Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Nicoletta - It's dead, the sun.


Not really the type of songs I usually put up here but eh.
Original Title: "Il est mort le soleil"
It's dead! The sun is dead!
When you left me. Summer is dead!
Love and the sun are the same.

It's dead! The sun is dead!
And I am the only one to mourn
And daylight does not pass my threshold anymore

Yesterday, the color I liked the best
It was the color of your eyes
It was the color of the sea
It was yesterday

It's dead! The sun is dead!
Shadow is on my life
In my heart: the rain
And my soul is dressing up in grey

Yesterday, we were sleeping on the warm sand
Yesterday, the weather was fine for us
The weather was fine even in winter
It was yesterday

It's dead! The sun is dead!
When you left me. Summer is dead!
Love and the sun are the same.
It's the same.

Monday, December 21, 2015

Charles Trenet - The most beautiful night


Original Title: "La plus belle nuit"
It's the most beautiful night
Since the beginning of times
It's Christmas night
The night of a poor kid
Of Jesus, son of God
Who came down on earth
So that the anxious hearts
are not lonely anymore
So that the peace of the world
Arrives and that down here
Hope, charity
Comes to guide our steps
Oh joy of Bethleem
Thank you for your light
Which changes in one day
The face of the earth

Christmas! Christmas!
Jesus is born!
It's the most beautiful night of the year
Christmas! Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!
Jesus is eternal!

Worker for the Lord
Among the workers
Only leaving your work
To go pray
My God of Nazareth
With a tranquil childhood
Jesus you are going to grow up
Humble, sweet and docile.
The house of your Father
is the temple of God
It's there that you promise
The Kingdom of Heaven
To those who will follow you
And that finally you forgive
While dieing on the Cross
All the sins of men.

Christmas! Christmas!
Jesus is born!
It's the most beautiful night of the year
Christmas! Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!
Jesus is eternal!

Sunday, December 20, 2015

Jacques Bertin - God's fool


Original Title: "Le fou de Dieu"
I am not God's fool anymore
High verb and hands in the pockets
I lost track of the good Lord
One morning behind the post office

Life does not have that look of a woman
And her wide open blouse
And her tenderness and her warmth
And all my love is in a bad way

I am now without star
Sensitive to the cold in my coat of pride
Beating the air of a boastful verb
And I mend my ankle socks

Life does not have that chest anymore
The breasts where I was running bare feet
The rump where my twenty years old were rolling
And that belly heavy and tranquil

It does not have that face so delicate
Those eyes of a curly haired princess
With that endless song to the lips
Delicate and sweet and strong and forceful

I have at the bottom of myself a dead God
Who still dreams and smiles
I won't do the pretty heart
Under the windows of life

And yet I still sing
My song of love and pride
Against the reason of the toads
One has to die alive all the same

And here is life which comes back
With its loving gait
With my blood rising inside of me
Like after a very long journey

The eyes, the evening and sweetness
The summer of that hair we fade
The sand with its powerful body
You will make me die of love
La la la.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Serge Reggiani - Sarah (The woman who is in my bed)


Original Title: "La femme qui est dans mon lit"
If you meet her, weirdly dressed
Dragging in the gutter an heel lost
And the head and the eye low like a wounded pigeon
Sirs do not spit swearwords nor filth
To the painted face of that poor impur one
Who goddess Famine has one evening of winter
Forced to lift her petticoats in open air

That Bohemia is my good, my wealth
My pearl, my jewel, my queen my queen

The woman who is in my bed, isn't twenty years old for a long time
The eyes rung by years, by loves day-to-day
The mouth worn out by kisses too often and too badly given
The bleak complexion despite the blusher more pale than a moon's spot

The woman who is in my bed, isn't twenty years old for a long time
The breasts so heavy of too much love do not carry the name of baits
The body weary, too caressed, too often, but badly loved
The back stooped seems to carry memories she had to run away from

The woman who is in my bed, isn't twenty years old for a long time
Don't laugh, don't touch her, keep your tears and your sarcasm
When night reunites us, her body, her hands offer themselves to mine
And its her heart covered with tears and wounds which reassures me.

Another version:

Anne Vanderlove - Bernard Lavilliers - The big tide


Original Title: "La grande marée"
Text: Bernard Lavilliers

An idol with feet of clay watches over the border
Kids with fragile hands play with the dirt
The widows with long feverish fingers distil the tea
An old man with tranquil eyes gets out of the smoke

It's the big tide, the big tide, the big tide
It's the big tide, the big tide, the big tide

A king paraylised by loneliness on his derisory throne
A coffee, a clock, a piece of sidewalk
A wake up sinister and funny on the shoulder of a worker
Who is going at the end of the mole, toward eternity

It's the big tide, the big tide, the big tide
It's the big tide, the big tide, the big tide

The kids playing under the shadow of the truncheons
The weather that is, six months of prison in Maniac
A star has fallen in my guitar
If I was a believer, it'd be a gift from the sky

It's the big tide, the big tide, the big tide
It's the big tide, the big tide, the big tide

The streets have no nooks anymore, no more dead angles
It eases the balance of powers
There are no lovers anymore, no public benches anymore
We are forever tanned
Our vocabulary is reduced to fifty words
We plug our sexes in the local supply
And our spermatozoids are calibrated and placed in banks
They serve as currency to the eunuchs who govern us
Our society of abundance is making marvels, there is only one class left
Though when reflecting upon it there is another one
But we are advised against thinking
We never make love anymore, except once in a while
With the wardens who watches over us
Mine is frigid.

It's the big tide, the big tide, the big tide
It's the big tide, the big tide, the big tide
Bernard Lavilliers original version:

Friday, December 18, 2015

Jacques Bertin - They lie down side by side


Original Title: "Ils s'allongent côte à côte"
They lie down side by side,
Head turned toward the sky
Head turned toward the sky
Like they do for thirty years

Maybe they are already a little in the sky
Because of the peace surrounding them
As if they were in a small boat
Hear turned toward the sky

Around the house, the Virginia creeper
That he had planted the first day
Carries them and protects them
Or it's the night which protects them
and which carries them

And it's as if the evening
And every evening
They were going away
Toward God maybe
Who is like some sort of estuary
More luminous than the night in the night.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Georges Brassens - Misogyny aside


Original Title: "Misogynie à part"
Misogyny aside, the wise man was right
There are the annoying ones, you can find plenty of them
They are pressing in a crowd.
There are the damned nuissances, a bit more refined
And then clearly the pick of the bunch
There are the buggeresses.

Mine, alone, bids higher over them all
She comes under the three categories at the same time
Genuine prodigy
Annoying, nuisance and buggeress as well
She passes, she goes past, she surpasses everything
She gets on my nerves, I tell you

My God, forgive me for those quite bitter words
She gets on my nerves, she gets on my nerves, she gets on my nerves,
She abuses, she oversteps the mark
She gets on my nerves and I regret my pretty loves with
The little children of Mary the bishop whispered to me
She gets on my nerves, I tell you

She gets on my nerves, she gets on my nerves
And forces me to clean my nails before to confirm her ass
And yet, it's not callipygian
And charity only pushes my resigned hand
Toward that ass, killjoy, conical, sullen
She gets on my nerves, I tell you

She gets on my nerves, she gets on my nerves, I repeat it and when
She pats my belly, she keeps her gloves
And that offends me
Aside that it denotes of a serious lack of tact
It does not favour contact that much
She gets on my nerves, I tell you

She gets on my nerves, she gets on my nerves, when I fall on my knees
For some kind of devotions which are typically local
And which gives vertigo
Thinking it is time to sing the Creed
She opens wide her missal on my back
She gets on my nerves, I tell you

She gets on my nerves, she gets on my nerves, to the fornication
She gets bored stiff, she gets bored stiff with ostentation
She gets bored stiff, I tell you
Instead of shouting: "More! Come on! Come on!"
She declaims some Claudel, some Claudel that's what I said
Well then it freezes me!

She gets on my nerves, she gets on my nerves, I admit that that Claudel
is a man of genius, an immortal poet,
I recognise his prestige
But that one gets from his pious work
An aphrodisiac, no, that's clear utopia.
She gets on my nerves, I tell you
She gets on my nerves, I tell you

Live version:

Another Live (ina.fr)

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Jacques Bertin - In Besançon


Original title: "A Besançon"
In Besançon that year,
A thousand men and women stood up.

