We always had a holly tree at Christmas decorated with fairy lights in little copper lanterns made by my Father. These contained rice paper to diffuse the light and the same rice paper was used as a base for the coconut macaroons that my Mother made as part of the preparations for Christmas.
The Holly Tree is referred to in this beautiful poem by R.S.Hawker.
There is a little more information at https://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poems/modryb-marya-aunt-mary
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With prune-dark eyes, thick lips, jostling each other Thinking, each of them, the worst is over Here if anywhere is feasible. Their glances Into the hinterland of their own future With faces of people’s friends. But these are mostly And meanwhile the city will go on, regardless Being endorsed on a vulcanite table, lines of washing To a bouquet that is bound for somebody’s beloved Till something or other turns up. Something-or-Other Gangways – the handclasp of the land. The resurrected, And officialdom greets them blankly as they fumble |
This poem appeared just about a year after MacNeice visited America where he met Auden and Isherwood amongst other prominent figures during a short lecture tour. It appeared at a time of extreme danger for Britain:- Dunkirk was a recent event and The Blitz too was starting. I am of the opinion that Auden and Isherwood need little justification for having left the country. They had worked bravely on “Journey to War” in Manchuria and Isherwood’s novels gave a clear insight into the rise of the Nazis and the persecution of leftists, Jewish people and so on. That is by the way, since although this poem could be considered in some ways slight, it has interesting parallels with the comparable plight of refugees today. Given Trump, entering America has become extremely difficult in the past year. In addition, it gives an insight into the New York seascape and skyline which I seem to remember has been written about movingly by two Jewish exiles, Rose Ausländer (Januar in New York) and I think, Mischa Kalako.
The poem itself is obviously of it’s time and the first line is rather brutal on facial characteristics. There are some interesting words like ‘milliner’ and ‘vulcanite’ that have dropped out of common parlance rather. I particularly like-‘Into the hinterland of their own future’ which suggests the confusion of trying to find in a new environment some reference to the land left behind. It also contains, I think, perhaps unconsciously, reference to MacNeice’s hinterland as an Irish born poet as well as much effective and ambivalent use of religious imagery. His father became a bishop of the Anglican Church of Ireland.
There was the pink firm flesh of the watermelons.
There were julie mangos that smelled like honey,
yellow bananas with black spots,
rare seasonal caimats weeping milk at their stems,
rows of white yellow pawpaws. I was in transit
in Tobago and had a few hours to kill
before I flew back to England.
I bought green oranges and sliced pineapple
salted and peppered in a clear plastic bag.
She offered me some water and asked Where you from?
From right here. She shook her head You’re not from here lately
She had her hair tied in a bright white headtie
and her army green shirt was buttoned to the top.
If you’re looking for a wife I could cook and clean, maybe?
I ent have no children I doh cause no trouble
I real quiet and lovin’. I looked at her for a minute
and told her that I don’t deserve a woman sweet like her.
She gave me a free extra mango and I kissed her cheek
and on the plane I thought where is home now,
and what will become of my Tobago fruit wife.
(From “In their own words” by Ivory and Szirtes)
The film of a butterfly ensures that it is dead:
Its silence like the green cocoon of the car-wash,
Its passion for water to uncloud.
In the Japanese tea house they believe
In making the most of the bright nights:
That the front of a leaf is male, the back female.
There are grass stains on their white stockings;
In artificial sun even the sound are disposable;
The mosaic of their wings is spun from blood.
Cyanide in the killing jar relaxes the Indian moon moth,
The pearl-bordered beauty, the clouded yellow,
The painted lady, the silver-washed blue.
I think this is a really interesting and beautiful poem and found in a collection by Ruth Padel at https://www.amazon.co.uk/52-Ways-Looking-At-Poem/dp/0099429152/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1510774406&sr=1-3&keywords=ruth+padel
THE HEART’S MEMORY OF THE SUN GROWS FAINT
by Anna Akhmatova
The heart’s memory of the sun grows faint.
The grass is yellower.
