A poem by Rumi - in memoriam
06/06/08 09:41 Filed in: Poetry
I learned on Wednesday that a good friend in the UK, Ann, had met an untimely end. She died last Friday. Ann was a special person. She was irreverent, loving, funny, brave and one of the kindest people I have known. She could also be downright difficult! But so can we all...
In her life, she had worked tirelessly as a counsellor working with mentally ill people around Oxford. She was loved as everyone's friend. She never turned anyone away. She was selfless to the last.
So I wanted to pay tribute to her here with a poem we had shared and that she enjoyed. Most of the poetry she liked featured ribald humour. This one is different. It's by the thirteenth century Persian poet, Rumi, and feels like a fitting farewell. It's called "A garden beyond paradise".
A GARDEN BEYOND PARADISE
Everything you see has its roots
in the unseen world.
The forms may change,
yet the essence remains the same.
Every wondrous sight will vanish,
every sweet word will fade.
But do not be disheartened,
The Source they come from is eternal—
growing, branching out,
giving new life and new joy.
Why do you weep?—
That Source is within you,
and this whole world
is springing up from it.
The Source is full,
its waters are ever-flowing;
Do not grieve,
drink your fill!
Don't think it will ever run dry—
This is the endless Ocean!
From the moment you came into this world,
a ladder was placed in front of you
that you might transcend it.
From earth, you became plant,
from plant you became animal.
Afterwards you became a human being,
endowed with knowledge, intellect and faith.
Behold the body, born of dust—
how perfect it has become!
Why should you fear its end?
When were you ever made less by dying?
When you pass beyond this human form,
no doubt you will become an angel
and soar through the heavens!
But don't stop there.
Even heavenly bodies grow old.
Pass again from the heavenly realm
and plunge into the ocean of Consciousness.
Let the drop of water that is you
become a hundred mighty seas.
But do not think that the drop alone
becomes the Ocean—
the Ocean, too, becomes the drop!
Farewell Ann...My thoughts and heart go with you.
In her life, she had worked tirelessly as a counsellor working with mentally ill people around Oxford. She was loved as everyone's friend. She never turned anyone away. She was selfless to the last.
So I wanted to pay tribute to her here with a poem we had shared and that she enjoyed. Most of the poetry she liked featured ribald humour. This one is different. It's by the thirteenth century Persian poet, Rumi, and feels like a fitting farewell. It's called "A garden beyond paradise".
A GARDEN BEYOND PARADISE
Everything you see has its roots
in the unseen world.
The forms may change,
yet the essence remains the same.
Every wondrous sight will vanish,
every sweet word will fade.
But do not be disheartened,
The Source they come from is eternal—
growing, branching out,
giving new life and new joy.
Why do you weep?—
That Source is within you,
and this whole world
is springing up from it.
The Source is full,
its waters are ever-flowing;
Do not grieve,
drink your fill!
Don't think it will ever run dry—
This is the endless Ocean!
From the moment you came into this world,
a ladder was placed in front of you
that you might transcend it.
From earth, you became plant,
from plant you became animal.
Afterwards you became a human being,
endowed with knowledge, intellect and faith.
Behold the body, born of dust—
how perfect it has become!
Why should you fear its end?
When were you ever made less by dying?
When you pass beyond this human form,
no doubt you will become an angel
and soar through the heavens!
But don't stop there.
Even heavenly bodies grow old.
Pass again from the heavenly realm
and plunge into the ocean of Consciousness.
Let the drop of water that is you
become a hundred mighty seas.
But do not think that the drop alone
becomes the Ocean—
the Ocean, too, becomes the drop!
Farewell Ann...My thoughts and heart go with you.
|
La Femme Automne
One of the favourite phrases of a close male friend of mine who spends most of his time living in France is "à propos of nothing very much". He often says this when he is about to change the subject or launch a non sequitur into space. Every time, without fail, it brings a smile to my face. I thought of it now as my preamble here will be much the same, it is à propos of nothing very much, just observations about people and age.
About nine months ago, I had a link on a social networking site to an erotic story I had written and published. I had personal reasons for writing this when I did, but subsequently I grew to dislike the story and now find it shallow and lacking in any depth of love or passion. The story concerned a man, John in his fifties and his love of a 61-year old woman called Rosie. Dramatic tension came from John's involvement in a precarious love triangle that involved his estranged American wife, Jane. Jane's character was based on that of my ex-wife. My ex-wife has read the story too and loved it even though it portrays Jane as an unbalanced and deeply disturbed woman. The Rosie character I invented. She was like some idealised image, the combination of a number of personality traits that I found attractive. Rosie is strong and vulnerable, tender but practical, passionate but wise, bright with humility, loving and sexual. I loved writing her character and I had a real sense of this imagined person. The eroticism, and there is lots of it, comes from John's torrid sexual relationship with Rosie. John has much in common with me. Until he met Rosie he had never had a relationship with anyone past their late forties.
