The Forts of Paris

The outline of the old Paris forts can still be seen today.

 

by Brett Rutherford

Adapted from Victor Hugo, l'Annee Terrible, "December 1870"

Seen from the sky, they have the shape of stars.
Crouching on hill and mound,
forts are the enormous watch-dogs of Paris.

In case we can be surprised at any moment,
in case a horde arrives, in case the vile ambush
tries to creep up to the city walls — they watch.
Nineteen of them are ever on guard,
alert and worried, threatened and menaced
by whatever amasses in the dark of night,
they can warn each other
     whenever something stirs
         that ought not be there.
Their bronze necks stretch all around
    the high and formidable walls.

During our slumber they stay awake,
hoarse lungs ready to cough out thunder.

The hills, sometimes, erupt in earth-born stars,
throwing a flash of lightning,
    the valleys and plains below lit up,
in sudden alarm in the dark of night.

When heavy twilight falls upon us,
its silence might be a trap, its peace
the lull concealing an enemy camp.

To lure, ensnare, encircle us
   is their intent, in vain.

Our trust is in the guard-dog cannons,
horizon hugging, monstrous in size,
respected by all the populace.

Paris, the armed camp in bivouac,
Paris its own tomb, Paris
     imprisoned within its own close quarters,
standing in solitude
     among a universe of empires,
Paris its own sentinel ever-wary,
     weary grows, and dozes off.
The sleep of some spreads out and muffles all,
men, women, children alike must slumber.
What sounds, the sobs, the strident burst
of hysterical laughter cutting itself short,
the dim and fading footsteps
around the water-tanks, the quay,
     street-corners and riverbanks,
the thousand roofs beneath which dreams
rise trembling and then still themselves,
the groan of settling boards and stairs
mistaken for the tread of burglars,

The lifted hope that believes everything;
the famished sigh that says, I just might die.

All keep, as out of respect
    for those distant guardians,
a close-to-silence half-wakefulness.

Sleep now, forget everything,
     count on the fact that they are there.

We stand up with a start! We gasp and pant!
Lending our ears from doorway and window-peep,
something like a mountain howling reaches us.
The whole town listens, bed-sheets clutched:
everyone, on every road and farm, wakes up.
After the first rumble, a second cry responds,
the inarticulate utterance of deaf terror,
fierce howl, hint of inclement weather,
no! a hundred more voices echo, thunder
piled upon thunder, this is no storm!

It is them, our guardians! Somewhere amid
the clotted darkness they saw the hides
of covert creatures moving about.
They sparked; they lit them up in silhouette,
and there was no mistaking it: the enemy!
Is that it? Did they make out, in some wood
so dark that even an owl would shun it,
at field’s edge, the black swarm of a battalion,
the sound of muffled feet, marching?

Amid the thicket, did our dogs
make out the tell-tale gleam of human eyes?
How beautiful the forts of Paris,
like strong and faithful dogs who bark,
and, once awakened, roar their challenge.