Do we do verses with immediate news?
Poet, is it your role to testify for the birthing fire?
Can one write songs on those women
Who put themselves on Sunday² for eight months because it had to be shown
That we were respectable people
And that the strike, it's not carelessness it's strictness

Thus you make verses with the dignity of others
Poet, from your bedroom among your books
Is it fit to salute the working class
From far, when maybe, your verses, she would not understand anything to them?

You'll have to resign yourself to it
The spark it is not me
I go from town to town
I carry the fire, I am the blood
Oh young women, who came down on Besançon
That year, toward the fifteen August while carrying like a sacrifice
Your clamors because it was the first time and you were a big scared
I stay on the edge of you, shy, not daring to do anything
Can one do verses with the solemnity of your gestures and your honor?

You stood up
Suddenly you became the hope of the world
The hope of the world, you, small clothes-conscious ladies and ordinary, without passion
The first day, one of you said "The strike will be long
It's with the feet in the snow that we'll end"
It's thus easy to make verses about courage and about fear

One makes verses with hope, with life
With nails clinging to the reality
With words which have been whispered to me that winter
In Besançon because the wind blows in the back of the poet
And riddles him with words which does not belong to him

² A saying to say that they weren't pay/took a pay leave.
Another version:

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Monique Morelli - François Villon - Epistle to my friends


Original Title: "Epître à mes amis"
Have pity, have pity of me
At least, please, my friends
In grave I lie down, not under holy nor may
In that exile to which I am sent
By Fortune, like it was allowed by God
Girls liking young people and new
Dancers, jumpers, making the calf's foot²
Vivacious like javelins, sharp like stings
Ringing throat clear like bells³

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

Cantors singing at leisure, without law,
Gallants laughing, pleasing in facts and words,
Itinerant merchant going frank with fake gold, of alloy,
People of spirit, a little scatterbrain,
Resurrect too much because he dies in the meanwhile
Maker of lays, of motets and rondeaux,
When dead will be, you will make him chaudeaux*
Where he lays down, no lightning nor whirlwind enters
With thick walls his bandages have been made

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

Come to see him in that pitiful equipage
Noble men, free of quarter and tenth**,
Who hold nothing of Emperor nor King
But only of God of Paradise
To go without food he needs on Sundays and Tuesdays
Whose teeth has longer than rake
After dry bread, not after cakes
In his bowels pours water gushing out
Deep in ground, table has not nor trestles

Named princes, old, striplings,
Obtain me pardon and royal seals.
And carry me up in some basket
As the pigs do, to one another
Because, where one brays, they run away in a heap

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

²Lifting the leg of a comical way when dancing
³Cascaveaux could be the bells shaken to announce plague epidemics
*drink made of pouring warm milk over an egg
**apparently referring to tax and tithe

Sunday, November 29, 2015

Jean-Roger Caussimon - Girls like that


Original Title: "Des filles comm'ça"
There are girls like that
Who have the heart like an island

No need to be beautiful, don't put your Sunday's clothes
Go foward into the sea, lie down on your back
Let yourself drift placid and float on your back
Shout I am the drunken boat of Arthur Rimbaud
I amn ot a happy person, life is a problem
Happiness is so far away, I have looked for it so much
I become an orphan if noone loves me
And a girl like that will come to fish you out

There are girls like that
Who have the heart like an island
With sweet beaches
Some rocks of sort
To make everyone believe
That it's difficult
That it's difficult
To approach them

At her home a woodfire as soon as september ends
Sunshine in spring and shadow in summer
You'll be like a King in your dressrobe
That many before you have worn no doubt
You'll be pampered without having anything to say
Only love phrases or her first name sings
You'll have to prove her how much you desire her
And a girl like that will never saw no.

There are girls like that
Who have the heart like an island
With sweet beaches
Some rocks of sort
To make everyone believe
That it's difficult
That it's difficult
To approach them

That daily love and of every second
Will give you the idea that there must exist
Some girls to love at every corners of the world
So you'll go away enamoured of freedom
Then another guy will come to live with her
But for how long? Maybe for ever
With each new lover the hope is new
And a girl like that dreams of a single love.

There are girls like that
Who have the heart like an island
With sweet beaches
Some rocks of sort
To make everyone believe
That it's difficult
That it's difficult
To approach them

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Jacques Bertin - The supervisor of the high school for girls



Original Title: "La pionne du lycée des filles"
The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

She is crazy indeed, she runs in the street
Cleaving through groups for fifty years
With the look of not seeing anything, covered head, bare head.
She rushes towards climaxes, towards returns, and her twenties

At the highschool, year nineteen hundred thirty eight, the look of a prince
A science graduate, gold-rimmed spectacles and blue eyes,
Has arrived, a match for the whole province.
All those girls of canons and egg merchants

The city is grey and the rain tells its breviary every day
As soon as seven o'clock rings we curl up in its walls
We change the flowers in the vases, we marry our daughter, we spare the light
We change nothing, the money oozes, the students have a tough gaze

In her bedroom over the canal, he was reading her Apollinaire for the other silence
And the music in his eyes, the pretty pupil of war from Montfort-over-Meu
Then, in september, it was the end of the holidays
He was so well in the blue uniform

Thifty years ago those days, the time passes only for those who count
He jumped over Norway, in may. Only mad love defies the time
The poet said "Why don't I have...." and "Remember that I am waiting for you"
As long as this city lasts, lasts life, I wait for you

The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

Go in your despise of mankind, of the reasonable people
Black and blue flower, dead-living flower which casts itself in the azures
"The streets are narrowing" He said, the drift of the continents is unavoidable
You spray rains of stars over the walls

The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Jacques Brel - Song without words


Original Title: "Chanson sans paroles"

I'd have liked my beauty
To write you a song
On this melody
Met one night
I'd have liked my beauty
Just at the Alençon lace
To write you a long poem
To write you a long I love you

I'd have told you "love"
I'd have told you "always"
But of a thousand ways
But through a thousand detours
I'd have told you "Let's leave"
I'd have told you "Let's burn
Let's burn from day to day
From season to season"

But the time for the idea
To lit up on the paper
The time to take a quillpen
The time to sharpen it
But the time to tell myself
How am I going to write it
And the time arrived
When you did not love me anymore

Friday, November 13, 2015

Monique Morelli - Villon - Poor I am


This is an extract of the great will of Villon.
Original Title: "Pauvre je suis"
In the thirtieh year of my age
That all my shames I'd have drunk
Nor completely crazy, nor completely wise
In spite of many sorrows I had

Which I all received
Under the hand of Thibaut d'Aussigny...
If Bishop he is, lording the streets,
That he is mine I deny him!

My lord he is not, nor my bishop
Under him nothing holds if not lieing fallow
Faith owes him no tribute
I am not his serf nor his doe
Fed with a small loaf
and of cold water a whole summer
Broad or narrow, a lot has been meagre to me
Let God be to him like he was to me.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

And if someone wants to reprimand me
And say that I curse him
Not done, if one can well understand
In no way do I speak ill of him

Here is all the bad that I have to say:
If he has been mercifull to me
Jesus, the king of paradise
Let him be alike to the soul and body!

If he has been tough and cruel to me
Much more than here is told
I want that the eternal God
Is to him then alike to that account

And if the church tells us and relates
That we should pray for our enemies
I would tell you: "I am wrong and ashamed
Whatever he did to, commited it to God"

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Over poverty bemoaning
Many times the heart tells me:
"Man, do not be so upset
And do not exert such pain,

If you do not have as much heart as Jack:
Better to live under big clog
Poor, than having been lord
And rot under rich tomb!"

If I am not, well considered,
Son of angel wearing tiara
of Stars nor stagger others.
My father is dead, God have his soul!

As to the body, it lies under the blade
I understand that my mother will die
And she knows it well the poor woman,
And the son will not resurect.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

I know that poors and richs,
Wise and mad, priests and ugly ones,
Nobles, vilains, big and meager,
Small and tall, and beautiful and ugly,

Ladies with rolled up short capes,
Of any condition,
Wearing attires and rolls,
Death grabs without exception.

Death make them shudder and go pale,
The nose to curve, the veins to stretch,
The neck to swell, the flesh to go soft,
Joints and nerves to grow and spread.

