Shawn L. Bird

Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.

poem- magique April 12, 2015

Today’s prompt from napowrimo.net:

Describe in great detail your favorite room, place, meal, day, or person. You can do this in paragraph form.

Now cut unnecessary words like articles and determiners (a, the, that) and anything that isn’t really necessary for content; leave mainly nouns, verbs, a few adjectives.

Cut the lines where you see fit and, VOILA! A poem!

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I wrote about a magical place.  Here’s the version edited as per instructions:

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Through arch

through time

long-abandoned château 

what were windows,

looking down

Rivière de Sorgue bubbles

twists

Musée de Petrarque stands stately

garden

poplars.

We walk

ancient path

limestone cliffs,

tiny secluded valley

the pool where

river is birthed

A hole I could hold in my hands.

Feel magic:

the poet still walks.

Fontaine de Vaucluse

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Here is this beautiful place, a site of a novel (theoretically in progress, though actually resting, like dough) from our visit in 2011.  I dream of returning there to stay and work on this project when the trees are all leafed.   The arch is behind the Musee, a modern-ish town is directly behind the limestone wall/cliff.  I’m standing on the path to the fontaine (the river source).  There is another photo from this walk on the cover of my poetry chapbook 2011.

Fontaine de Vaucluse Sorgue River Chateau above Musee de Petrarque on right.

Fontaine de Vaucluse
Sorgue River
Chateau above
Musee de Petrarque on right.

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Here is the first version (I couldn’t do it in a paragraph form, despite myself!)  I think it could make a fine poem itself:

Through the arch and back through time

the long-abandoned château des Evêques de Cavaillon, XIV

rocks crumbling from what were windows, vacant eyes looking down to where

The Sorgue bubbles by, twisting this way, then that.

Musée de Petrarque stands stately amid garden and tall stretched poplars.

We walk along the ancient path beneath the limestone cliffs,

This tiny secluded valley, until we reach the pool where the river is birthed

from a hole I could hold in my hands.

You can feel the magic here; the poet still walks at

Fontaine de Vaucluse

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Which version do you prefer?  The ‘brevity is an art’ version or the ‘extended version’?

I expect WordPress to link to a complete blog post about our visit to Fontaine de Vaucluse below (entitled Magic Fontaine); you may be interested in reading that post, as well.  

Teacher moment: Do you know who Francesco Petrarch/Petrarque/Petrarca is?    He was the father of humanism.  He coined the term “The Dark Ages.”  He traveled around Europe rescuing ancient Greek and Roman texts; at his death, he had the largest library in Christendom. He is called ‘the first tourist.’  He was a philosopher and scholar.  Most of those things are forgotten.  He is best remembered because he invented the sonnet form (specifically The Petrarchan aka Italian sonnet).  For 50 years he wrote these 14 lined poems to/about Laure/Laura (deNoves) de Sade, a married woman who died, likely of bubonic plague, in 1348.  He met her the first time April 6, 1327 in Avignon at Ste Claire Convent and his adoring sonnets in praise of her remain with us today. They are called Canzoniere. (Somewhere on this blog you’ll find one-#61- that I’ve translated from the Italian, likely also linked below). He was a man who knew he was making contributions to history.  He expected to be remembered.  I have a little crush on him, as in my Grace Awakening series, the musical young man, Ben, was Petrarch in a past life…)

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literary immortality July 6, 2012

I’ve been spending the last few days transcribing my copy of Susanna Dobson’s Life of Petrarch (1777) and as I plug away on the typing I am musing on immortality.

The other day I alluded to and listed Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18,” and as I read it, I am thinking of the comparison between Will’s unknown inspiration, and Petrarch’s Laure.  Here’s that sonnet again:

SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


The immortality happens in the closing couplet.  So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.  “This” is, of course, Will’s poem.  He claims that he has made his beloved immortal by describing her (or him) in this poem.  The immortality has limited value, being as we have no idea of whom he was speaking, but the moment of loving adoration is captured for all time.

Petrarch is a little more specific.  He names his love, and of course, the people of his time knew exactly who she was.  He calls her Laure, and his poetry abounds with symbolism of the laurel.  A crown of laurels was (and still is) a mark of distinction. Petrarch believes she is his crown and his success.  History (particularly the Abbé de Sade in his Mémoires sur la vie de François Pétrarque, 1764) records her as Laure de Noves, wife of Hugues de Sade.  (In English, we call her Laura).

Here is Petrarch’s Canzoniere 6 which shows a play on the laurel at the end:

Now so depraved is my poor fool, desire,
To persecute this lady, turned in flight,
Unloosed of Love’s entrapments, footing light,
Ahead of my slow run he flies. Prior

To my objections, by the roads most dire,
The more I call, the more he takes to flight;
Restraint is weak, nor has the spur its bite
When Love and nature in him do conspire.

