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Collected Poems in English and French
One of the most important playwrights and novelists of the twentieth century, Samuel Beckett was also an accomplished poet and translator. Collected Poems in English and French is a complete collection of all the poetry by the Nobel Prize-winning writer, including his poetry written originally in English and French, as well as his translations of major French poets such as Paul Eluard, Arthur Rimbaud, and Guillaume Appollinaire. The English poems include Whoroscope, his first published verse, as well as the thirteen poems first published in 1935 as Echo’s Bones and Other Preipitates. In addition, there are the dozen poems in French that Beckett wrote in 1938 and 1939, his first creative work in that language; three of these are accompanied by Beckett’s own English translations. Among the translations are those of eight Eluard poems, The Drunken Boat by Rimbaud, Zone by Apollinaire, and nine maxims by Chamfort. From his original work to his translations, Beckett’s genius and masterful use of language are on display throughout this collection.
160 pages, Paperback
Published January 21, 1994
23 people are currently reading
480 people want to read
About the author
Samuel Beckett
788books6,324followersSamuel Barclay Beckett was an Irish avant-garde novelist, playwright, theatre director, and poet, who lived in France for most of his adult life. He wrote in both English and French. His work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human nature, often coupled with black comedy and gallows humour.
Beckett is widely regarded as among the most influential writers of the 20th century. Strongly influenced by James Joyce, he is considered one of the last modernists. As an inspiration to many later writers, he is also sometimes considered one of the first postmodernists. He is one of the key writers in what Martin Esslin called the "Theatre of the Absurd". His work became increasingly minimalist in his later career.
Beckett was awarded the 1969 Nobel Prize in Literature "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation". In 1984 he was elected Saoi of Aosdána.
Beckett is widely regarded as among the most influential writers of the 20th century. Strongly influenced by James Joyce, he is considered one of the last modernists. As an inspiration to many later writers, he is also sometimes considered one of the first postmodernists. He is one of the key writers in what Martin Esslin called the "Theatre of the Absurd". His work became increasingly minimalist in his later career.
Beckett was awarded the 1969 Nobel Prize in Literature "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation". In 1984 he was elected Saoi of Aosdána.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 48 reviews
March 28, 2017
I would like my love to die
and the rain to be raining on the graveyard
and on me walking the streets
mourning her who thought she loved me
This is a triumph, a whirlwind , an elegance of emotional acuity brocaded in jaw dropping language. He drifts from idiom into the pastoral. He reflects into recesses. His odes echo. Much of this volume is Beckett's own translations of French poetry into English.
and the rain to be raining on the graveyard
and on me walking the streets
mourning her who thought she loved me
This is a triumph, a whirlwind , an elegance of emotional acuity brocaded in jaw dropping language. He drifts from idiom into the pastoral. He reflects into recesses. His odes echo. Much of this volume is Beckett's own translations of French poetry into English.
October 18, 2023
from Beckett’s translation of Rimbaud’s ‘La Bateau ivre� :
'Translations' comparison for the first stanza/chunk :
Beckett's, I like best, is all.
‘Et, dès lors, je me suis baigné dans le poème
De la mer infusé d'astres et lactescent,
Dévorant les azurs verts où, flottaison blême
Et ravie, un noyé pensif, parfois, descend;
Thenceforward, fused in the poem, milk of stars,
Of the sea, I coiled through deeps of cloudless green,
Where, dimly, they come swaying down,
Rapt and sad, singly, the drowned;�
�
‘Glaciers, soleil, d'argent, flots nacreux, cieux de braises,
Echouages hideux au fond des golfes bruns
Où les serpents géants dévorés des punaises
Choient des arbres tordus avec de noirs parfums.
Iridescent waters, glaciers, suns of silver, flagrant skies,
And dark creeks' secret ledges, horror-strewn,
Where giant reptiles, pullulant with lice,
Lapse with dark perfumes from the writhing trees.�
'Translations' comparison for the first stanza/chunk :
'And since then I’ve been bathing in the Poem
Of star-infused and milky Sea,
Devouring the azure greens, where, flotsom pale,
A brooding corpse at times drifts by;'
- Louise Varèse,
'And from then on, I immersed myself in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused by stars and lactescent,
Devouring the green azure; where a floater pale
And happy, a pensive carcass, might descend;'
- Mark Polizzotti,
Beckett's, I like best, is all.