When that link was there, my story attracted a large readership. It also attracted some unwelcome attention from the odd person who probably identified with Jane, John's emotionally ill wife. I took the link off my page after a skirmish with a very disturbed woman who had read the story and tried to enact its fantasies with me by email.
But there was another woman who had very much more charm who wrote to me. She was fifty years old. She had read my story and sent me a note asking if I had some bizarre fascination with "GILFs", and telling me that she was more of an "MILF". I did not understand what these acronyms meant at all, so I fed them into Google and they returned a number of porn sites. For those of you, like me, who do not know what a GILF is, the acronym broadly means Grannies with whom I would like to fornicate. If you use your imagination, you can work out what the acronym stands for. The M in MILF stands for "mothers". These were differentiations based on men's, largely pornographic, sexual preferences for women of different ages. Had I had my wits about me, I might have written back that I prefer PILFs where the P stands for people. Or suggested that describing herself as an MILF may have presumed too much of me. Instead I defended my story by talking about women who are past the age of the menopause but who still have a very active sexuality. I pointed out that I knew a number of women amongst my friends like that too. She demanded empirical evidence and asked me how many of these women I had slept with! I admitted there were none. Her riposte to that was to argue that if I had no direct experience then how would I know. I gave up the argument at that point. Perhaps I should have said, "Hang on a year or two and you will find out." Or suggested that she ask her favourite Auntie.
But when thinking about the main point of this piece that is a poem, it suddenly occurred to me that all my friends in real-life fall across a very wide age range from people in their twenties to people in their seventies. The realisation was that in the past twenty years I had not changed, then as now, my friends spanned the same wide age range. I have never seen these people in terms of their ages at all. I have only ever seen them as people for whom I cared and who cared for me. If ever I was in difficulty it was frequently the wise counsel of my older friends that I sought, not people in my own age group. For me, age differences, as with most interpersonal differences, provides interest in our friendship that I value. I do not feel threatened by difference of any sort. I welcome and celebrate it. It is the real spice of life.
A whole chain of feelings and thoughts à propos of very little sparked off this writing. Perhaps it is because I am ageing too. I am emotionally and sexually healthy. Perhaps I no longer feel a slave to my raging hormones as I may have done in my twenties. I feel more balanced and whole now as if my sexuality works in harmony with all of my emotions. I cannot remember a time when sex felt so fulfilling, perhaps that is because I no longer have any pressing desire for sex alone. Perhaps I am post-menopausal man. The prospect of making love is something altogether different to me. It is wonderful. Also it means that I engage all of my feelings with my partner who wishes to do the same and to me that feels like heaven on earth.
This poem was given to me as part of a collection by my partner, Lizzie. It is written in French and I could not do it justice in translation. My French is not that good but still I can hear the beauty and lyricism of the language and understand its meaning. I read and write halfway reasonable French (very slowly).
I love this poem that is a homage to a woman in her autumn years…of about 50 years old. Perhaps at 50, the beauty of youth may have faded a little, but I feel that there is an altogether deeper beauty in women of this age. I shall make a translation of its last two lines as they describe this womanly radiance perfectly:
C'est à la fin du jour, c'est au soleil couchant
Que le ciel horizon est le plus éclatant.
Such beautiful language!
It is at the end of the day, it is at sunset
When the sky's horizon is at its brightest.
So many changes are going on in me. Sooner or later, someone is bound to ask me if I'm losing the plot! No, I am not losing the plot. It is only now that I am starting to write the script, the script of my new story. It may be the best yet.
La Femme Automne
Comme un premier frisson, comme un début d'hiver,
Avec un peu de pluie, aux bord de tes yeux verts,
Comme un châle de laine jeté sur vos épaules,
Avec le premier vent qui fait pleurer le saule,
Comme un vol d'hirondelles dans le ciel de septembre,
Comme une après-midi couleur de rose et d'ambre,
Comme un premier brouillard, comme un soleil voilé,
Vous m'êtes apparue comme une fin d'été…
Oh! mon automne, ma belle Dame,
La cinquantaine, tu sais, te vas si bien….
