Le Grand Meaulnes

Le Grand Meaulnes

One day in a library a book chose me
and, looking back, it made the right decision;
opening and closing like an accordion
its world was something I could hear and see.

It was deep summer when I read Le Grand Meaulnes,
so often accompanying its shy narrator
through wide evenings; June leaves got fuller –
one evening something prompted me to go

down long-familiar lanes, walking until
with vaguer bearings: dark trees, a field,
hung lights and bunting for a fete or prize-giving;

the winner is a girl whose looks appeal;
she seems a star of the local gathering;
with uninvited eyes I drink my fill

waiting in this moment a little longer,
in this strange field where Alain Fournier
is somehow present, the novelist…

and his unknown narratives appear
and Meaulnes, the adolescent player,
about to summon, tap me on the shoulder,

when daylight has drained out of the West.
Night comes; and I am tens of summers older
and rain has washed away prizes and guests.


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Le Grand Meaulnes

Le Grand Meaulnes

One day in a library a book chose me
and, looking back, it made the right decision;
opening and closing like an accordion
its world was something I could hear and see.

It was deep summer when I read Le Grand Meaulnes,
so often accompanying its shy narrator
through wide evenings; June leaves got fuller –
one evening something prompted me to go

down long-familiar lanes, walking until
with vaguer bearings: dark trees, a field,
hung lights and bunting for a fete or prize-giving;

the winner is a girl whose looks appeal;
she seems a star of the local gathering;
with uninvited eyes I drink my fill

waiting in this moment a little longer,
in this strange field where Alain Fournier
is somehow present, the novelist…

and his unknown narratives appear
and Meaulnes, the adolescent player,
about to summon, tap me on the shoulder,

when daylight has drained out of the West.
Night comes; and I am tens of summers older
and rain has washed away prizes and guests.


+++++

Another Tale

Another tale



A load of your sorrows pulled by a worry,
Just as you painted them, joined up the dots;
From these pre-numbered lines you start to see
A working donkey, sore-shouldered, trots

Through a wood, dust in its eyes, exploited.
What have you done with the blank page? Take heart -
Ink’s all that’s there – a touch of green & red.
They’re the cortex trudges on, not donkey and cart.

The donkey’s safe in a paddock with fresh grass;
Gladly she takes soft saddle-bags to market
Packed with the sage her owner has to sell…

And then erase the lot. Pack up your kit -
The pens, the brushes, paper that will pass
For real, next day another tale to tell.

Another Tale

Another tale



A load of your sorrows pulled by a worry,
Just as you painted them, joined up the dots;
From these pre-numbered lines you start to see
A working donkey, sore-shouldered, trots

Through a wood, dust in its eyes, exploited.
What have you done with the blank page? Take heart -
Ink’s all that’s there – a touch of green & red.
They’re the cortex trudges on, not donkey and cart.

The donkey’s safe in a paddock with fresh grass;
Gladly she takes soft saddle-bags to market
Packed with the sage her owner has to sell…

And then erase the lot. Pack up your kit -
The pens, the brushes, paper that will pass
For real, next day another tale to tell.

Seventh Sense

Seventh Sense





He walks through the forest, through light and shade,
Collecting lichens, herbs for his cell, thinking
That behind each tree is a hidden trunk,
A darker shadow hung before the glade –
The hardest part of living as a monk,
The space between each nodding asphodel,
A long time to call things. Self-sinking,
Self-doubting he walks on, ignores the bell

That calls him to a simple contemplation.
He goes into the profounder silence
That the roots themselves inhabit in their search;
Dark-sensitive like them, a seventh sense
Develops in him, like an intuition.
He stops to hug the birch and then the beech.



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Kenneth Hyam 25/05/07

Seventh Sense

Seventh Sense





He walks through the forest, through light and shade,
Collecting lichens, herbs for his cell, thinking
That behind each tree is a hidden trunk,
A darker shadow hung before the glade –
The hardest part of living as a monk,
The space between each nodding asphodel,
A long time to call things. Self-sinking,
Self-doubting he walks on, ignores the bell

That calls him to a simple contemplation.
He goes into the profounder silence
That the roots themselves inhabit in their search;
Dark-sensitive like them, a seventh sense
Develops in him, like an intuition.
He stops to hug the birch and then the beech.



+++









Kenneth Hyam 25/05/07

The Sensual Crayon

After last Sunday’s German-English dual lingo reading in the Meeting House, some of us were in the mood for more – translating, that is. Maria Esdovin and several other poets came back to the flat and sank a few Guiness Exports – a good place to start. Maria agreed to give an interview and reading of her own and I switched on my reel-to-reel.

Lucas: Am I right, Maria, in saying that you have been translating your own Perovian these days?
Maria: You are really right.
Lucas: Er.. do you mean that I’m 100 per cent right?
Maria: I mean I have my reservations.
Lucas: You mean I am not really right or I am only rarely right?
Maria: Yes, Yes. You are. (uncontrollable laughter from around the room).
Perovian is very…. Is very hard language to translate, especially as there are so few speakers in this country, apart from the small Perovian community in Kentish Town. Perovian poetry works by resonance and association –
Helen: Yeah,so does all poetry!
Lucas: Look – this is Maria’s interview. O.K.
Maria: No, Helen is quite right. It is just that the resonances and associations are very hard to grasp outside of original Perovian, especially in the dialect of the province I am from.
Helen: O.K. cool .(Sighs all round).
Lucas: So what are you going to read, Maria?
Maria: I’m going to read from my long poem The Road – only short extract.!
Lucas: Is it O.K. if I get this on tape? You know I’m recording this.
Maria: It is really alright.
Lucas: Um… yeh.

N.B. Anyone interested in reading a transcript of Maria’s poem and other extracts please go to:
http://sensualcrayon.blogspot.com

or click on my profile and click on the link for The Sensual Crayon