May 10, 2023
Depois dessas semanas de dengue e internação por problemas cardíacos, finalmente voltei a ler com diligência e estou tentando terminar os livros começados em abril.
Essa edição do Beckett da Relicário está Soberba, além de ser trilingue (inglês, francês e português), há uma ótima introdução do Marcos Siscar e notas ao fim do volume enquadrando cada poema.
Como emérito genro de Joyce, o que mais me encantou na poesia de Beckett é a forma que utiliza a linguagem, especialmente quando lança mão de jogos de palavras.
Essa edição do Beckett da Relicário está Soberba, além de ser trilingue (inglês, francês e português), há uma ótima introdução do Marcos Siscar e notas ao fim do volume enquadrando cada poema.
Como emérito genro de Joyce, o que mais me encantou na poesia de Beckett é a forma que utiliza a linguagem, especialmente quando lança mão de jogos de palavras.
September 29, 2024
She is standing on my lids
And her hair is in my hair
She has the colour of my eye
She has the body of my mind
In my shade she is engulfed
As a stone against the sky
She will never close her eyes
And she does not let me sleep
And her dreams in the bright day
Make the suns evaporate
And me laugh cry and laugh
Speak when I have nothing to say
� Beckett's translation of Paul Eluard's Lady Love
August 9, 2018
I did not know a large section of the book was untranslated poems in French, so I thought you should. And then another large section is Beckett's Englishing of other Francopoems. But what Beckett there is here is enough to make me never want to leave the house again.
April 7, 2022
Translated poems of other poets, but his are not for some reason. Was a fun exercise either way and will continue the poem a day from another author.
Someone please recommend me their favorite Beckett as I clearly did not connect with his play or poetry.
Someone please recommend me their favorite Beckett as I clearly did not connect with his play or poetry.
Read
February 2, 2023(Part of my current project of reading everything Beckett published in precise chronological order.)
Beckett wasn't (and oughtn't) to be remembered most for his poetry. There are many excellent poems here. However, with the exception of Beckett's very first poem ("Whoroscope") and his very last poem ("What is the Word"), very few of them stand out for me as particularly memorable. The best poems, I'd say, are from the last phase of his life, when most of his prose was itself essentially prose poetry. So, for example, the poems that make up the series Long After Chamfort, as well as his 'mirlitonnades' are excellent. The earlier poetry, though, suffers even more than the earlier prose from Beckett's early artistic impediments: overly erudite, overly obscure, overly indebted to Joyce (sometimes in positively cringe-inducing ways).
A major bonus of this volume, though, is that it contains Beckett's translations of poetry by other writers into English. It's fascinating to speculate about why Beckett found a particular poet worth taking time away from his own writing to devote the hard labor of translation. I found it especially interesting that Beckett translated Alfred Jarry (one of my favorite writers as a teenager), Henri Michaux (a writer I only discovered a few years ago, but who quickly became one of my all-time favorites), and many poems for an anthology of Mexican poetry.
Beckett wasn't (and oughtn't) to be remembered most for his poetry. There are many excellent poems here. However, with the exception of Beckett's very first poem ("Whoroscope") and his very last poem ("What is the Word"), very few of them stand out for me as particularly memorable. The best poems, I'd say, are from the last phase of his life, when most of his prose was itself essentially prose poetry. So, for example, the poems that make up the series Long After Chamfort, as well as his 'mirlitonnades' are excellent. The earlier poetry, though, suffers even more than the earlier prose from Beckett's early artistic impediments: overly erudite, overly obscure, overly indebted to Joyce (sometimes in positively cringe-inducing ways).
A major bonus of this volume, though, is that it contains Beckett's translations of poetry by other writers into English. It's fascinating to speculate about why Beckett found a particular poet worth taking time away from his own writing to devote the hard labor of translation. I found it especially interesting that Beckett translated Alfred Jarry (one of my favorite writers as a teenager), Henri Michaux (a writer I only discovered a few years ago, but who quickly became one of my all-time favorites), and many poems for an anthology of Mexican poetry.