Feminine body, which is so tender,
Polished, silky, so precious
Will you have to wait for those ills?
Yes, or all alive go to heavens.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Jean Ferrat - Louis Aragon - When comes the evening


Original title: "Lorsque s'en vient le soir"

When comes the evening which turns through the door
To live suddenly has the depth of a wheat field
I find you back, love, with my trembled hands
Which make the tender soil between the dead leaves
And we get rid of our stolen clothes

Nothing calmed those hands that I have to know you
Keeping from the first evening that turmoil of touching you
I find you back, love, sought for a long time
As if suddenly a window were to open
And if you gave up to always hide yourself

I am forever your scene and your theatre
Where the curtain of loving takes off anywhere
The star snows in me its eternal month of August
Nothing calmed that heart to beat when seeing you
It ends up hurting me and nothing is as sweet to me

Yet you are still to me the furtive passer-by
Who we hold back miraculously at the bend of a moment
Nothing calmed my fear, I doubt and I wait for you
God lose the steps he makes when you are absent to me
A look is sufficient for you to make a beautiful weather

When comes the evening which turns through the door
To live suddenly has the depth of a wheat field
I find you back love with my trembled hands
Which make the tender soil between the dead leaves
And we get rid of our stolen clothes


all poems written by Louis Aragon

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Dominique A - To come back to the world


Original Title: "Revenir au monde"

Didn't see the leaves come
Didn't see the leaves fall
What have you come to tell me?
Why did you come over?
No I did not know
No I did not learn
And how is it already
To not be here?

Make me come back to the world
Touching it without putting gloves on
Even to feel it collapse
Even if it doesn't believe like before
Make me recover my shadow
Lost in the shadow which is holding me
The memories of tomorrow

No, I will not go out
Why did you come?
How did you remember
That I was still there?
Streets, avenues, are doing very well without me
I lived too many things
That I do not understand

Make me come back to the world
Touching it without putting gloves on
Even to feel it collapse
Even if it doesn't believe like before
Make me recover my shadow
Lost in the shadow which is holding me
The memories of tomorrow

Didn't see the leaves come
Didn't see the leaves fall
How do you want to love
When you can't tell
If it's winter, summer
If it's better or worst

You will not insist
I hear the steps creak
She gets ahead of the steps
Of those who are going to leave
Isn't there in me
Someone under the sighs
Someone who would like
to see the leaves come

Make me come back to the world
Touching it without putting gloves on
Even to feel it collapse
Even if it doesn't believe like before
Make me recover my shadow
Lost in the shadow which is holding me
The memories of tomorrow

Of arrows thrown under the roof timbers
Make me come back to the world

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Jacques Douai - It's raining girls


Original Title: "Des filles il en pleut"
Text: Pierre Seghers
Music: Léo Ferré
It's raining girls
Blond and blue ones
It's raining girls
My beloved

Crying girls
And flower girls
It's raining girls
My beloved

But no one will have
Your laugh and your arms
But no one will have
Your lips

But none will go
As far as you
But none will have
My dreams

It's raining girls
But where are your eyes
And your joyful body
My beloved

It'll have rained so much
In my heart, you know
That I don't see them no more
My beloved

You were for me
My earth and my woods
My country, my faith
My beloved

You were for me
The queen of a king
Who lost for you
His life

It's raining girls
Since your farewell
It's raining girls
My beloved

Yes but little by little
I die at this game
Without sun nor fire
My beloved

Come back, come back to me
Days are months
Come back, come back to me
My beloved

Wasn't forgetting you
While it was raining
Me, I was waiting for you
My beloved

Georges Brassens - The assassination


Original Title:"L'assassinat"
It's not just in Paris
That crime flourishes
We, in the village, also have
Nice assassinations
We, in the village, also have
Nice assassinations

He had a hoary head
And an ingenuous heart
He had a return of spring
For one of twenty
He had a return of spring
For one of twenty

But fresh flesh, tender flesh
Old pal, it's expensive
After five or six kisses
His gold had run out
After five or six kisses
His gold had run out

When her little hand she held out
Sad he answered
That he was as poor as Job
She put her dress back on
That he was as poor as Job
She put her dress back on

She went seeking her rascal
Who had the lure of gain
Came back to the curmudgeon
To play a dirty trick
Came back to the curmudgeon
To play a dirty trick

And while he held him for her
She assassinated him
It's said that when he expired
She showed him her tongue
It's said that when he expired
She showed him her tongue

Turned everything upside down
Didn't find a penny
But creditors' letters
But bailiffs' seizures
But creditors' letters
But bailiffs' seizures

Then stricken with a real remorse
She felt sorrow for the dead one
And on him falling on her knees
She says "Forgive us"
And on him falling on her knees
She says "Forgive us"

When the Gendarmes* arrived
They found her in tears
It's a tear at the bottom of the eyes
Which earned her the heavens
It's a tear at the bottom of the eyes
Which earned her the heavens

And the morning she was hanged
She was in paradise
A few devouts since that time
Are slightly unhappy
A few devouts since that time
Are slightly unhappy

It's not just in Paris
That crime flourishes
We, in the village, also have
Nice assassinations
We, in the village, also have
Nice assassinations
* Men-at-arms

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Jacques Douai - Carrier - Deadwool


Original Title: "Mortlaine"
Text: Louis Georges Carrier
My drowned of infinite
My drowned of sorrow
My big paradise
My beautiful Deadwool

Her quail feet on the strand
Her ivory arms in the sea,
Her hair of water, wet with dreams,
Her body bathed with eternity

My drowned of infinite
My drowned of sorrow
My big paradise
My beautiful Deadwool

By the slow masts of the breeze
The sand would make castles
Near my beauty who sinks
Like a mast of a lost ship

My drowned of infinite
My drowned of sorrow
My big paradise
My beautiful Deadwool

The fishermen in their white boats
All full with blue fishes
Will maybe come back on Sunday
To brush the silent banks

My drowned of infinite
My drowned of sorrow
My big paradise
My beautiful Deadwool

Their steps like sounds of harp
Will dance the joy of the returns
While over there a scarf
Will florish the night sand

My drowned of infinite
My drowned of sorrow
My big paradise
My beautiful Deadwool

Friday, October 9, 2015

Jacques Bertin - The picked up high


Original Title: "La draguée haute"
Play on words on "hold out on somebody" which in french is said "holding the sugar-coated pill high" here it's replaced by a girl being picked up and resisting.

That house lost in the plain without trees
A car stipped down in the courtyard next to the well
made of tires hidden there. Like Paul and Virginie
Both of us with crazy love, it's like that, but of course!

I offer you this palace if you tell me "I love you"
And if you don't tell me, okay, I don't offer you
Most of all pretend to be the one: who is that guy with his air,
I am not interested. Comon, focus

On your knees pull your skirt down and make them
A low profile. Your eyes through the window, tell them
That they run away with the nests of the possible loves which
Are going away to the obsessing rythm of the cruel bogies

Oh pretty traveller that my courting irritates
We are alone in the carriage, it's destiny
I like your early fruits complexion and your haughty contempt
And then look at me, please, when I plead

Why do you refuse to believe in love at first sight
Under the pretext that we don't even know each other
Imagine that you see the Virgin of Lourdes
You would believe if it was her! Well: It's me!

