PRAYER TO SATAN
toyin adepoju
The Litany of Satan
O you, the wisest and fairest of the Angels,
God betrayed by destiny and deprived of praise,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
O Prince of Exile, you who have been wronged
And who vanquished always rise up again more strong,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who know all, great king of hidden things,
The familiar healer of human sufferings,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who teach through love the taste for Heaven
To the cursed pariah, even to the leper,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who of Death, your mistress old and strong,
Have begotten Hope, — a charming madcap!
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who give the outlaw that calm and haughty look
That damns the whole multitude around his scaffold.
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who know in what nooks of the miserly earth
A jealous God has hidden precious stones,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You whose clear eye sees the deep arsenals
Where the tribe of metals sleeps in its tomb,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You whose broad hand conceals the precipice
From the sleep-walker wandering on the building's ledge,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who soften magically the old bones
Of belated drunkards trampled by the horses,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who to console frail mankind in its sufferings
Taught us to mix sulphur and saltpeter,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who put your mark, O subtle accomplice,
Upon the brow of Croesus, base and pitiless,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
You who put in the eyes and hearts of prostitutes
The cult of sores and the love of rags and tatters,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
Staff of those in exile, lamp of the inventor,
Confessor of the hanged and of conspirators,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
Adopted father of those whom in black rage
— God the Father drove from the earthly paradise,
O Satan, take pity on my long misery!
Prayer
Glory and praise to you, O Satan, in the heights
Of Heaven where you reigned and in the depths
Of Hell where vanquished you dream in silence!
Grant that my soul may someday repose near to you
Under the Tree of Knowledge, when, over your brow,
Its branches will spread like a new Temple!
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
Litanies of Satan
Wisest of Angels, whom your fate betrays,
And, fairest of them all, deprives of praise,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
O Prince of exiles, who have suffered wrong,
Yet, vanquished, rise from every fall more strong,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
All-knowing lord of subterranean things,
Who remedy our human sufferings,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
To lepers and lost beggars full of lice,
You teach, through love, the taste of Paradise.
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You who on Death, your old and sturdy wife,
Engendered Hope — sweet folly of this life —
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You give to the doomed man that calm, unbaffled
Gaze that rebukes the mob around the scaffold,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You know in what closed corners of the earth
A jealous God has hidden gems of worth.
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You know the deepest arsenals, where slumber
The breeds of buried metals without number.
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You whose huge hand has hidden the abyss
From sleepwalkers that skirt the precipice,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You who give suppleness to drunkards' bones
When trampled down by horses on the stones,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You who, to make his sufferings the lighter,
Taught man to mix the sulphur with the nitre,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You fix your mask, accomplice full of guile,
On rich men's foreheads, pitiless and vile.
Satan have pity on my long despair!
You who fill the hearts and eyes of whores
With love of trifles and the cult of sores,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
The exile's staff, inventor's lamp, caresser
Of hanged men, and of plotters the confessor,
Satan have pity on my long despair!
Step-father of all those who, robbed of pardon,
God drove in anger out of Eden's garden
Satan have pity on my long despair!
Prayer
Praise to you, Satan! in the heights you lit,
And also in the deeps where now you sit,
Vanquished, in Hell, and dream in hushed defiance
O that my soul, beneath the Tree of Science
Might rest near you, while shadowing your brows,
It spreads a second Temple with its boughs.
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)
Litany to Satan
O wise among all Angels ordinate,
God foiled of glory, god betrayed by fate,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
O Prince of Exile doomed to heinous wrong,
Who, vanquished, riseth ever stark and strong,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thou knowest all, proud king of occult things,
Familiar healer of man's sufferings,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thy love wakes thirst for Heaven in one and all:
Leper, pimp, outcast, fool and criminal,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Of Death, thy brave leal wanton, Thou didst breed,
Sweet madcap Hope to charm our idle need,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thy gift, that bland imperious glance that hallows
The damned, and damns the blest about the gallows,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
In coigns of miser earth veined with dead bones
Thou knowest what jealous God hid precious stones,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thy fierce eyes pierce deep arsenals in which
The tribe of metals sleep, entombed and rich,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thy broad palm cloaks the precipice's edge
For sleepwalkers, poised on a building's ledge,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thy magic softens bones of drunkards struck
By hooves of horses on a speeding truck,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
To cheer him, Thou didst teach frail man, Thy friend,
How aptly sulphur and saltpeter blend,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thou, skilled accomplice, Who dost stamp thy mark
Upon the brow of Croesus, harsh and stark,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thou Who didst lend the eyes and hearts of whores
Their love of tatters and their cult of sores,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Thou, sage's lamp and exile's staff, serene
Guide to those kneeling by the guillotine,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Father to those whom God the Father's vice
Of vengeance drove from earthly paradise,
Satan, O pity my long wretchedness!
