murder of Mark Duggan) informed his “prosody of riot.” Like Michel, Gogou and Bonney blended direct political address with dense, almost surreal, poetic imagery; like Michel, their poetry was rooted in careful and unflinching observations of their time and place.
I’ve found myself returning to Louise Michel’s life of principled resistance as I consider our era of technocratic fascism. Writing for the review La Vengeance anarchiste, she speaks of anarchy as a “distant glimmer akin to the lamp shining in the night,” imagining a world where justice triumphs over tyranny. This is, in fact, the light that guides my work.
Louise Michel (1830-1905) was a writer, educator, and anarchist feminist. She played a key role in the Paris Commune, where she participated in armed struggle and served on the Comité de vigilance de Montmartre. Deported to the French colony of New Caledonia in 1873, she formed close alliances with the indigenous Kanak people and taught the children of exiled Algerian dissidents. Upon returning to France, she continued to organize, frequently contributing to anarchist publications and delivering conferences in France and abroad. She is buried in the Cimetière de Levallois-Perret, outside of Paris.
Alex J. Cope is a writer and translator based in Chicago. Previously, they lived in Paris, where they hosted a multilingual queer and feminist reading series. Currently, they co-organize a free community writing workshop out of the PO Box Collective, a mutual aid and art hub, as part of its monthly poetry series. Their original poetry has been featured in The Rumpus and Pamenar, and their translation of Noah Truong’s How to Change a Body is available from selva oscura press. They are currently at work on a translation of Claude Cahun and Marcel Moore’s Views and Visions alongside an accompanying poetic diary on the queer art of translation.
BACK TO ISSUE