Two Poems by Rosamund Marriott Watson
|December 18, 2012|
So your boys are going to Paris? That’s how I lost my
Lonely? Ah yes, but I know it, the old are always alone.
You remember my boys, Euphrasie? No? Was it before
Each, when his turn came, kissed me, and cried; but they
How I longed for them, always, vainly and thought of them,
early and late;
I would start and look round in the pasture if any one clicked
But a greater sorrow fell on me: my Marie, with eyes so
Grew restless, poor bird! in the home-nest — she must seek
her fortune too.
And, once the desire is on them, ’tis a fever, they cannot stay;
And Marie, my poor little Marie! well, I missed her one
bright spring day.
‘Twas then that my heart broke, ‘Phrasie, for my children
gay and tall.
For fair, vile, glittering Paris had taken them all.
Yet the good God is merciful always; I live, and I have no
Only the old dumb longing for the children home again.
Still I watch the road to the city, up the glistening sun-set
But they never come back, Euphrasie — never come back!
(After L. Van Beethoven)
“Avec que si, a-vec que la, a-vec que la marmotte.”
The way is dark before us as we go,
And cold the mountain wind;
The little flying feathers of the snow
Float round us soft and blind.
Now shut you close those little twinkling eyes,
Safe in my coat, asleep; —
I shall know surest where the river lies,
And where the drifts are deep.
Sleep, little prying one — ’tis cold and still,
Naught but the dark to see —
Yet golden-bright behind yon crest of hill
The village lights may be.
Soft on the snow my naked feet fall light,
Swift as the brown owls fly; —
Now never fear but we shall sup to-night.
My Marmot, you and I.
About the Author:
Rosamund Marriott Watson (1860 – 1911) was a British poet.
Inherent Vice’s Two Directions
The jokes certainly strike one as sophomoric and the latter one as clichéd, further below Pynchon’s intelligence than one would like to think he would stoop, at least in print. Discounting them and moving on, or throwing the book across the room as Parker half implies we should do, however, would be to lose sight of “that high magic to low puns”.
Auden, Larkin and Love
I was prompted to revisit these ancient questions anew by a long footnote about a single line in the new Complete Poems edition of Philip Larkin’s poetry. The footnote refers to “An Arundel Tomb” contains a provocative remark about that the poem’s celebrated, controversial, closing line, the one about the true nature of immortality: “What will survive of us is love.”
Plato, Our Comrade?
Not surprisingly, there have already been critics of Badiou’s translation. The first is that his translation breaks the formal rules of translation to such a degree that the original meaning of the text has lost its significance. But this critique is inadequate at face value because Badiou’s hyper-translation is forthright in its intention of taking Plato’s concepts and modifying them into his own lexicon.
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