Impassive but true, I love you in my beard
If I told you, you wouldn't believe me
And that's why I keep quiet since Tarbes
I laugh alone and you plunge lower

You look in your bag for one or another bullshit
To cool the furnace lit under your wall
A good photo romance "Luxury and fiery nights"
Phew! I finally see your hard-boiled eye bearnaise melt*

That mouth there must shout some very rare shouts
And lick like does the sea the beach. And those eyes
They are the fire of the wreckers or well the lighthouses
Of which are the bumpers, your terrific breasts

Well, you wouldn't think of it but here we are in Paname³
Farewell Madam, one does not get bored with you
Don Juan resumes his journey while looking for his Don Juanne
She moves away her dignified look Donia Gnagna

She charges at home and there, quivering with ease
"I met an handsome dude, but for goodness' sake handsome dude!"
Just between Cythera of the Bodies and the Aubraises
We loved each other at least six or eight times

Then the wrath of the good god falling over her
Changes her into a mare to be covered or salt statue
Avenging me, me, the tongue hanging out, my defects
That statue you see her in front of the stations

Proclaiming to the pigeons "The woman is eternal"
I am collector of jackets² in the eye of the beauties
I put my hands in the pockets, nothing in the hands
With scenarios of girls "not smart"
* another play on words "oeuf dur" (hard-boiled egg) with "oeil dur" (hard-boiled eye)
² Used to be beaten hollow
³ Paris

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Jacques Douai - André Maurois - The birds and the dreams


Original Title: "Les oiseaux et les rêves"
Text: André Maurois
Music: Henri Salvador
Birds and dreams
Are for those who can take them
Birds and dreams
Are for those who can wait

And you pursue them
The birds and the dreams
If you pursue them
Take off straight away

Wait for them to land
While looking elsewhere
Wait for them to land
With a mocking look

Then when they curl up
At the hollow of your hand
Then when they curl up
Then hold them tight

When love shows up
It scares the beauties
When love shows up
They are more cruel

Wait for them to come
While looking elsewhere
Wait for them to come
With a mocking look

Birds and dreams
Are for those who can take them
Birds and dreams
Are for those who can wait

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Edith Piaf - Life in Pink


Original Title: "La vie en rose"
Piaf herself sang the song in English here of course the words had been adapted for that version so here is a word to word translation of the french version:
Eyes that makes mine lower
A laugh getting lost on his mouth
Here is the portrait without alteration
Of the man I belong to

When he takes me in his arms
He talks to me in a low voice
I see life in pink

He tells me love words
Words of the everyday
And it has an effect on me

He entered in my heart
There are no happiness
Of which I know the cause
It's him for me
Me for him in life
He told, swore to me, for life

And as soon as I catch sight of him
Then I feel in me
My heart which beats

Never-ending love nights
A big happiness which takes its place
Some troubles, sorrows fade
Happy, happy to die from it

When he takes me in his arms
He talks to me in a low voice
I see life in pink

He tells me love words
Words of the everyday
And it has an effect on me

He entered in my heart
There are no happiness
Of which I know the cause
It's him for me
Me for him in life
He told, swore to me, for life

And as soon as I catch sight of him
Then I feel in me
My heart which beats

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Jean Ferrat - Louis Aragon - The fires of Paris


Original Title: "Les feux de Paris"
Text: Louis Aragon

Always when to the obscene mornings
Between the legs of the Seine
Like a drowned woman with crazy eyes
From the mist of your poems
The Saint-Louis Island is rising pallid
Baudelaire I think of you

When I learned to see things
Oh slowliness of the metamorphosis
It's your Paris I saw
It was required for Paris to change
Like the oranges turn blue
The whole length of my life

But to seek those adventures
The city threw its belt away
of walls of herbs and of wind
She painted her landscape
Like a girl does of her face
To seduce a new lover

Nothing is at the same place no more
And the water of the Wallace fountains
Cries after the merchants of wafers
Who were shouting Pleasure Ladies
When the pianos were practising scales
In the lounges for outfits

Where are the big tapestry makers
The reed pipes in the dust
Where are the weddings in songs
Where are the mules of Réjane
One does not go on donkey's back
To have lunch in the grass at Robinson's

What good can it do to you
One does not choose his hell
Backward what's the point to search
That the past consumes itself without you
It's here that your fate lights up
One does not choose his bonfire

With your steps the clouds move
Go away in the street with the red eye
The world bleeds in front of you
You walk in a barbarian day
The present time is burning in the Snackbars
Its purple dawn is on the roofs

To hell with the lunar beauty
And the millenial darkness
Spotlight on the Champs-Elysées
Here is the new carnival
Where electricity gives a facelift to
The edifices set ablaze

Spotlight on the man and on the woman
On the Louvre and on Notre-Dame
From the Sacré-Coeur to the Panthéon
Spotlight from the Concorde to the Ternes
Spotlight on the modern universe
Spotlight on our soul with neon

Spotlight on the darkness of the dreams
Spotlight on the arts of lies
Burn perpetual summer
Burn of our human flame
And that everywhere our hands bring back
The sun of the truth.

all poems written by Louis Aragon

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Jacques Brel - Sorry's


Original Title: "Pardons"
Sorry for that girl
We made cry
Sorry for that gaze
That we leave laughing

Sorry for that face
That a tear changed
Sorry for those houses
Where someone waits for us

And then for all those words
Which we call love words
And that we use
By way of currency
For all those oaths
Which died at daybreak
Sorry for the never's
Sorry for the always's

Sorry for the hamlet
Which never sing
Sorry for the villages
Which have been forgotten

And sorry for the cities
Where noone know one another
Sorry for the countries
Made of non-commissioned officers

Sorry to be of those
Who do not care about anything
And for not having
tried everyday

And then sorry still
And then sorry most of all
For never knowing
Who has to forgive us

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Marianne Oswald - Jacques Prévert - The child's hunt


Original Title: "La chasse à l'enfant"
Text: Jacques Prévert
Bandit! Rascal! Thief! Scoundrel!

Above the island, one can see birds
All around the island there is water

Bandit! Rascal! Thief! Scoundrel!
What are those howls
Bandit! Rascal! Thief! Scoundrel!
It's the pack of honest people
That is hunting children down

He said "I am done with the reformatory"
And the wardens had broken his teeth using their keys
And then had let him lying down on the cement

Bandit! Rascal! Thief! Scoundrel!
Now he ran away
And like a hunted beast
He gallops in the night
And all gallop after him
The gendarmes, the tourists, the person of private means, the artists

Bandit! Rascal! Thief! Scoundrel!

It's the pack of honest people
That is hunting children down

To hunt children down, no need of a permit
All the decent people got down to it
What is swimming in the night
What are those flashes those noises
It's a child who is running away
He is being shot at with a rifle

Bandit! Rascal! Thief! Scoundrel!

All those men on the shore
Are empty-handed and purple with rage

Bandit! Rascal! Thief! Scoundrel!

Will you get back to the continent will you get back to the continent!
Above the island, one can see birds
All around the island there is water

Live but not complete:

Monday, September 7, 2015

Léo Ferré - Verlaine - Setting suns


Original Title: "Soleils couchants"
A weakened dawn
Scatters onto the fields
The melancholy
Of the setting suns

The melancholy
Rocks of a sweet song
My heart which forgets itself
To the setting suns

And peculiar dreams
Like suns
Setting, on the strands,
Vermilion ghosts,

Parade relentlessly
Parade, alike
To big suns
Setting on the strands.

Another version:

Friday, September 4, 2015

Gribouille - Ostende



If I knew how to speak about Ostende
Me, I'd give her your name
I would say to whom wants to hear it
That you deserve a song

Ostende, you made it so pretty to me
Noone ever changed Paris for me
And of wave's memory
If one has to believe the waves
And of seaweed's memory
If one has to believe the seaweeds.

There hasn't been before
Lovers as beautiful as us
Even so that Tristan
Was sleeping at our knees

If I knew how to speak about Ostende
I'd ask her forgiveness
Because I swear to whom wants to hear it
That it always bore your name

Ostende which was making her ships silent
I know, it was to better hear your laugh
And we were standing
Without knowing that it was raining
While drinking that thunderstorm
For God how I loved you!

The words you told me
Are not those that one writes down
Feathers and poets
Are quiet sometimes

If I knew how to talk about Ostende
I would not say anything about the sea
But I'd say to whom wants to hear it
That love gives you green eyes

I do not know how to speak about Ostende
I can only make a song
There will only be you to understand
That all along, I have said your name

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Jacques Marchais - Bérimont - Song to name her


Original Title: "Chanson pour la nommer"
Text: Luc Bérimont
Music: Michel Aubert
She is like a well of foliage
Sweet like the flank of the wind
Panicked like a blazing fire
Drifting like a cloud

She is the sweat and the swimming
She is the sand in full noon
A damp tuft of night
Caught between the moon and midnight

She is the beauty and the suitable one
The indolent one, the hay of may
And among her tousled hair
The thin rain on the wild rose

And among her tousland hair
The thin rain on the wild rose
I believe the song has already been sung by Jacques Douai under the title "La servante" but haven't found it yet online.

