fleeting life blossoms
tell of falling tomorrows
love but the moment
.
Wednesday, April 17, 2024
Saturday, April 29, 2023
Paul Valéry
Paul Valéry
"In the eyes of those lovers of perfection, a work is never finished - a word that for them has no sense - but abandoned; and this abandonment, whether to the flames or to the public (and which is the result of weariness or an obligation to deliver) is a kind of an accident to them, like the breaking off of a reflection, which fatigue, irritation, or something similar has made worthless."
~Paul Valéry.
[Aux yeux de ces amateurs d’inquiétude et de perfection, un ouvrage n’est jamais achevé, – mot qui pour eux n’a aucun sens, – mais abandonné ; et cet abandon, qui le livre aux flammes ou au public (et qu’il soit l’effet de la lassitude ou de l’obligation de livrer) est une sorte d’accident, comparable à la rupture d’une réflexion, que la fatigue, le fâcheux ou quelque sensation viennent rendre nulle.]
Paul Valéry (1871-1945) French poet, critic, author, polymath
Whilst this translation above is one possible version the current - shall we say verbatim (via google translation) is;-
"In the eyes of these lovers of uneasiness and perfection, a work is never finished – a word which for them has no meaning – but abandoned; and this abandonment, which delivers it to the flames or to the public (and whether it is the effect of lassitude or of the obligation to deliver) is a sort of accident, comparable to the rupture of a reflection, which the fatigue, the unfortunate or some sensation come to nullify"
..if a French reader would care to correct this 'raw version' I would be honoured.
afaik..
In March 1933 Paul Valéry published an essay in “La Nouvelle Revue Française” (“The New French Review”) about his poem “Le Cimetière marin” (“The Cemetery by the sea”) and this quote emerged from there.
=
New Criterion had a great article a few years back (imho)
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2020/4/the-cemetery-by-the-sea
FYI:
Le Cimetière marin is written in alexandrine /alexandrin, a verse form that was the leading measure in French poetry a couple of hundred years ago. It consists of a line of 12 syllables with major stresses on the 6th syllable (which precedes the medial caesura [pause]) and on the last syllable, and one secondary accent in each half line.
The foundation of most alexandrines consists of two hemistichs (half-lines) of six syllables each, separated by a caesura (a metrical pause or word break, which may or may not be realized as a stronger syntactic break): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandrine
Whilst somewhat reluctant to start a poetry war it would be most interesting to examine the form in the context of the scope of the rigours and how one might port them to our time and language.
I may have to temper this with Pindar's advice;-
"Do not, my soul, strive for the life of the immortals,
but exhaust the practical means at your disposal."
Thursday, March 24, 2022
Censorship is Wrong
It pains me to report gross infringement of my rights as an individual to access whatsoever I want.
I abhor thought police.
To be clear this is in response to the COUNCIL REGULATION (EU) 2022/350 of 1 March 2022
amending Regulation (EU) No 833/2014 concerning restrictive measures in view of Russia's actions destabilising the situation in Ukraine
amending Regulation (EU) No 833/2014 concerning restrictive measures in view of Russia's actions destabilising the situation in Ukraine
https://eur-lex.europa.eu/legal-content/EN/TXT/HTML/?uri=CELEX:32022R0350&from=EN
Please stand up now to insist that the individual must be able to read all internet and other sources freely and without hindrance / censorship.
In the meantime I would suggest the following sources for an educated / insightful view of this highly manipulated / designed / orchestrated crisis.
Sunday, June 13, 2021
Home and Sense of Place
As always the diversity reflecting the Ireland that we may become is exciting and none more so than the readings from Home and Sense of Place.
Home and Sense of Place presents nine poems exploring the idea of home and belonging, the experience of migration, and the importance of place:
• Nithy Kasa reading “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” by W. B. Yeats (Dublin, 2020)
• Selina Nwulu reading her work “Half Written Love Letter” (London, 2019)
• Seán Hewitt reading “Queens” by J. M. Synge (Coole Park, Co Galway 2020)
• Mahogany L. Browne reading her work “If 2017 was a poem title” (New York, 2019)
• Denice Frohman reading her work “Puertopia” (New York, 2019)
• Doireann Ní Ghríofa reading her work “Brightening" (Coole Park, Co Galway, 2020)
• Liz Berry reading her work “The Republic of Motherhood” (London, 2019)
• Camille Rankine reading her work “It Would Sound Like a Dream” (New York, 2019)
• Marian Richardson reading “Girls Bathing, Galway 1965” by Seamus Heaney (Dublin, 2019)
I fully intend to provide video / links to the above as I find them, in the first instance here is a reading from Nithy Kasa reading William Butler Yeats' "The Lake Isle of Innisfree".
Saturday, June 12, 2021
Congratulations to William Wall
Mega congratulations to William Wall on his appointment as the Cork poet laureate, an initiative of the Munster Literature Centre... (funded by Cork City Council).
