Guillaume Apollinaire
Ferryman of the dead and the mordonnantes mériennes
Millions of flies fanned a splendor
When a man without eyes, without a nose and without ears
Leaving the Sébasto entered the rue Aubry-Le-Boucher
Young the man was brown and this strawberry color on the cheeks
Man Ah! Ariane
He played the flute and the music guided his steps
He stopped at the corner of rue Saint-Martin
Playing the tune that I sing and that I invented
The women who passed by stopped near him
They came from all sides
When suddenly the bells of Saint-Merry began
to ring
The musician stopped playing and drank from the fountain
Which is at the corner of rue Simon-Le-Franc
Then Saint-Merry fell silent
The stranger resumed his flute tune
And retracing his steps walked to rue de la Verrerie
Where he entered followed by the troop of women
Who were coming out of the houses
Who were coming by the cross streets with wild eyes
Hands outstretched towards the melodious kidnapper
He went away indifferent playing his tune
He went away terribly
Then elsewhere
At what time will a train leave for Paris
At that moment
The pigeons of the Moluccas were dropping nutmegs
At the same time
Catholic Mission of Borna what have you done with the sculptor
Elsewhere
She crosses a bridge that connects Bonn to Beuel and disappears
through Pützchen
At the same time
A young girl in love with the mayor
In another district
So rival poet with the perfumers’ labels
In short, oh laughers, you have not drawn much from
men
And have you barely extracted a little fat from their
misery
But we who are dying from living far from each other Stretch out our arms and on these rails rolls a long freight
train You were crying sitting next to me at the back of the cab And now You look like me, you unfortunately look like me
We looked like each other like in the architecture of the
last century
Those tall chimneys like towers
We go higher now and no longer touch
the ground
And while the world lived and varied
The procession of women as long as a day without bread
Followed the happy musician in the rue de la Verrerie Processions
, oh processions
It was when in the past the king went to Vincennes
When the ambassadors arrived in Paris
When the skinny Suger hurried towards the Seine
When the riot died down around Saint-Merry
Processions, oh processions
The women overflowed so great was their number
In all the neighboring streets
And hurried stiff as bullets
In order to follow the musician
Ah! Ariane and you Pâquette and you Amine
And you Mia and you Simone and you Mavise
And you Colette and you the beautiful Geneviève
They passed trembling and vain
And their light and nimble steps moved according to the
cadence
Of the pastoral music which guided
Their eager ears
The stranger stopped for a moment in front of a house for
sale.
Abandoned house
With broken windows
It is a sixteenth century dwelling
The courtyard serves as a shed for delivery cars
That is where the musician
entered His music that was fading away became languorous
The women followed him into the abandoned house
And they all entered in a group
All all entered without looking behind them
Without regretting what they had left
What they had abandoned
Without regretting the day, life and memory
Soon there was no one left in the rue de la
Verrerie
Except myself and a priest from Saint-Merry
We entered the old house
But we found no one
there Here is the evening
In Saint-Merry it is the Angelus that rings
Processions oh processions
It is when once the king returned from Vincennes
There came a troop of cap makers
There came banana merchants
There came soldiers of the Republican Guard
Oh night
Flock of languorous glances from women
Oh night
You my pain and my vain wait
I hear the sound of a distant flute dying
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This war poem is a surreal journey through the streets of Paris, blending personal reflection with the eeriness of wartime experiences. Its fragmented structure mirrors the emotional turmoil and disorientation of the speaker, who seems both an observer and a participant in the unfolding events. The poem shifts between dreamlike imagery and harsh realities, creating a sense of distance from both the physical world and the self.
The first stanza introduces a mysterious figure—a blind and disfigured man who plays the flute and is followed by a group of women drawn to his haunting music. The man, described as a “stranger,” becomes a symbol of an unattainable ideal or a moment of fleeting beauty in the midst of chaos. His music, at once enchanting and melancholic, guides the women through the streets of Paris, an eerie procession that invokes the idea of people blindly following something or someone, perhaps an illusion or a desperate hope amidst despair.
The repetitive mention of “processions” throughout the poem ties the narrative to historical and social movements, but also to the ritualistic nature of life and death in times of conflict. The women’s blind devotion to the musician hints at the futility of their pursuit. They abandon everything—life, memory, and even the present—to follow him, an act that mirrors the surrender of identity and agency in war.
The poem uses Paris as a backdrop, but the city is not just a physical location—it transforms into a metaphor for loss, alienation, and the passage of time. The sense of decay is palpable, with references to abandoned houses and broken windows. The closing image of the speaker, left alone with a priest after the procession has ended, emphasizes the emptiness and the silence that follows. The sound of the flute dies away, leaving only a lingering memory.
The references to historical events, such as the king’s return from Vincennes and the riot around Saint-Merry, suggest that the poem is not just about a personal or immediate experience, but about a recurring pattern of societal loss. This is further highlighted by the idea of the “processions” that echo across time, symbolizing the endless cycles of human suffering, both personal and collective.
Ultimately, the poem conveys a sense of futility and helplessness, as the women and the speaker are swept along by forces beyond their control. The war, much like the music of the flute, is both an external and internal force—guiding, compelling, and eventually silencing everything in its wake. The poet’s reflective tone, combined with the surreal images and repetitive motifs, creates an atmosphere of haunting resignation and a yearning for something lost, perhaps forever.