Charles Aznavour - To die of loving


Original Title: "Mourir d'aimer"
The walls of my life are smooth
I hang onto them but I slide
Slowly toward my fate
To die of loving

While the world is judging me
I can only see one shelter for me
Any exit being locked up to me
To die of loving

To die of loving
Willingly sinking into the night
Pay love at the cost of your life
Sin against the body but not against the mind

Let's leave the world to its problems
Hateful people to face themselves
With their narrow ideas
To die of loving

As our love can't live
Better it's to close the book of it
And rather than burn it
To die of loving

To leave while lifting your head up
Coming out victorious from a defeat
Reversing all the data
To die of loving

To die of loving
As we can of anything
Abandon everything behind us
To only take away what was us, what was you

You are the spring, I the fall
Your heart is taken away, mine is given
And my road already marked out
To die of loving
To die of loving
To die of loving
Live on tv:

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Jacques Bertin - Dimey/Salvador - Syracuse


Text: Bernard Dimey
Music: Henri Salvador

I'd like so much to see Syracuse
The Easter Island and Kairouan
And the big birds having fun
Gliding the wing under the wind

To see the gardens of Babylon
And the palace of the great Lama
To dream of the lovers of Verona
At the top of the Mount Fuji

To see the country of the calm morning
To go cormorant fishing
And to get drunk with palm wine
While listening to the wind sing

Before that my youth wears out
And that my springs are gone
I'd like so much to see Syracuse
So I could remember it in Paris

Henri Salvador's version:

Yves Montand's version:

Friday, July 24, 2015

Jean Ferrat - Louis Aragon - Happy the one who dies of loving


Original Title: "Heureux celui qui meurt d'aimer"
Text: Louis Aragon

Oh my garden of fresh water and shadow
My dance of being, my dark heart
My sky of the countless stars
My smallboat in the distance, sweet to row
Happy the one who becomes deaf
To the song if it's not about his love
Blind to the day after his day
His eyes on you alone closed

Happy the one who dies of loving
Happy the one who dies of loving

To love so strongly, his lips closed
That he does not need anything
But the memory of the roses
Forever perfumed of you.
The one who dies even with pain
To whom without you the world is delusion
And holds nothing else from it but your colors
It's sufficient to him that he named you.

Happy the one who dies of loving
Happy the one who dies of loving

My child, he says, my sweet soul
The time to know you, Oh woman
Eternity is nothing else but a rapture
To the fire of which I am consumed
He said, Oh woman and may he keep quiet
The name which resembles to the glowing embers,
To the mouth red, to the strawberry
Forever in his teeth formed.

Happy the one who dies of loving
Happy the one who dies of loving

He said: Oh woman, and comes to an end
So goes life, so does the dream
And be it on the Place de Grève
Or in the accustomed bed,
Young lovers you whose age it is,
Between the round and the journey,
Crazy ones sparing yourselves thinking yourselves wise
Shout to those who want to blame you

Happy the one who dies of loving
Happy the one who dies of loving

Another version:


all poems written by Louis Aragon

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Jacques Bertin - The house on the edge of the road


Original Title: "La maison au bord de la route"
It's a song for the childhood
To sing for a long time
With words like "hope"
and "sunset evening"

The house on the edge of the road
Under the cheery trees
Smokes to dismiss the doubt
Like a dog lying down
Like a dog lying down

The neighbors who are old and wise
Spoil the children
The lady talks of the Mage Kings
and him of the Uhlans

One does not believe in it
But we dream, during the month of may, the gardens
Are full of rumours and of sap
And of love in june
And of love in june

I lived in another life
Or in some past
In that house, that life
And that dreamt time

The hostess is blond with periwinkly eyes
Color of the curtains
When the weather is fine, the house leans
the shoulder in the water
the shoulder in the water

Nearby, there is a basilica
Between two windmills
One climbs up in the authumn crocus
And the sailor songs

Covered in bouquets When we go back home
Each engaged
We sing to follow the slope
and destiny
and destiny

The house is like a beast
Hidden in a corner
Sweet and warm like the head
At the hollow of the hand

The hostess went over the barrier
Carried by the lover
And the scene fills with proud joy
The eyes of the children
The eyes of the children

It's a song for childhood
To sing for a long time
With words like "hope"
and "sunset evening"

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Edith Piaf - Lovers for a day


Original title: "Les amants d'un jour"
Text: Claude Delécluse and Michèle Senlis
Music: Marguerite Monnot

Me, I dry the glasses at the back of the café
I have way too much to do to be able to dream
But in that setting, so banal you could cry
It seems to me that I still see them arrive

They arrived, holding each other by the hand
looking filled with wonder
Like two cherubs
Carrying the sun
They asked
With a tranquil voice
A corner to love each other
In the heart of the city
And I remember
That they looked with a melting look
The hotel room with the yellowed wallpaper
And when I closed the door on them
There was so much sun in the bottom of their eyes
That it hurt me
That it hurt me

Me, I dry the glasses at the back of the café
I have way too much to do to be able to dream
But in that setting, so banal you could cry
It's body against body that they have been found
We found them holding hands
The eyes closed up
On other mornings
Filled with sun
They have been laid
Joined and tranquil
In a digged bed
In the heart of the city
And I remember
Having closed the hotel room of the one day lovers
But they planted at the bottom of my heart
A piece of sun and so many colors
Which is hurting me so much
Which is hurting me so much

Me, I dry the glasses at the back of the café
I have way too much to do to be able to dream
But in that setting, so banal you could cry
There is still outside the room to rent.

It has been sung by many other singer, an example below
Daniel Guichard's version:


And most importantly here is Piaf singing the song in an English version:

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Jacques Brel - The song of Jacky

br/> Original title: "La chanson de Jacky"
Even if one day, in Knokke-Le-Zoute
I become, like I dread,
Singer, for declining women
Even if I sing to them "Mi Corazon"
With the bandoneoning voice
Of an Argentinian from Carcassonne

Even if people call me Antonio
That I brun my last fires
In exchange of a few gifts
Madam, I do what I can

Even if I get drunk on mead
To better be able to talk about virility
To grannies decorated
Like christmas trees

I know that in my drunkenography
Every night for pink elephants
I will sing my morose song
The one of the time when my name was Jacky

To be one hour, just one hour
To be one hour, one hour sometimes,
To be one hour, just during one hour
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful and idiot at the same time

Even if one day in Macau
I become joint governor
Circled with languid women

Even if tired to be a singer
I became blackmailer²
And that it'd be the other ones who sing

Even if people call me the beautiful Serge
That I sell boats filled with opium
Whisky from Clermont-Ferrand
True gays and fake virgins
That I have a bank at each finger
And a finger in each country
That each country would be mine

I still know that every night
Alone at the back of my opium den
For a public made of old Chinese people
I will sing my own song
The one of the time when my name was Jacky

To be one hour, just one hour
To be one hour, one hour sometimes,
To be one hour, just during one hour
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful and idiot at the same time

Even if one day in Paradise
I become, like I'd be surprised of it,
Singer for women with white wings
Even if I sing them Alleluhia
While regretting the time of down there
Where it's not sunday everyday

Even if I am called God the Father
The one who is in the phone book
Between Dieulefit³ and God bless you

Even if I let my beard grow
Even if still too much a sucker
I kill my heart and the pure spirit
wanting to console men

I know still that every night
I will hear in my Paradise
The angels, the Saints and Lucifer
sing to me the song of former times
The one of the time when my name was Jacky

To be one hour, just one hour
To be one hour, one hour sometimes,
To be one hour, just during one hour
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful and idiot at the same time
² Master singer in french
³ Could be translated to Goddidit

Monday, June 15, 2015

Georges Brassens - The nuptial march


Original Title: "La marche nuptiale"
Marriage for love, marriage for money
I have seen all kind of people getting married
People of low source, and men in high places
Supposed hairdresser, so-called notaries

Even though I would live up to the end of times
I'd always keep the happy memory
Of the day of poor wedding
when my father and my mother
Went to marry in front of Mr the Mayor

It's in a ox cart if one has to speak frankly
Pulled by the friends, Pushed by the parents,
That the old lovers made their nuptials
After a long time of love, a long time of betrothal

Nuptial procession outside of the ordinary order
The crowd look covetously us with a protuberant eye
We were contemplated by the futile world,
Which had never seen a wedding of that kind.

Here comes the wind which blows, taking away, heartbreak,
My father's hat and the altar boys
Here comes the rain which falls while well weighing its drops
As if to prevent the wedding at all cost

I will never forget the bride in tears
Rocking, like a doll, her big flower bouquet...
Me, to console her, me, with all my haughtiness,
On my harmonica, playing the great organs.