The laureateship runs for ten months from May 2021. The laureate will publish a new poem at the end of each month.
https://www.munsterlit.ie/
Read more... https://www.munsterlit.ie/cork_poet_laureate.html
William Wall's website http://www.williamwall.net/
On Wikepedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wall_(writer)
William's first poem is...
Hometown Blues
Listen to William Wall reading here...
https://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle/artsandculture/arid-40308719.html
In memory of the late great Rory Gallagher, I remember being at a Rory Gallagher concert in the Stadium in Dublin and as William says... "the whole floor a drum" for those not familiar with Rory Gallagher please search for Going To My Hometown (1972)... I know, we are all ancient, how else can you survive... ;-)
On Wikipedia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rory_Gallagher
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rory_Gallagher
Monday, May 11, 2020
Navajo & Hopi Families COVID-19 Relief Fund
Folks,
IMHO ..it is beholden on us as the Irish nation to make a contribution to the current fundraiser to the Navajo & Hopi Families COVID-19 Relief Fund as a small token for the Great Hunger / Famine relief provided by the 1847 donation from the Choctaw Tribe.
https://www.gofundme.com/f/NHFC19Relief
We as a Nation will never forget the generosity of our Choctaw Brothers and Sisters who in their own time of need saw fit to make a contribution to the suffering in Ireland in 1847.
Go raibh maith agat go léir
Now it is our turn, please make a contribution.
Des Donnelly Tyrone
IMHO ..it is beholden on us as the Irish nation to make a contribution to the current fundraiser to the Navajo & Hopi Families COVID-19 Relief Fund as a small token for the Great Hunger / Famine relief provided by the 1847 donation from the Choctaw Tribe.
https://www.gofundme.com/f/NHFC19Relief
We as a Nation will never forget the generosity of our Choctaw Brothers and Sisters who in their own time of need saw fit to make a contribution to the suffering in Ireland in 1847.
Go raibh maith agat go léir
Now it is our turn, please make a contribution.
Des Donnelly Tyrone
Saturday, May 13, 2017
Thursday, May 11, 2017
Remember Fontenoy Always
May 11
Fontenoy
By Thomas Osborne Davis (1814–1845)
THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed,
And twice the lines of St. Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were guarded with fort and artillery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri’s wood the British soldiers burst, 5
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. 10
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill—
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right onward still
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a furnace blast, 15
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and steadiness, that mocked at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland’s ocean banks. 20
More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bombshell, and grape, and round shot tore, still on they marched and fired—
Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired.
“Push on, my household cavalry,” King Louis madly cried: 25
To death they rush, but rude their shock—not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod—King Louis turns his rein;
“Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the Irish troops remain;”
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. 30
“Lord Clare,” he says, “you have your wish—there are your Saxon foes;”
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry, 35
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown—
Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. 40
O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
“Fix bayonets—charge.” Like mountain storms rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind— 45
Their bayonets the breakers’ foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzzah!
“Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach.” 50
Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger’s pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang.
Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore.
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled— 55
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track,
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won!
A village in Belgium. Here, on May 11, 1745, the French under Marshal Saxe defeated the allied English, Dutch and Hanoverians under the Duke of Cumberland.
The Irish fighting alongside the French (as 500,000 Irish did for France) covered themselves with glory.
more on Thomas Osborne Davis
Fontenoy
By Thomas Osborne Davis (1814–1845)
THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed,
And twice the lines of St. Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were guarded with fort and artillery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri’s wood the British soldiers burst, 5
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. 10
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill—
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right onward still
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a furnace blast, 15
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and steadiness, that mocked at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland’s ocean banks. 20
More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bombshell, and grape, and round shot tore, still on they marched and fired—
Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired.
“Push on, my household cavalry,” King Louis madly cried: 25
To death they rush, but rude their shock—not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod—King Louis turns his rein;
“Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the Irish troops remain;”
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. 30
“Lord Clare,” he says, “you have your wish—there are your Saxon foes;”
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry, 35
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown—
Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. 40
O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
“Fix bayonets—charge.” Like mountain storms rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind— 45
Their bayonets the breakers’ foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzzah!
“Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach.” 50
Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger’s pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang.
Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore.
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled— 55
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track,
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won!
A village in Belgium. Here, on May 11, 1745, the French under Marshal Saxe defeated the allied English, Dutch and Hanoverians under the Duke of Cumberland.
The Irish fighting alongside the French (as 500,000 Irish did for France) covered themselves with glory.
more on Thomas Osborne Davis
Thursday, March 16, 2017
a chara.. any chance of a coffee?
something very nice from Julius Meinl..
https://www.meinlcoffee.com/poetry/campaigns/pay-with-a-poem-2017/
#PayWithAPoem
.
Saturday, February 04, 2017
Hocus POTUS
Hocus POTUS, nukes protect us
screaming walls and evil laws
torture chambers and fresh cabals
abra cadaver
macabre...
.
screaming walls and evil laws
torture chambers and fresh cabals
abra cadaver
macabre...
.