January 27, 2023
Beckett wrote more poems than initially I had thought; his first poem, Whoroscope, was a little collage about religion and Descartes, and was the main reason we know of his name today, being that on the strength of which Yeats recommended him to Joyce for secretarial work. He also has his own little Dubliners-esque collection, written in the abstract but contemplating on the stasis of Ireland, in Echo's Bones (later the title for another early story about Dante and Irish mythology), and a number of cute epigrams such as The Gnome (relevant for 2023? I think gnomes are a 'meme' now):
"Spend the years of learning squandering
Courage for the years of wandering
Through a world politely turning
From the loutishness of learning."
His poems in French are more intense, abstract mediations on coming and going, living and dying, etc, written in the sentence-less, topic-less nature of his post 1950s prose writings, and bearing some resemblance to the post-Apollinairean french poesie (of which I know very little, so I can't say more). Some are translated, others aren't, and reading comparing those that are suggests that at least certain aspects of Beckett's style are much purer and more striking in the French (often translated pretty literally). I'm fondest of 'Arenes de Lutece', a poem almost directly about walking around a Paris neighborhood, but really about the ineffable absence of something je ne sais quoi.
<< De là où nous sommes assis plus haut que les gradins
je nous vois entrer du côté de la Rue des Arènes,
hésiter, regarder en l'air, puis pesamment
venir vers nous à travers le sable sombre,
de plus en plus laids, aussi laids que les autres,
mais muets. Un petit chien vert
entre en courant du côté de la Rue Monge,
elle s'arrête, elle le suit des yeux,
il traverse l'arène, il disparait
derrière le socle du savant Gabriel de Mortillet.
Elle se retourne, je suis parti, je gravis seul
les marches rustiques, je touche de ma main gauche
la rampe rustique, elle est en béton. Elle hésite,
fait un pas vers la sortie de la Rue Monge, puis me suit.
J'ai un frisson, c'est moi qui me rejoins,
c'est avec d'autres yeux que maintenant je regarde
le sable, les flaques d'eau sous la bruine,
une petite fille traînant derrière elle un cerceau,
un couple, qui sait des amoureux, la main dans la main,
les gradins vides, les hautes maisons, le ciel
qui nous éclaire trop tard.
Je me retourne, je suis étonné
de trouver là son triste visage. >>
Finally included are a number of translations Beckett did, primarily of a poet named Paul Eluard whose works are similarly abstract reflexions, although more literally coherent and generally a radical extension of the 19th century symbolistes (it seems he was a pivotal surrealiste). Beckett translates very literally, including here and there exaggerated idioms for effect, although I prefer these poems for their inclusion more than for any merit of Beckett's adequate translation ... there is also Rimbaud's Bateau Ivre and Apollinaire's Zone, both magnificent poems.
"Spend the years of learning squandering
Courage for the years of wandering
Through a world politely turning
From the loutishness of learning."
His poems in French are more intense, abstract mediations on coming and going, living and dying, etc, written in the sentence-less, topic-less nature of his post 1950s prose writings, and bearing some resemblance to the post-Apollinairean french poesie (of which I know very little, so I can't say more). Some are translated, others aren't, and reading comparing those that are suggests that at least certain aspects of Beckett's style are much purer and more striking in the French (often translated pretty literally). I'm fondest of 'Arenes de Lutece', a poem almost directly about walking around a Paris neighborhood, but really about the ineffable absence of something je ne sais quoi.
<< De là où nous sommes assis plus haut que les gradins
je nous vois entrer du côté de la Rue des Arènes,
hésiter, regarder en l'air, puis pesamment
venir vers nous à travers le sable sombre,
de plus en plus laids, aussi laids que les autres,
mais muets. Un petit chien vert
entre en courant du côté de la Rue Monge,
elle s'arrête, elle le suit des yeux,
il traverse l'arène, il disparait
derrière le socle du savant Gabriel de Mortillet.
Elle se retourne, je suis parti, je gravis seul
les marches rustiques, je touche de ma main gauche
la rampe rustique, elle est en béton. Elle hésite,
fait un pas vers la sortie de la Rue Monge, puis me suit.