All the boys of honour, showing their fist to the sky
Were shouting, by Jupiter, the wedding goes on
By the disparaged men, by the annoyed gods
The wedding goes on and long live the bride

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Jacques Bertin - That's it, it's this night


Original Title: "Voilà, c'est cette nuit"
That's it. It's this night, you have been run over by a car
Goblin plaza you are losing your blood in front of four or five night owls
You notice that the agents are slow and that you are not afraid

Today, tuesday, your mom is ironing the linen
She has no news from you
You wouldn't have written much while saying a few not very clever verses
Aside in insolence and friendship you didn't have that many talents
You lived, you attended to the most urgent things first, you have lost your time

I have lost my time and my life attempting to be free
I have lived happily fighting between the silence and the difficult words
The ambulance I recognize it, it ressembles to my childhood bed
My older brother is next to me, he is playing harmonica to me
I am going to die at the hour I like, at the hour when I liked to live
The night I was watching over you my friends known and unknown
I penetrated between your closed eyelids in the warmth of the small boats
Or in your dreams which are to all the same and talk of justice

It's a nice hour to die and it's a nice place
Dawn is coming like a woman's belly in its folly of leaves
I spent my life getting ready for that moment
Younger brother of all the free men

Saturday, June 6, 2015

Jean Ferrat - Louis Aragon - Guess


Original Title: "Devine"
Text: Louis Aragon

A big field of blue flax
among the black grapes
When, toward me, the wind
bends it trembling

A big field of blue flax
Which makes mirror to the sky
And it's me who trembles
To the bottom of my blood

Guess
Guess
Guess
Guess

A big field of blue flax
In the day, coming back
For a long time drags there
A mist of dreams

I am afraid to flush there
Unknown birds of which far away
The winged shadow
obscurely grows longer

Guess
Guess
Guess
Guess

A big field of blue flax
Of the color of the tears
Opened on a country
of which only love knows about

Where everything has the perfumes
the power, the charm
As if some kisses always
were wandering there

Guess
Guess
Guess
Guess

A big field of blue flax
of which it's the surprise
always to discover
A pure and deep water

Of its coat covering
Miraculously,
Is it a lake or the sea,
The shoulders of the world

Guess
Guess
Guess
Guess

A big field of blue flax
Which speaks, laughs and cries
I plunge and lose myself in there
Tell me, do you guess

Which sowing made there
the joy and the pain
And why loving it
makes you drunk and kills you

Guess
Guess
Guess
Guess
...

all poems written by Louis Aragon

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Barbara - The black sun


Original Title: "Le soleil noir"
To never, ever, talk to you about rain again,
Nevermore about the heavy sky, never of the grey mornings,
I came out of the mists and I ran away,
Under lighter skies, countries of paradise,
Oh, how I would have liked to bring you, tonight,
seas in fury, barbarian musics,
Happy songs, laughs which are sounding weird
And would make to you the sound of an happy hullabaloo,
White seashells and salty pebbles
which are rolling under the waves, brought back a thousand times,
Radiant suns*, bursted suns,
Which fire would burn eternal summers

But I have tried everything
I pretended to believe,
And I come back from far,
And the sun is black
But I have tried everything
And you can believe me,
I come back tired,
And it's the despair,

Light-hearted, so light-hearted, I was going around dressed short,
I was happy with the first to come
And it was the rest, the time of the nonchalance,
Kissing eagerly, and I was entering the dance,
I learned bando over guitar's tunes,
I shivered from the back, I forgot Mozart,
Finally, I would be able to come back to you,
With the eye made languid, vague with memories,
And I was the hurricane and the rage of living
And I was the torrent and the strength of living,
I have loved, I have burned, caught up my delay
How life was beautiful and crazy my story.

But the earth opened
Over there, somewhere,
But the earth opened,
And the sun is black,
Some men are walled up,
Over there, somewhere,
Some men are walled up,
And it's the despair,

I averted the fate, I have looked for oblivion,
I refused death, I rejected boredom
And I clenched the fists ordering me to believe,
That life was beautiful, fascinating chance
Which lead me here, elsewhere or somewhere else,
Where the flower was red, where the sand was blond,
Where the noise of the sea was a song,
Yes, the noise of the sea was a song,

But a child is dead,
Over there, somewhere,
But a child is dead,
And the sun is black,
I hear the knell which sounds,
Over there, somewhere,
I hear the knell sounding,
And it's the despair,

I do not bring anything back, I am torn,
I come back to you, tonight, heart scratched,
Because, to look at them, to hear them live,
With them, I hurt, with them I was drunk,
I do not bring anything back, I come back lonely,
From the end of that journey beyond the borders,
Is there one corner of earth where nothing is being torn,
And what has to be done, can you tell me,
If one has to go further to erase your tears,
And if I could, alone, make the weapons go silent,
I swear that, tomorrow, I go back on the adventure,
So that ends, forever, all those tears,

I don't mind trying,
And I don't mind believing in it,
But I am tired,
And the sun is black,
Sorry to tell you that,
But I come back, tonight,
The heart scratched,
And it's the despair,
The heart scratched,
And it's the despair,
The despair...

*"radiant reds" in version below in which Barbara also says "My sun is black" as well as "And I am despaired"

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Jacques Bertin - The dreamer


Original Title: "Le rêveur"

I was the child who was running less fast
I was the child who was thinking himself less beautiful
I was already living in the empty pages
Where I was looking for water springs

I was the one, at the shoulder of the numbers,
Who was leaning. Who was found back asleep
I knew the voices that in the Dombes
Nest under the thousand ponds

I was afterward
The teen who is being mocked
With the vain gaze
In the city, lost

The man who camps
Out of the way of the era
Poking his doubts
to warm himself up from them

I climbed to the lake
of the solitudes
At the grey case
of the charms without reasons
Where old tunes were beating under the moon
I'd have left some flesh at the brambles of the songs

The low key of mounts of the absences
The emeralds of the forbidden valley
All the beautiful ruins of the silence
All which will not be said

If you ever hang onto my legend
You have to put yourself in my ill's hands
Don't betray, see the wound where pours out
a whole animal world

The mute child found shelted in the man
He is listenning to the rain on the blue roofs
The hearts are collapsed, the steeples ring
What to do without you when it's raining

My life was nothing more but that dream's failure
I do not burn anymore, no, those are my bonds
The unarmed hoofs have stamped me endlessly
I write in the empty sky and you won't read anything there

My life was nothing more but that dream's failure
I do not burn anymore, no, those are my bonds
The unarmed hoofs have stamped me endlessly
I write in the empty sky and you won't read anything there

Saturday, May 2, 2015

Monique Morelli - Louis Aragon - The crazy woman


Original Title: "La folle"
Text: Louis Aragon
Music: L. Leonardi

Have a look at this crazy woman and her ankle shoes
She has all the streams in her enamel eyes
She has all the birds on her straw hat
And her handbag her dreams of when she was twenty years old

Have a look at this waste of tulle and anemone
That dusty dream like an old ashtray
It's yesterday's sheet on the calendar
The faded refrain of an autumn song

Have a look at this smile and that flutter
Almost nothing would be enough for us to start believing them
Would it be for the deep cruelty of the mirrors
And that faded reflection which looks like a renunciation

It's my life, I well have to recognize her
It's my life, and it's me, that distorted song
One fine evening the future is called the past
It's then that we turn and see our youth...

What more were you expecting, which fate, which adventure
Which glory for you only or which stolen happiness
What else are you in the end but what the wheat is to the millstone
What the ash is to the fire, the body to the torture...