And then he grasps the bridle to direct
The way, and takes me for a vassal, hastes
Post-haste, as though to death, my worsened state

To reach at last the laurel and collect
The bitter fruit of others’ plagues, the tastes
That grieve one more, unless they consolate.

(trans.  “Hypocorism” on Yahoo Answers)

This poem is echoing the section that I’m transcribing at the moment.  Laura is being stalked.  Petrarch follows her about Avignon, gazing dreamily at her or trying to talk to her.  She covers her face and takes off in the other direction.  You can almost hear her running steps while Petrarch shouts rhyming verses extolling her beauty.  It’s a wonder her hubby Hugues didn’t call him out and beat him to a pulp!  (Now that’s an interesting scene, isn’t it?  Hmm.  Expect to see something along those lines).

The summary of this vague sort of comparison between Will and Francesco is that  to truly be immortalized, the beloved needs a name, and a personality.  Laure seems far more real than Will’s anonymous beloved.  While Laure is busy running in the opposite direction, pulling her veil over her head, and trying to maintain her virtue against the onslaught of Petrarch’s devotion, Will’s beloved is a static object, simply receiving affection and adoration.  There is no sense of individuality.  Nonetheless, the love does become immortal because it is recorded.  Words are powerful.

Here’s an afterword by poet Jacopo Sannazzaro   (1458–1530).  A hundred years earlier, Petrarch had lived at the spring that is the source of the Sorgue River, writing his canzonieres to Laura beneath the limestone cliffs that echo with the burbling of the river.

Sorgues, the River  Laura de Sade

THE NYMPH by Sorga’s humble murmurings born,

Illustrious now on wings of glory soars;        

Her high renown its awful echo pours           

Wide o’er the earth. Splendors like these adorn        

Her, destined, in her modest beauty’s morn,          5

To charm the eye of Petrarch. Her the doors 

Of fame’s proud dome enshrine; the radiant stores   

Of fancy blaze around her; nor does scorn    

On her low birthplace and obscurer tomb      

Glance a triumphant scowl. What suns illume                    10

With lustre like the Muse? How many dames,          

Wise, chaste, and lovely, of distinguished race,        

Have slept in death forgotten, lost their names,        

While hers from age to age beams with still heightened grace.         

(Trans. Capel Lofft)

Indeed.  The words craft immortality; the love brings fame.

This image is popularly considered to be Laure de Noves de Sade, beloved of Petrarch, though the Musee Petrarque in Fontaine de Vaucluse asserts that there are NO verified pictures of her, most being painted years after her death.

 

sonnet 61 shoes February 17, 2012

Filed under: Poetry,projects — Shawn L. Bird @ 5:54 pm
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When we were in Paris last March, I found a shoe sale. I ended up buying a pair of black leather wedge shoes (for just 12 Euros!  John said, “How much?  Why don’t you buy the brown pair, too?” lol) Now, I don’t really believe in plain black anything, and those wedges seemed to me to be a black board just waiting for something to be written upon them.

So I looked for some fine tipped, permanent opaque pens.  I couldn’t find them anywhere within 100 km, so bought the Sakura pens on eBay direct from Japan, and waited for the day when inspiration would strike.

The day has arrived!

My plain black wedges are plain no longer! They sport the complete Petrarchan sonnet Canzoniere 61, in Petrarca’s original Italian. You might remember that this is the poem I translated for Grace Awakening.

Where there are inadvertent spaces (like where I needed to even up a line, and where the next word didn’t fit) I added roses. For each line of the sonnet I switched colours.  I completely free-handed these, and I was quite delighted that the entire poem fit EXACTLY between the 2 shoes!  Lucky fluke, eh?

I am quite contented with the result, and even more content that I did manage to get the project done before a year was up!

 

Canzoniere 61 the final translation July 14, 2011

Filed under: Grace Awakening,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:16 am
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Earlier in the week I led you through the process of translating Petrarch’s Canzoniere 61. I thought I’d share with you the final version that is going to press in Awakening Dreams.  There have been a few words changed up to improve consonance and punctuation has clarified meaning.  As well, line 2 was altered as it didn’t end on the correct beat (iambic rhythm) in the draft.

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Most blesséd be the day, the month, the year,
And blesséd be the hour, the moment when,
I found this place, and saw my sweet torment.
Her lovely eyes completely tied me here.

So blesséd was her breath as I came near,
That Love entangled me within her scent,
Against his arrows left me impotent,
And bound my heart to hers. So, thus endeared,

Sweet blesséd voices call my lady’s name,
And weave her glorious beauty in my verse.
My sighs, my tears, and my desires contained,

Most blesséd are the papers I disperse,
To share the thoughts that bring me fame,
The thoughts of her that are my blissful curse.