Envoi
Glory and praise to Thee, Satan, on high,
Where Thou didst reign, in Hell where Thou dost lie,
Vanquished, silent, dreaming eternally.
Grant that my soul some day rest close to Thee
Under the Tree of Knowledge which shall spread
Its branches like a Temple overhead.
— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)
The Litanies of Satan
O thou, of all the Angels loveliest and most learned,
To whom no praise is chanted and no incense burned,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
O Prince of exile, god betrayed by foulest wrong,
Thou that in vain art vanquished, rising up more strong,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
O thou who knowest all, each weak and shameful thing,
Kind minister to man in anguish, mighty king,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Thou that dost teach the leper, the pariah we despise,
To love like other men, and taste sweet Paradise,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
O thou, that in the womb of Death, thy fecund mate,
Engenderest Hope, with her sweet eyes and her mad gait,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Thou who upon the scaffold dost give that calm and proud
Demeanor to the felon, which condemns the crowd,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Thou that hast seen in darkness and canst bring to light
The gems a jealous God has hidden from our sight,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Thou to whom all the secret arsenals are known
Where iron, where gold and silver, slumber, locked in stone,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Thou whose broad hand dost hide the precipice from him
Who, barefoot, in his sleep, walks on the building's rim,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
O thou who makest supple between the horses' feet
The old bones of the drunkard fallen in the street,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Thou who best taught the frail and over-burdened mind
How easily saltpeter and sulphur are combined,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Thou that hast burned thy brand beyond all help secure,
Into the rich man's brow, who tramples on the poor,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
O thou, who makest gentle the eyes and hearts of whores
With kindness for the wretched, homage for rags and sores,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Staff of the exile, lamp of the inventor, last
Priest of the man about whose neck the rope is passed,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
O thou, adopted father of those fatherless
Whom God from Eden thrust in terror and nakedness,
Satan, have pity upon me in my deep distress!
Prayer
Glory and praise to thee, Satan, in the most high,
Where thou didst reign; and in deep hell's obscurity,
Where, manacled, thou broodest long! O silent power,
Grant that my soul be near to thee in thy great hour,
When, like a living Temple, victorious bough on bough,
Shall rise the Tree of Knowledge, whose roots are in thy brow!
— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)
Litany to Satan
Oh, you, most remarkable of angels
Driven from the divine crush of the skies —
You were the first exile.
The billions have followed,
Either into new lands or immediate graves
You heal our discontents
And make us strong through
Hate and anger of our masters
And the weariness of the days
The cancer victims, young beauties with ulcers
Alcoholics who won't be content with their O.K. jobs
Would be happy to give themselves up to the paradise
You maintain below.
Through your agent, Death,
You give us hope and
The curiosity to see tomorrow;
The guilty have their calm photographs
Printed in the newspaper. It is our joy
To see them. Satan,
Whose hands-on the perishable —
Guides drunken feet to cars
Encourages tired whores
Broke drug addicts to score again
Violent alcoholics to hit away
Sends those who want love,
Terrible lovers —
Take pity on our pain?
We are exiles, too!
Prayer
Satan, a prayer to you because we cannot reach anyone else.
Only we are left to remember your unfair loss.
This hell we do not accept silently.
Help us take more apples from the tree —
Let nothing remain unseen!
When you shoot out
To flower again
Remember us not as brute but as
Ones who accept the torture
Again and again.
— Will Schmitz
Les Litanies de Satan
wisest and fairest of the Angels young,
o god whom fate betrayed and left unsung,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o exiled Prince borne down by many lies,
who, conquered, ever mightier dost arise,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o thou who knowest all things, who dost reign
in nether worlds, who healest all men's pain,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
thou who to pariahs and lepers dost
reveal, through love, the heaven they have lost,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
thou who with Death, that old and mighty trull,
begot us Hope, so mad, so beautiful!