I don't see really what grieves you here
Or gives you the right to shout in the night
Your destiny resembles you and your shadow follows you
The crazy ones are those who think themselves others

All poems written by Louis Aragon

Friday, May 1, 2015

Jean Ferrat - Comrade


Jean Ferrat Camarade
Original title: "Camarade"
It's a pretty name
Comrade
It's a pretty name
You know

Which marries cherry and pomegranate
To the blood flower of the month of May

For years
Comrade
For years
You know

With only your name as dawn serenade
Lips blossomed

Comrade
Comrade

It's a dreadful name
Comrade
It's a dreadful name
To say

When the time of a masquerade
It does nothing else but quiver

What are you coming to do
Comrade
What are you coming to do
Here

It was at 5pm in Prague
That the month of August grew dark

Comrade
Comrade

It's a pretty name
Comrade
It's a pretty name
You know

In my heart beating wildly
So that it lives again forever
Marry cherry and pomegranate
To the blood flower of the month of May

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Jacques Brel - The desperates


Original title: "Les désespérés"

Hold each others by the hand
And walk in silence
In those faded cities
which are rocked by drizzle
Only rings their steps
Step by step hummed
They walk in silence
The desperates

They have burnt their wings
They have lost their branches
So shipwrecked
That death looks white
They come back from loves
They woke up
They walk silently
The desperates

And I know their way for having walked it
Already more than a hundred times
A hundred times more than halfway
Less old or more bruised
They are going to end
They walk in silence
The desperates

And below the bridge
Water is sweet and deep
Here is the good hostess
Here is the end of the world
They cry their firstname
Like newlyweds
They melt in silence
The desperates

Let stand up the one
who throws them the stone
He only knows of love
The verb "to love oneself"
On the bridge there is nothing left
But a light mist
They are forgotten in silence
The ones who hoped

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Léo Ferré - Pretty kid


Original Title: "Jolie môme"
You are completely naked
Under your sweater
There is the street
That is crazy
Pretty kid

You have your heart
At your neck
And happiness
Not under
Pretty kid

You have the mascara
Which goes away
It's the thaw
Of the lovers
Pretty kid

Your meadow
It smells good
Make a gift of it
To friends
Pretty kid

You are just a flower
Of the spring
Who doesn't care of the hour
And the weather
You are just a rose
Burst
Which one lays down
On the side
Pretty kid

You are just a touch
of sun
In the grief
of waking up

You are just a camp
Who is turned off
Like a lamp
In the morning
Pretty kid

Your kisses
Are sharp
Like an acute accent
Pretty kid

Your small breasts
are fresh of the day
Soft-boiled
To love
Pretty kid

Your barrier
Of rustles
Gotta get stuck with it
But it's soft
Pretty kid

Your violet
Is the violen
Which is being assaulted
And it's good
Pretty kid

You are just a flower
Of pastimes
Who doesn't care of the hour
And the weather
You are just a star
of love
Which is being webbed
During the fine days
Pretty kid

You are just a point
On the "i"
Of the sorrow
Of live
And just a thing
Of life
Which is watered
Which is being forgotten
Pretty kid

You only have one pair
of eyes
At the poker
Of the conquests
Pretty kid

You only have one rhyme
to happiness
It has to rhyme
or to cry
Pretty kid

You are just a source
In the middle
which splashes
of some good lord
Pretty kid

You only have one door
made of a white veil
Which we push
While singing
Pretty kid

You are just a poor
small flower
Which one make sentimental
And who dies
You are just a woman
To iron
When her soul
Is creased
Pretty kid

You are just a leaf
of autumn
Which one removes the petals from
Monotomous
You are just a joy
gone away
Come at my place
To find it back
Pretty kid

You are completely naked
Under your sweater
There is the street
That is crazy
Pretty kid!

Juliette Gréco's version:

Jacques Bertin - The girl whose whom


Original title: "La fille dont auquelle"
This song is parody, mocking the way some people talk so I tried to translate the deliberate errors the best I could.
Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course but that naturally

It's the daughter of the boss where I work
Why she doesn't like me I do not know
Because despite I am not the good-looker
I am decent and even rather fine
It's a thing that it'd be fine
To go away, her and me, just us both
But as there are the social barriers
It can't be, it's unfortunate

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

I consider that she doesn't care if I exist
She doesn't pay me at all attention
Would it be that I am only an underling
I would note that she has some pretension
It's because of being too poor, it's likely
Not everyone can call themselves differently
I only have a moped and even that when the weather is fine
And it if want like to start even more, it's pathetic

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

If it's like that, it's not without good reason
It's this which reiterates my father
"It's the same. Me, I loved his mother, right?
We are being scorned, it's not from yesterday"
Okay, well, let's admit she'd have come over at my place
For some or other argument,
A paper or something,
It has been seen: She knocks, I open, there is an embarassed silence

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

Her oppressive breathing would beat like a tv wire
I opened the arms in a waiting to such extent that she would haved shouted
Caught up by the demons of the flesh
Bewitched by the mysteries of the charm
We rolled on the bed and on the ground
Intertwined like an alarm signal

Here is well the girl whose whom I love and that passionatefully
Even though she might be way too beautiful and too rich of course naturally

Me, I like the defenseless gazelle
When their big eyes shout "Zero to the juice!"
She would have had her pleasures of the senses
On that side I am not too bad either
Then at that point maybe she loves me
And that we would married what do we know
And I would becoming the husband that she herself
It was the one I just chattted to you about

Here is well the girl whose to whom
she is my wife and I the spouse
I am the assistant manager
By the fact itself which of which
By the fact itself which of which

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Marcel Mouloudji - Like a small poppy


Mouloudji Comme un p'tit coquelicot,
Original Title: "Comme un p'tit coquelicot"
Text: Raymond Asso

The forget-me-not and then the rose,
Those are flowers which say something
But to like poppies
And only like that...One must be an idiot!

Maybe you are right! The only thing is,
when I will have told you, you will understand!
The first time I saw her,
She was sleeping, half naked
In the light of the summer
In the middle of a wheat field
And under the white blouse
Where her heart was beating
The sun, gently,
was making a flower live
Like a small poppy, my soul! Like a small poppy.

It's strange how your eyes are shining
While you remember the pretty girl!
They shine so strongly that it's a bit too much
To explain...the poppies!

Maybe you are right! The only thing is
When I took her in my arms
She gave me her beautiful smile
And then afterward, without telling each other anything
In the light of summer
We loved each others! We loved each others!
And I have pressed so much
My lips over her heart
That at the place of the kiss
There was like a flower
Like a little poppy, my soul!
Like a little poppy.

It's nothing else but an affair
Your little story, and I swear to you
That it does not deserve a single sob
Nor that passion...of the poppies!

Wait the end! And you will understand:
Another one was in love with her who she did not love!
And the next day, when I saw her again
She was sleeping, half naked,
In the light of the summer
In the middle of the wheat field
But, on the white blouse,
Right where her heart is
There was three drops of blood
Which were making like a flower
Like a little poppy, my soul!
A very small poppy

Another version:

Monday, April 13, 2015

Serge Reggiani - Georges Moustaki - Your daughter is twenty years old


Original Title: "Votre fille a vingt ans"
Text: Georges Moustaki

Your daugther is twenty years old, how time is flying by
Madam, yesterday still she was so small
And her first torments are your first wrinkles
Madam, and your first worries

Each of her twenty years counted twice for you
You know already all what she is discovering
You have forgotten the things which trouble her
Madam, and troubled as well

People thought she was pretty and here she is beautiful
For an individual almost as young as her
A boy who resembles to the one for whom
Madam, you had grown in beauty

They make for themselves a garden from a corner of bad weeds
Knotting the prime of life into a superb bouquet
It has been a long while that you have been put in a spray
Madam, spring is forgetting about you

Each night which seems to you similar to every night
While you are dreaming your reasonable dreams
Of pleasure and of love they make themselves guilty
Madam, in the hollow of the same bed

But guilty ones never had so much innocence
So little regrets and so little concern
That they do not even ask for you indulgence
Madam, for their tender offence

Up to the day when maybe at the first tear
At the first love's and woman's sorrow
It'll be up to you to smile Madam
Madam, for her to smile at you.
for her to smile at you.