A few early snowflakes blow in the wind,
Barely, barely.
The narrow canals have stopped flowing —
The water is chilling.
Nothing will ever happen here —
Oh, never!
The willow spreads its transparent fan
Against the empty sky.
Perhaps I should not have become
Your wife.
The heart’s memory of the sun grows faint.
What’s this? Darkness?
It could be!… One night brings winter’s first
Hard freeze
Quand, les deux yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d’automne,
Je respire l’odeur de ton sein chaleureux,
Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux
Qu’éblouissent les feux d’un soleil monotone ;
Une île paresseuse où la nature donne
Des arbres singuliers et des fruits savoureux ;
Des hommes dont le corps est mince et vigoureux,
Et des femmes dont l’œil par sa franchise étonne.
Guidé par ton odeur vers de charmants climats,
Je vois un port rempli de voiles et de mâts
Encor tout fatigués par la vague marine,
Pendant que le parfum des verts tamariniers,
Qui circule dans l’air et m’enfle la narine,
Se mêle dans mon âme au chant des mariniers.
Translation on https://www.frenchtoday.com/french-poetry-reading/poem-parfum-exotique-baudelaire
Although people seem to be unaware of it today, the development of the faculty of attention forms the real object and almost the sole interest of studies. Most school tasks have a certain intrinsic interest as well, but such an interest is secondary. All tasks that really call upon the power of attention are interesting for the same reason and to an almost equal degree. ( On the right use of School Studies with a view to the Love of God)
Le Pont Mirabeau
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine.
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sousLe pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l’onde si lasse
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
L’amour s’en va comme cette eau courante
L’amour s’en va Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l’Espérance est violente
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Guillaume Apollinaire (1912)
There is a translation at https://www.talkinfrench.com/french-poems-english-translations/
Was nur in Frankfurt sich begibt:
Die Trambahn hielt auf offner Strecke.
Sie sah am Wege eine Schnecke
Und sagte gähnend: »Steigen Sie ein, wenn es Ihnen beliebt.«
Die Schnecke wehrte: »Danke, mir pressiert es.«
Da gab die Bahn ein Abfahrtssignal und noch eins und
ein drittes und viertes.
Und wirklich begann sie allmählich weiter zu fahren,
Um noch vor Sonntag die nächste Station zu erreichen.
Dort lagen an dreihundert Leichen,
Lauter Leute, die über dem Warten verhungert waren.
Joachim Ringelnatz wurde als jüngstes von drei Geschwistern in einem Wohn- und Geschäftshaus am Crostigall 14 in Wurzen bei Leipzig um „11 ¾ Uhr“ in einem Zimmer über dem Flur geboren, wie der Geburtsschein der Hebamme belegt. Seine Eltern waren beide künstlerisch tätig. Sein Vater Georg Bötticher, der einer thüringischen Gelehrtenfamilie entstammte, war ein Musterzeichner und später hauptberuflicher Verfasser von humoristischen Versen und Kinderbüchern. Er veröffentlichte vierzig Bücher, unter anderem in Reclams Universal-Bibliothek. Die Mutter Rosa Marie, Tochter eines Sägewerksbesitzers, zeichnete ebenfalls, entwarf Muster für Perlstickereien und stellte Puppenbekleidung her. Ringelnatz wuchs in bescheidenem Wohlstand auf: Die Familie beschäftigte zwei Dienstmädchen.
Quelle:-https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joachim_Ringelnatz
Reproduction of Portrait of Lord Byron by Thomas Phillips
I have been reading Frederich Raphael on Byron-which is full of witty asides and ironic comments. It is also very perceptive and entertaining. However, Youtube fails on readings of his work-perhaps unsurprisingly.
However, put into the frame of mind by Byron I found this following clipagain, which I very much like this very old lovesong which has subtitles in French-good for the brain! The melody is enticing and certainly is both seasonal and lyrically delightful. As someone has commented;”Une perfection, une merveille…
Max Raabe est un très grand Artiste! Merci!”.
penwithlit