It is gently raining
this morning and while my dog was walking me, I enjoyed the sight of rain
droplets on the roses. At first sight I recalled Khalil Gebran’s lines about
friendship from “The Prophet”:
In the sweetness of friendship let there be
laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart
finds its morning and is refreshed
Then, as we walked are
daily mile in the streets of the town, out of nowhere, a poem by Pierre de Ronsard took
over my memories. This poem, written in the 1500th, was among my
favorites in French literature class in high school days. I knew this poem by
heart, like many others but I had not thought about it for more than half a
century! Slowly, some of the lines came back, and to the bewilderment of my
dog, I started reciting them aloud.
Back home, I shook the
dampness off my hat and searched for the poem. Here are the opening lines, in old
French, of “Mignonne,
allons voir si la rose”
and a good English translation:
Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
A point perdu ceste vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au vostre pareil.
Las ! voyez comme en peu d’espace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
Las ! las ses beautez laissé cheoir !
Ô vrayment marastre Nature,
Puis qu’une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir !
Sweetheart, let’s see
if the rose
Who this morning unfurled
Her dress of crimson to the sun,
Has lost at evening
The folds of her crimson dress,
And her color at the same rate.
Alas! See how in a
little bit of space,
Sweetheart, she has the place.
Alas! Weary of its beauties she let fall!
Oh, truly cruel Mother Nature,
That such a flower doesn’t last
From morning to evening!
It is about beauty and
the passage of time. It is about our willingness to appreciate the circle of
love, the circle of life, while finding beauty along the way.
And as I sipped on my
morning coffee, lines from the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca found their
way in this unexpected expedition in memory. Indeed, it was in his writings
that I first learned how often poets have talked about their refuge, and
perhaps liberation, in self love when love, like roses, has transcended others
and experiences.
He wrote:
After a while
you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand
and chaining a soul.
Every time I think of
those lines, at various stages of my life, I interpret the last line
differently. Is it the soul of the one we love? Or the soul of those we loved?
Or is it our own soul?
No matter. Lorca has
experienced all three of those interpretations, and here are lovely lines from
one of my favorite poems of his “Serenata”
Por las orillas del río
se está la noche mojando
y en los pechos de Lolita
se mueren de amor los
ramos.
Se mueren de amor los
ramos.
La noche canta desnuda
sobre los puentes de
marzo.
Lolita lava su cuerpo
con agua salobre y
nardos.
Se mueren de amor los
ramos.
La noche de anís y plata
relumbra por los tejados.
Plata de arroyos y
espejos.
Anís de tus muslos
blancos.
Se mueren de amor los
ramos.
And the translation :
The
night soaks itself
along the shore of the river
and in Lolita's breasts
the branches die of love.
The branches die of love.
Naked the night sings
above the bridges of March.
Lolita bathes her body
with salt water and roses.
The branches die of love.
The night of anise and silver
shines over the rooftops.
Silver of streams and mirrors
Anise of your white thighs.
The branches die of love.
… Roses again. And I looked for a photo I had taken
where roses, the circle of love and youth found their way through my camera’s
lens.
September 23, 2023
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023