Moustaki's version:

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Jacques Brel - Madeleine


Tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
I brought some Lilac
I bring some every week
Madeleine she likes that

Tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
We will take the tram thirty three
To go eat some fries at Eugene's
Madeleine she likes that so much

Madeleine she is my Christmas
She is my own America
Even that she is too good for me
Like her cousin Joël says

But tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
We will go to the cinema
I will tell her "I love you"'s
Madeleine she likes that so much

She is so pretty
She is so all this
She is all my life
Madeleine whom I am waiting for here

Tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
But it's raining on my Lilacs
It's raining like every week
And Madeleine is not coming

Tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
It's too late for the tram thrity tree
Too late for Eugene's fries
Madeleine is not coming

Madeleine she is my horizon
She is my own America
Even that she is too good for me
Like her cousin Gaston says

But tonight I am waiting for Madeleine
I have the cinema left
I will be able to tell her "I love you"'s
Madeleine she likes that so much

She is so pretty
She is so all this
She is all my life
Madeleine who is not coming

Tonight I was waiting for Madeleine
But I have thrown away my Lilacs
I have thrown them like every week
Madeleine won't be coming

Tonight I was waiting for Madeleine
There goes the cinema
I am staying with my "I love you"'s
Madeleine won't be coming

Madeleine she is my hope
She is my own America
But it's certain she is too good for me
Like her cousin Gaspard says

Tonight I was waiting for Madeleine
Here! The last tram is going away
Eugene's must be closing
Madeleine won't be coming

She is, and yet she is so pretty
And yet she is so all this
And yet she is all my life
Madeleine who won't be coming

But tomorrow I will be waiting for Madeleine
I will be bringing some Lilac again
I will bring some every week
Madeleine she will like that

Tomorrow I will be waiting for Madeleine
We will take the tram thirty three
To go eat some fries at Eugene's
Madeleine she will like that

Madeleine she is my hope
She is my own America
Nevermind if she is too good for me
Like her cousin Gaspard says

Tomorrow I will be waiting for Madeleine
We will go to the cinema
I will tell her "I love you"'s
And Madeleine will like that.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Jacques Brel - At my last meal


Jacques Brel - Le dernier repas par kiki_75

Original Title: "A mon dernier repas"
At my last meal
I want to see my brothers
And my dogs and my cats
And the sea shore

At my last meal
I want to see my neighbors
And then a few chinese
By way of cousins

And I want us to drink there
In addition to communion wine
Of that so pretty wine
That we drank in Arbois
I want us to devour there
After a few soutanes
A pheasant poultry
Coming from the Perigord

Then I want to be taken away
On top of my hill
To see the trees sleeping
While closing their arms
And then I want to still
Throw stones toward the sky
While shouting "God is dead"
One last time

At my last meal
I want to see my donkey
My chickens and my geese
My cows and my women
At my last meal
I want to see those hussies
Of whom I was master and king
And who were my mistresses

When I will have in my paunch
enough to drown the earth
I will break my glass
To ask for silence
And will sing my head off
To the advancing death
The bayard romances
Which scares the nuns

Then I want to be taken away
On top of my hill
To see the evening making its path
Slowly toward the plain
And there, standing up still
I will insult the bourgeois
Without fear and without remorse
One last time

After my last meal
I want people to go away
For them to finish feasting
Elsewhere than under my roof
After my last meal
I want to be installed
Sitting, alone, like a king
Welcoming his vestals
In my pipe, I will burn
My childhood memories
My unfinished dreams
My remains of hope
And I will only keep
To dress my soul
nothing but the idea of a rosebush
And a firstname of a woman
Then I will look at
the top of my hill
Which danses, which is being made out
And ends up sinking
And in the scent of the flowers
Which will soon go out
I know that I will be afraid
One last time

Another version:

Jacques Brel A Mon Dernier Repas par jacque_brel

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Anne Vanderlove - Ballad in November


Original Title: "Ballade en Novembre"
Leave me to my memories
Leave me to my dead loves
It's time to close the door
It's getting time to go to sleep
I wasn't always well attired
I had the hair in the eyes
But this is how he took me
I think well that he loved me a little

It's raining
On the garden, on the shore
And if I have water in the eyes
That's because it's raining
On my face

The North wind which piles up
Has fun alone in my hair
I wasn't always very beautiful
But I think that he loved me a little
My dress still has its mends
And I still have the hair all over the place
But that's how he took me
I think that I loved him a lot

It's raining
On the garden, on the shore
And if I have water in the eyes
That's because it's raining
On my face

If I have melted so many candles
Since the time we saw each other
And if I remain faithful to him
What good does me so much virtue?
Leave me to my dead loves!
Leave me to my memories
But before closing the door
Leave me the time to laugh about it
The time to try to smile about it

It's raining
On the garden, on the shore
And if I have water in the eyes
That's because it's raining
On my face

Monday, March 30, 2015

Jacques Bertin - In Paris in every suburb


Original Title: "A Paris dans chaque faubourg"
Text: René Clair
Music: Maurice Jaubert

They lived in the same suburb
The same street and the same courtyard
He was throwing smiles at her
She loved him without telling him
But one day that a kiss united them
In the sky she thought she read
Like an infinite hope

In Paris in every suburb
The sun of each day
Makes in some destiny
Hatch a dream of love
Among the crowd a love lands
On a twenty year old soul
For her everything is metamorphosed
Everything is the color of spring
In Paris when the day breaks
In Paris in every suburb
When you are twenty you make dreams
All in the color of love

In a minute the spell can break
The tender hope born in a kiss
A reproach, a quarrel
He went away far from her
Another girl is between his arms
Did he know what conceals
Love which does not talk

In Paris in every suburb
Every time the day ends
At the time when dreams are born
Shatters a dream of love
Farewell happiness
Farewell poor story
Memories always so strong
Everything is parting us
And in the memory
Everything is of the color of death
In Paris when the day ends
In Paris in every suburb
At the time when dreams are born
Dies a dream of love

After days without hope
Both met one evening
They did not dare to smile
But their eyes managed to read
That soon they could be happy
And if they could not say anything to each other’s
Their eyes talked for them

In Paris in every suburb
When the dreaming night came
At any time a moved soul
Evokes a dream of love
Of the happy days there are no trace left
Everything has the color of the night
But when you are twenty the future erases
The past when hope shines
In Paris as soon as the night came
In Paris in every suburb
At any time a moved soul
Still dreams about love

Georges Brassens' version:

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Les Frères Jacques - General for sale


Original Title: "Général à vendre"
Early morning I got up it was Sunday
To the old cart I hitched up the white mare
To go to the market
In the chief town of the country
Apparently there were generals for sale

But the sun crushed the white road so much
The mare stopped so often under the branches
That when I was there
No one had waited for me
And all the generals had been sold

Although over there at the very bottom of the fair's field
By a stroke of luck one was remaining
He wasn't covered with glory
But with a little bit of Ripolin²
He could still look very well

I traded him against a crate of unripe apples
Four cauliflowers and a slice of bread with jam
All this for a general
It was really not that bad
And then I loaded him in the cart

At home I received bitter reproaches
One more apparently I had let myself be pushed around
A General in that state
Was worth much less than that
But as it was done too bad for me

And then the kids got scared of his mustache
It was red and it made them cry
We cut him one side of it
But the dog started to bark
So we left the other half

He did nothing so to not stain his beautiful suit
Time to time he peeled a few vegetables
Or repaired the stepladder
Or unblocked the washbasin
But he wasn't even able to play piano

Yet some evening, some summer evenings
The General sat down on the straw
And the eyes lost in the vastness
He told us about his battles

He told us about the Dardanelles
When he was only a Colonel
And the campaign of Orient
When he was only a Major
The Napoleonian epic
When he was only a Captain
And then the hundred years war
When he was just a lieutenant
The Crusades and Pepin the Short
When he was just a chief-sergeant
And the elephants of Hannibal
When he was just a corporal
The Thermopylae, Leonidas
When he was just a second class
And Ramses II, the first was
When his mother was canteen manageress

Then the General until the early morning
Unwound the thread of his vast story
Then he fell asleep on his bundle of hay
And us without speaking
We were dreaming of glory

He stayed at home like that
Up to fall
Without working without finding life monotonous
It even surprised us
To learn from the parish priest
That he had made twins to the maid

And then here is that one fine morning
Of December
He entered without even knocking
In my bedroom
He just had read in the newspaper
That he was promoted Marshal
Thus he was leaving us it was inevitable

I drove him back to town
I have been given back my cauliflowers
And my crates
And without useless emotion
Without tears and without saying a word
We part our ways like true heroes

At home life went back to normal without adventures
There is no one left to steal our jam
The General at the bistrot
Had planted a flag
For motherland I paid the bill

I never went back to the market
But sometimes in the sky of a summer night
Five stars can be seen
And it hurts us a little
Oh never buy a General

²French enamel paint, expression to do something up

Mouloudji - We have to live

Original Title: " Faut vivre " Despite the big eyes of the void "It's to better eat you, child" And the silence...