J'ai un frisson, c'est moi qui me rejoins,
c'est avec d'autres yeux que maintenant je regarde
le sable, les flaques d'eau sous la bruine,
une petite fille traînant derrière elle un cerceau,
un couple, qui sait des amoureux, la main dans la main,
les gradins vides, les hautes maisons, le ciel
qui nous éclaire trop tard.
Je me retourne, je suis étonné
de trouver là son triste visage. >>
Finally included are a number of translations Beckett did, primarily of a poet named Paul Eluard whose works are similarly abstract reflexions, although more literally coherent and generally a radical extension of the 19th century symbolistes (it seems he was a pivotal surrealiste). Beckett translates very literally, including here and there exaggerated idioms for effect, although I prefer these poems for their inclusion more than for any merit of Beckett's adequate translation ... there is also Rimbaud's Bateau Ivre and Apollinaire's Zone, both magnificent poems.
January 7, 2024
cascando cascando cascando !!!
June 12, 2024
redeem the surrogate goodbyes
the sheet astream in your hand
who have no more for the land
and the glass unmisted above your eyes
August 17, 2024
je voudrais que mon amour meure
qu'il pleuve sur le cimetière
et les ruelles où je vais
pleurant celle qui crut m'aimer
—Ĕ�
I would like my love to die
and the rain to be raining on the graveyard
and on me walking the streets
mourning her who thought she loved me
qu'il pleuve sur le cimetière
et les ruelles où je vais
pleurant celle qui crut m'aimer
—Ĕ�
I would like my love to die
and the rain to be raining on the graveyard
and on me walking the streets
mourning her who thought she loved me
April 18, 2022
spend the years of learning squandering
Courage for the years of wandering
Through a world politely turning
From the loutishness of learning
---
asylum under my tread all this day
their muffled revels as the flesh falls
breaking without fear or favour wind
the gantelope of sense and nonsense run
taken by the maggots for what they are
---
they come
different and the same
with each it is different and the same
with each the absence of love is different
with each the absence of love is the same
---
my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end
my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts
---
something there
where
out there
out where
outside
what
the head what else
something there somewhere outside
the head
at the faint sound so brief
it is gone and the whole globe
not yet bare
the eye
opens wide
wide
til in the end
nothing more
shutters it again
so the odd time
out there
somewhere out there
like as if
as if
something
not life
necessarily
---
pas à pas
nulle part
nul seul
ne sait comment
petits pas
nulle part
DzپéԳ
---
ê
sans fin
ni tê
à rien
Courage for the years of wandering
Through a world politely turning
From the loutishness of learning
---
asylum under my tread all this day
their muffled revels as the flesh falls
breaking without fear or favour wind
the gantelope of sense and nonsense run
taken by the maggots for what they are
---
they come
different and the same
with each it is different and the same
with each the absence of love is different
with each the absence of love is the same
---
my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end
my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts
---
something there
where
out there
out where
outside
what
the head what else
something there somewhere outside
the head
at the faint sound so brief
it is gone and the whole globe
not yet bare
the eye
opens wide
wide
til in the end
nothing more
shutters it again
so the odd time
out there
somewhere out there
like as if
as if
something
not life
necessarily
---
pas à pas
nulle part
nul seul
ne sait comment
petits pas
nulle part
DzپéԳ
---
ê
sans fin
ni tê
à rien
May 13, 2019
A fantastic collection of Beckett’s poetry in English and French.
December 20, 2019
a wonderful collection of this wise genius' poetry, both his own and his translations (German, Spanish, French!!). he was such a wordsmith, everything's so crazy and scary and disturbing and hilarious at the same time. you laugh, you feel like crying (but you don't, exactly, because you feel that overwhelming masculinity every once and a while that makes you lurch enough not to, ala Hemingway), you reflect and feel and create along with him. it was Lewis Carroll, I believe, who invented the portmanteau; I feel like Beckett invented a whole lot more than that. there were several poems, both Beckett's and translations, that made me make strange noises out loud, made my soul sing, made my heart dance, and ultimately inspired me. I highly recommend for when you want an odd day of reading! I promise you you'll like some aspect of his writing, and if you don't like him, you have dozens of French and Mexican poets to try for yourself instead. !!! it's a great start for Beckett, too, if you've never got around to Waiting for Godot or Endgame (oh, Endgame. you are a star.). but of course I recommend those, too.