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o thou who gives bandits, doomed to die,
the brows which damn a nation, standing nigh,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o though who knowest in what crabbed zones
of earth, God locked away the precious stones,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o thou who seest through the deep dark walls
where sleep the metals' buried arsenals,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o thou whose hands upon the housetop keep
the abysses veiled from those who walk in sleep,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o thou who savest from the horses' feet
the poor old drunkard fallen in the street,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o thou who showest suffering mortals how
to mix the salts and sulphur — blessèd thou
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
thou who dost brand in subtle friendliness
the brows of rich men base and merciless,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o thou who hussies' eyes and bosoms chill
with lust of blood and love of rags dost fill,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
staff of the exiled, torch inventors woo,
confessor of the gallows' plotting crew,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
o foster-father of us all, who share
God's primal curse, and lost our Eden there,
Satan, have pity on my long despair!
glory and praise to the, in heaven above
where thou didst reign, and in the abysses of
thy Hell, where thou art brooding, silently!
grant that with thee my soul, beneath the Tree
of Knowledge may find rest, when, o'er thy brows,
like a new Temple it puts forth its boughs!
— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)
Les Litanies de Satan
Ô toi, le plus savant et le plus beau des Anges,
Dieu trahi par le sort et privé de louanges,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Ô Prince de l'exil, à qui l'on a fait tort
Et qui, vaincu, toujours te redresses plus fort,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi qui sais tout, grand roi des choses souterraines,
Guérisseur familier des angoisses humaines,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi qui, même aux lépreux, aux parias maudits,
Enseignes par l'amour le goût du Paradis,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Ô toi qui de la Mort, ta vieille et forte amante,
Engendras l'Espérance, — une folle charmante!
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi qui fais au proscrit ce regard calme et haut
Qui damne tout un peuple autour d'un échafaud.
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi qui sais en quels coins des terres envieuses
Le Dieu jaloux cacha les pierres précieuses,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi dont l'oeil clair connaît les profonds arsenaux
Où dort enseveli le peuple des métaux,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi dont la large main cache les précipices
Au somnambule errant au bord des édifices,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi qui, magiquement, assouplis les vieux os
De l'ivrogne attardé foulé par les chevaux,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi qui, pour consoler l'homme frêle qui souffre,
Nous appris à mêler le salpêtre et le soufre,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi qui poses ta marque, ô complice subtil,
Sur le front du Crésus impitoyable et vil,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Toi qui mets dans les yeux et dans le coeur des filles
Le culte de la plaie et l'amour des guenilles,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Bâton des exilés, lampe des inventeurs,
Confesseur des pendus et des conspirateurs,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Père adoptif de ceux qu'en sa noire colère
Du paradis terrestre a chassés Dieu le Père,
Ô Satan, prends pitié de ma longue misère!
Prière
Gloire et louange à toi, Satan, dans les hauteurs
Du Ciel, où tu régnas, et dans les profondeurs
De l'Enfer, où, vaincu, tu rêves en silence!
Fais que mon âme un jour, sous l'Arbre de Science,
Près de toi se repose, à l'heure où sur ton front
Comme un Temple nouveau ses rameaux s'épandront!
— Charles Baudelaire
kenneth harrow
lastly, the french original just sings out with such beauty, i went back to see what could be done in english. very hard to evoke the music of the original, music in all its senses and sensuousness
thanks toyin
ken
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Kenneth W. Harrow
Distinguished Professor of English
Michigan State University
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517 803-8839
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toyin adepoju
kenneth harrow
my "obatala" consists mostly of the figure of obatala that appears in soyinka's work, going back to the Interpreters when i first encountered yoruba gods and tried to learn about them as we had studied greek gods, way back in the 60s. and i learned mostly about the impossibility of relating the one to the other; in fact, learning about the way yoruba beliefs varied over time and place helped me to learn how all those common texts on greek mythology were also based on weak scholarship that tended to universalize beliefs that were actually regional and local as well.
i was interested in how this satan concerned himself with those who were 'unformed' in their final cooking, that is, the weak or imperfect beings, especially those in need of help, those in need, those suffering. obviously this satan sounds like jesus as well, and baudelaire is maybe toying with our prejudices in favor of a certain christianity. without returning to rereading the whole of Fleurs du Mal i couldn't begin to really interpret the poem. but the vulnerability of obatala, getting drunk and falling asleep during the 'cooking' of human beings stayed with my imagination of a vulnerable but generous god, rather than the hardnosed ogun. god betrayed by destiny. another line is,
To the cursed pariah, even to the leper,
best
ken
toyin adepoju
i particularly liked the 'cooking' image.
thanks for the warning about generalizations
toyin