Chanson d’automne

September 22, 2021 by Sheila 2 Comments

For the first day of fall, a poem by Paul Verlaine. Translation by Arthur Symons.

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon coeur
D’une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

—Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)

When a sighing begins
In the violins
Of the autumn-song,
My heart is drowned
In the slow sound
Languorous and long

Pale as with pain,
Breath fails me when
The hours tolls deep.
My thoughts recover
The days that are over
And I weep.

And I go
Where the winds know,
Broken and brief,
To and fro,
As the winds blow
A dead leaf.

Rainbow Bridge

December 22, 2010 by Sheila Leave a comment

Twelve years ago today I was in labor. I had been in labor since dawn of the winter solstice the day before. We said: A solstice baby! Uh, no, guess not. Labor would continue for another two days… My daughter was contemplating the looooong journey ahead of her.

Then she was ready. You go girl!

These sketches are from a baby journal I began after our daughter was born. Not the same day though.

This is a verse we say on the eve of a birthday (filling in the appropriate ages):

When I have said my evening prayer,

And clothes are folded on the chair,

And mother switches off the light,

I’ll still be [ ] years old tonight.

But from the very break of day,

Before the children rise and play,

Before the purple turns to gold,

Tomorrow I’ll be [ ] years old.

[ ] kisses when I wake,

[ ] candles on my cake.

—Anonymous

This World is not Conclusion

December 10, 2010 by Sheila 1 Comment

Today is the birthday of Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), and it is difficult to choose from among her rich and relentless outpouring. But here is one to ponder as we move inexorably, yet hopefully, toward the darkest time of year.

This World is not Conclusion.

A Species stands beyond —

Invisible, as Music —

But positive, as Sound —

It beckons, and it baffles —

Philosophy — don’t know —

And through a Riddle, at the last —

Sagacity, must go —

To guess it, puzzles scholars —

To gain it, Men have borne

Contempt of Generations

And Crucifixion, shown —

Faith slips — and laughs, and rallies —

Blushes, if any see —

Plucks at a twig of Evidence —

And asks a Vane, the way —

Much Gesture, from the Pulpit —

Strong Hallelujahs roll —

Narcotics cannot still the Tooth

That nibbles at the soul —

—Emily Dickinson

Charles

Paradise Lost

December 9, 2010 by Sheila Leave a comment

Today is the birthday of John Milton (1608-1674), and in his honor I post the closing lines of his masterpiece Paradise Lost, along with a drawing by my daughter from our homeschooling Old Testament block several years ago. It’s not exactly a match, but I couldn’t resist.

Her drawing belies the solemnity of the poem. Adam and Eve actually look rather pleased at their departure from the Garden of Eden.

In either hand the hastening angel caught

Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate

Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast

To the subjected plain; then disappeared.

They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,

Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate

With dreadful faces thronged, and fiery arms:

Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them soon;

The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:

They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way.

—John Milton

Advent I: I Heard an Angel Singing

November 28, 2010 by Sheila Leave a comment

This year the First Sunday of Advent happens to fall on the birthday of visionary poet and artist William Blake (1757-1827). And so it seems appropriate to post this poem, with its manifestation of hope in the midst of bleak reality.

I heard an Angel singing

When the day was springing,

“Mercy, Pity, Peace

Is the world’s release.”

Thus he sung all day

Over the new mown hay,

Till the sun went down

And haycocks looked brown.

I heard a Devil curse

Over the heath and the furze,

“Mercy could be no more,

If there was nobody poor,

And pity no more could be,

If all were as happy as we.”

At his curse the sun went down,

And the heavens gave a frown.

Down pour’d the heavy rain

Over the new reap’d grain …

And Miseries’ increase

Is Mercy, Pity, Peace.

—William Blake