November 28, 2015
The fact that 'Whoroscope' has pride of place as the first poem in this collection pretty much says it all about Beckett's poetry: it is astonishingly misogynistic, and full of utterly underwhelming smug puns and references. Oh, look! He combined the words 'prostitute' and 'prosciutto', such dizzying intelligence! (The line actually reads, 'Two ovaries lashed with prostiscuitto', which is awful on many levels and profound on absolutely none.)
Whilst in his novels and plays there has always been something, however slight, that I have respected, I can honestly say I found nothing in Beckett's poetry to admire. As he writes in 'Tailpiece', these poems 'nothingness/ in words enclose' - they amount to nothing other than pretentiousness and misogyny, the French poems included.
Whilst in his novels and plays there has always been something, however slight, that I have respected, I can honestly say I found nothing in Beckett's poetry to admire. As he writes in 'Tailpiece', these poems 'nothingness/ in words enclose' - they amount to nothing other than pretentiousness and misogyny, the French poems included.
April 23, 2020
If you love Beckett and his poetry this is the perfect book for you. It’s filled with his known and less known poetry. If you have issues understanding absurde poetry more than 50% of this books contains notes on every of the poems so you get a nice overview and information of his writing and the meanings of the poems.
Only minus imo is that some of his french poetry does not have translations. Makes it quite hard to read as a non-french speaker.
Only minus imo is that some of his french poetry does not have translations. Makes it quite hard to read as a non-french speaker.
October 30, 2010
A neat little edition that pretty well covers his poetic output. Also contains nice translations of Eluard, Rimbaud, Apollinaire, and Chamfort.
September 11, 2012
I like the poems in english better than the french ones, or his translations. An interesting collection format. Some great lines in here, and a cool shout out to Joyce.
July 11, 2015
The Poems by Samuel Beckett that I really enjoyed from this collection are Serena I, Serena II, and Cascando. I loved the poems by Sébastien Chamfort, they were short and sweet and clever.
July 21, 2022
The man definitely had a hemorrhoid problem.
August 1, 2024
"Viene con las cenizas como en esa luz vieja el rostro en las cenizas aquella vieja luz de las estrellas en la tierra otra vez."
"por ahí un grito lejano para alguien tan pequeño bellos narcisos luego marzo"
"qué haría yo yo haría como ayer como hoy mirando por mi tragaluz si no estoy solo dando vueltas errando lejos de toda vida en un títere espacio sin voz entre las voces encerradas conmigo"
"viejo ir viejas paradas ir ausente ausente detenerse"
"palabras supervivientes de la vida un poco más aún hacedle compañía"
"corazón, qué oquedad, y dentro cuánta suciedad"
"Locura dado lo de - visto � locura visto lo - lo � cómo decir � esto este esto � esto de aquí � todo este esto de aquí locura dado todo lo � visto locura visto todo este esto de aquí de de cómo decir � ver -"
"entrever � creer entrever � querer creer entrever � locura de querer creer entrever qué � qué cómo decir � y dónde de querer creer entrever qué dónde dónde cómo decir �"
"locura dado todo esto - viendo � locura viendo todo este esto aquí para que � qué palabra � ver � entrever -"
"por ahí un grito lejano para alguien tan pequeño bellos narcisos luego marzo"
"qué haría yo yo haría como ayer como hoy mirando por mi tragaluz si no estoy solo dando vueltas errando lejos de toda vida en un títere espacio sin voz entre las voces encerradas conmigo"
"viejo ir viejas paradas ir ausente ausente detenerse"
"palabras supervivientes de la vida un poco más aún hacedle compañía"
"corazón, qué oquedad, y dentro cuánta suciedad"
"Locura dado lo de - visto � locura visto lo - lo � cómo decir � esto este esto � esto de aquí � todo este esto de aquí locura dado todo lo � visto locura visto todo este esto de aquí de de cómo decir � ver -"
"entrever � creer entrever � querer creer entrever � locura de querer creer entrever qué � qué cómo decir � y dónde de querer creer entrever qué dónde dónde cómo decir �"
"locura dado todo esto - viendo � locura viendo todo este esto aquí para que � qué palabra � ver � entrever -"
April 2, 2018
The book is divided into three sections--Beckett's English poems, Beckett's French poems (a few translated by the author himself; the remainder in French alone), and poems by French authors translated by Beckett. Beckett's poetry doesn't really "cut it" for me. It lacks the rhythms of favorite poets and uses a less polite vocabulary. While I enjoyed some of his shorter poems (in both English and French), the ones beyond about a dozen lines did not engage me. I enjoyed some of the other French poems but not others. Beckett's talent must lie in other forms of writing.
