Clair de Lune
(Recorded on July the seventh on the Carnival Fantasy)
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Clair de Lune
(Recorded on May the tenth 2017 in the Grand Piano Lounge on the Carnival Splendor.)
Debussy originally wrote “Clair de Lune” (“Moonlight”) in 1890 for “Suite Bergamasque.” Originally the piece was entitled “Promenade Sentimentale” but was changed to “Clair de Lune” in 1905. The inspiration for this change in the title was taken from a poem written by Paul Verlaine in 1869.
Here is that poem:
Votre âme est un paysage choisi
Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques
Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.
Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur
L'amour vainqueur et la vie opportune
Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur
Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,
Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres
Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau,
Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres.
Your soul is a chosen landscape
Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go
Playing the lute and dancing and almost
Sad beneath their fanciful disguises.
All sing in a minor key
Of victorious love and the opportune life,
They do not seem to believe in their happiness
And their song mingles with the moonlight,
With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,
That sets the birds dreaming in the trees
And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,
The tall slender fountains among marble statues.
My re-translation/reinterpretation
The world of your choosing lies deep within you
A curious abode where the charming harlequins of old Bergamo go
Where they strum upon tawdry Spanish lutes and dance down that dreamlike and ancient avenue
Forever hiding their forlorn, their tired & time-worn faces, ah, but you know; yes you know.
You can hear it in their lilting and joyous revelries of things-yet-to-be – each one sung in the darkest of keys.
Songs that boast and songs that brag; silly songs that fly through the night and then disappear.
Into the mystic moonlight do they sail upon wings of pomp & guile, like wayward moths upon a soft and summer breeze.
And the Moon – she sees their bold and blind charade - but she never hears; no, she never hears.
In her perfect stillness I bathe in the wistful silence of her pale and waning light
Whilst it casts the robin, the finch and the sparrow into dreams outré, so very, very far away
Inciting the fountains to gush forth their rapturous tears – as they embrace the insistent and nigh-aphotic night.
Amidst the svelte and silent gods of stone and marble they rise - with not a word to say, no, not a word to say.
The world of your choosing lies deep within you
A curious abode where the charming harlequins of old Bergamo go,
Where they strum upon age-stained spruce and rosewood lutes,
Dancing, singing; changing places, forever hiding their forlorn, tired and time-worn faces.
Ah, but you know; yes you know.
Twisted memories-cum-wanton prophecies of things-ne’er-meant-to-be – each one sung in the darkest of keys.
Songs that boast and songs that brag; songs that ring through night then disappear.
Away do they sail, in a rustic sort of way or style; entranced by their pomp; adorned in their guile.
And the Moon – she sees their bold and blind charade - but she never hears, no she never hears.
In her perfect stillness I bathe in the wistful silence of her pale and mysterious light,
Mystic beams that cast the birds into dreams outré, so very, very far away
Inciting fountains to gush forth with rapturous tears – whilst lost in the moonlit-drear of a fair and pure, erotic night.
Amidst the svelte and silent gods of stone and marble they rise; they play - with not a word to say, no, not a word to say.
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I have created a synthesized version of this piece. Click to arrive...