Translation (c) Shawn Bird

Not only did this moment capture Petrarch, but it captivated artists through the centuries who imaged the moment that Petrarch describes in this sonnet, and painted it as they imagined it.  The painting on the left is the actual moment of meeting in St. Clara’s in Avignon.  I have been in what is left of this convent chapel, as you can see from the photo below.  If it really looked like this artist has captured it, it is really very sad to see the ruins that it is now.

The picture on the right shows a lot of the symbolism represented in the poem.  Laure is represented by the laurel tree in the background, cupid (aka Love) has fired  his arrow at Petrarch and it has struck him in the heart.  Laure is presenting him with the laurel wreath that represents his literary success.  (He was crowned Rome’s Poet Laureate in 1341).  Petrarch himself frequently played with Laure/laurel the woman/fame metaphor.  What is interesting in this painting is that Petrarch is shown as an old man, while Laure is shown as a young woman.  In fact there are only 6 years between them.  (He was born in 1304, she in 1310).  Perhaps it represents them at their deaths?  She was 38, and he was 70.

Petrarch and Laura

Here I am in the ruins of St. Claire convent, standing pretty close to where the artist set the scene on the left, by the looks of things.  I just found the painting this morning, and this similarity kind of gives me chills.  There is no roof. It is an open space garden and performance area now.

Shawn at Ste Claire Convent (Theatre des Halles) Avignon France

 

Canzoniere 61 – process July 11, 2011

Filed under: Grace Awakening,Poetry,Writing — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:11 am
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Here’s a picture of my day. Today’s project was translating a sonnet from Petrarch’s original Italian into English. I had received permission from Penguin to use a translation by Anthony Mortimer of Canzoniere 13 for Grace Awakening, but after the publisher went out of business, I let the deadline to pay for the use go past. I still wanted a Petrarchan Canzoniere in that particular section of the novel though, and that meant I had to do my own translation.  I also wanted it to rhyme following Petrarch’s strict scheme, and I wanted it to be in iambic pentameter.

I started with the public domain version of the original Italian sonnet 61:

Benedetto sia ‘l giorno, et ‘l mese, et l’anno,
et la stagione, e ‘l tempo, et l’ora, e ‘l punto,
e ‘l bel paese, e ‘l loco ov’io fui giunto
da’duo begli occhi che legato m’ànno;

et benedetto il primo dolce affanno
ch’i’ ebbi ad esser con Amor congiunto,
et l’arco, et le saette ond’i’ fui punto,
et le piaghe che ‘nfin al cor mi vanno.

Benedette le voci tante ch’io
chiamando il nome de mia donna ò sparte,
e i sospiri, et le lagrime, e ‘l desio;

et benedette sian tutte le carte
ov’io fama l’acquisto, e ‘l pensier mio,
ch’è sol di lei, sí ch’altra non v’à parte.

My next step was to plug the poem into the Google translator to get the basics. The result was this:

Blessed be ‘the day, et’ the month, year et,
et the season, and ‘the time, et the time, and’ the point,
and ‘the beautiful country, and’ the spot where I arrived I was
da’duo beautiful eyes that tied m’ànno;

et blessed is the first sweet breath
ch’i ‘I had to be combined with Amor,
et l’arc, et Whence the arrows’ point was,
et the wounds’ Nfiniti go to my heart.

Blessed are the many voices that I
calling the name of my wife or esparto,
and the sighs, the tears et, and ‘the desire;

Blessed are all the cards et
known where I buy, and ‘s my thought,
which is only about her, yes that another party does not v’à.

Writing draft- false start and then the better flow

As you can see, while not perfect, it’s certainly good enough to know where he was going, and to catch the Italian words I wasn’t familiar with.  I could fill in the blanks from there.   I spent some time on http://www.Rhymezone.com, which is my go-to site when I’m creating a complex rhyming poem, and played with various options.  I baked a cake.  I instant messaged a friend in France. I went to a farewell party.  I watched Star Wars Episode IV (which is really still Episode one, to me).   I had a bath.  I read the editor’s most recent comments on Awakening Dreams.  I wrote lines.  I re-wrote lines.

As of this moment, I am satisfied with this result, although it may not be the final version.  I finished it at 2 a.m. so it’s allowed to not quite be perfect yet.  I have my iambic pentameter. I have Petrarca’s ABBA ABBA CDCDCD rhyme scheme.  I have stayed true to Petrarch’s intent in this poem, I think, and that’s the most important thing.

Most blesséd be the day, the month, the year
And blesséd be the hour and the moment
When I arrived to find my own torment.
Her lovely eyes completely tied me here;

So blesséd was her breath as I came near,
That Love entangled me within her scent,
Against the arrows left me impotent,
And bound my heart to hers, so thus endeared.

Dear blesséd voices call my lady’s name
And weave her glorious beauty in my verse.
My sighs, my tears, and my desires contained,

Most blesséd are the papers I disperse,
To share my thoughts that bring me fame,
The thoughts of her that are my joyful curse.

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See the FINAL TRANSLATION here.

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Translation (c) Shawn Bird 2011

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