November 10, 2020
Beckettova poezie je stejně (u)jetá jako jeho próza a úplně stejně v ní mísí bahno absurdna s lehkým komičnem. Není to lehké čtení, ale když ho neberete vážně, dokáže pobavit a zaujmout. Čteno v anglicko-francouzském vydání. Za mě dvě pasáže:
"I am sick with hearing the words of bliss
The love I endure is like a syphilis"
"Live and clean forget from day to day
Mop life up as fast as it dribbles away"
"I am sick with hearing the words of bliss
The love I endure is like a syphilis"
"Live and clean forget from day to day
Mop life up as fast as it dribbles away"
June 27, 2023
This complete collection of Beckett’s poetry allows for a terrific little journey along his artistic milestones. There’s a nod to Joyce, a lot of modernism, his love for French poetry, and a refined and unique style of his own in various pieces. Favourites: Malacoda (p. 26), Home Olga (p. 8), and Cascando (p. 29).
A good companion to his collected drama works. His verse highlights the beauty he beheld in the absurd.
A good companion to his collected drama works. His verse highlights the beauty he beheld in the absurd.
January 14, 2023
Echo’s Bones and Other Precipitates *** -- Beckett’s language is playful and erudite, but I don’t think you need to know all the references to enjoy the impish language. In fact, I think you can question the value of some of the footnotes. It would be helpful if you understand French and several other languages.
Beckett’s early poetry isn’t as strong as some of his other writings.
Beckett’s early poetry isn’t as strong as some of his other writings.
February 27, 2024
La traduction en anglais n'est pas terrible parfois, pas aussi percutante et élaborée, je me suis focus sur le côté français.
Samuel Beckett s'est avéré plus compréhensible au final en poèmes qu'en romans 😂 Certains m'ont inspirée, beaucoup m'ont laissée sans trop de réaction, c'est selon les goûts de chacun.
Mais c'est toujours un plaisir de lire de la poésie pour moi.
Samuel Beckett s'est avéré plus compréhensible au final en poèmes qu'en romans 😂 Certains m'ont inspirée, beaucoup m'ont laissée sans trop de réaction, c'est selon les goûts de chacun.
Mais c'est toujours un plaisir de lire de la poésie pour moi.
March 8, 2021
Un poemario sorprendente y experimental que demuestra que la DZí puede ser totalmente libre. Interesantísimo selección poética, también el prólogo y las anotaciones finales. Una edición que no tiene desperdicio
May 31, 2021
I'm not saying it was bad, it just did not speak to me - perhaps to French/Irish and I cannot relate. As someone who also writes poetry I sincerely hopes it will speak to someone else... looking at the reviews I see there is lots of people who do like it.
Read
May 8, 2023“In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg�
“must it be it must be it must be�
“the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words�
“must it be it must be it must be�
“the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words�
January 15, 2025
Algumas boas
Algumas ruins
Algumas absurdas
Algumas difíceis demais
Algumas fáceis demais
Algumas verdadeiras demais
Ótima edição. Trazer toda a poesia do beckett em uma edição só e de modo primoroso. Incrível!
Algumas ruins
Algumas absurdas
Algumas difíceis demais
Algumas fáceis demais
Algumas verdadeiras demais
Ótima edição. Trazer toda a poesia do beckett em uma edição só e de modo primoroso. Incrível!
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