Votre visage prend, au passage du temps
Une nouvelle ride, un nouveau cheveu blanc
L'eau de votre miroir, le reflet de l'étang
Vous apprennent soudain qu'ils sont loin vos vingt ans.
Pourtant rien n'a changé, vous rêvez tout autant
D'un éternel amour, d'un éternel printemps,
Et bien que votre vie fut parfois décevante,
Vous avez su garder un coeur d'adolescente….
Oh! mon automne, ma douce, ma belle Dame,
La cinquantaine, tu sais, te vas si bien…
Vos lèvres de raison que ma bouche vendange,
Donnent à vos baisers une saveur étrange,
Forte comme un alcool où se noie ma raison,
Vous êtes devenue mon unique saison,
Et ne vous souciez point, ne prenez point ombrage
De la fuite du temps pas plus que de votre âge,
Vos sourires-jeunesse et vos regards fraîcheur
Ont raison de mon âme et font battre mon coeur.
Oh ! mon automne, ma belle Dame,
La cinquantaine, tu sais, te vas si bien….
Et ne vous souciez point, ne prenez point ombrage
De la fuite du temps pas plus que de votre âge,
C'est à la fin du jour, c'est au soleil couchant
Que le ciel horizon est le plus éclatant.
Alexandre-Henri Fourrier
Liz, who gave me this poetry met Fourrier, the poet. He was a man of about 75 years of age. He was in the company of his lover, a beautiful woman of about 50 years old. We imagined that this woman was the poem's inspiration.
I'll translate a few more words before ending.
Vous êtes devenue mon unique saison,
Et ne vous souciez point, ne prenez point ombrage
De la fuite du temps pas plus que de votre âge,
Vos sourires-jeunesse et vos regards fraîcheur
Ont raison de mon âme et font battre mon coeur.
You have become my only season
Do not be concerned, please do not hide
Not from time passing, nor from your ageing,
Your youthful smiles, your lively glances
Have overcome my soul and live within my heart.
That is very lovely to me!
That time I had help from Liz. It was another Franglish collaboration where we both worked to capture the sense of the poem rather than focus on literal meaning.
About nine months ago, I had a link on a social networking site to an erotic story I had written and published. I had personal reasons for writing this when I did, but subsequently I grew to dislike the story and now find it shallow and lacking in any depth of love or passion. The story concerned a man, John in his fifties and his love of a 61-year old woman called Rosie. Dramatic tension came from John's involvement in a precarious love triangle that involved his estranged American wife, Jane. Jane's character was based on that of my ex-wife. My ex-wife has read the story too and loved it even though it portrays Jane as an unbalanced and deeply disturbed woman. The Rosie character I invented. She was like some idealised image, the combination of a number of personality traits that I found attractive. Rosie is strong and vulnerable, tender but practical, passionate but wise, bright with humility, loving and sexual. I loved writing her character and I had a real sense of this imagined person. The eroticism, and there is lots of it, comes from John's torrid sexual relationship with Rosie. John has much in common with me. Until he met Rosie he had never had a relationship with anyone past their late forties.
When that link was there, my story attracted a large readership. It also attracted some unwelcome attention from the odd person who probably identified with Jane, John's emotionally ill wife. I took the link off my page after a skirmish with a very disturbed woman who had read the story and tried to enact its fantasies with me by email.
But there was another woman who had very much more charm who wrote to me. She was fifty years old. She had read my story and sent me a note asking if I had some bizarre fascination with "GILFs", and telling me that she was more of an "MILF". I did not understand what these acronyms meant at all, so I fed them into Google and they returned a number of porn sites. For those of you, like me, who do not know what a GILF is, the acronym broadly means Grannies with whom I would like to fornicate. If you use your imagination, you can work out what the acronym stands for. The M in MILF stands for "mothers". These were differentiations based on men's, largely pornographic, sexual preferences for women of different ages. Had I had my wits about me, I might have written back that I prefer PILFs where the P stands for people. Or suggested that describing herself as an MILF may have presumed too much of me. Instead I defended my story by talking about women who are past the age of the menopause but who still have a very active sexuality. I pointed out that I knew a number of women amongst my friends like that too. She demanded empirical evidence and asked me how many of these women I had slept with! I admitted there were none. Her riposte to that was to argue that if I had no direct experience then how would I know. I gave up the argument at that point. Perhaps I should have said, "Hang on a year or two and you will find out." Or suggested that she ask her favourite Auntie.
But when thinking about the main point of this piece that is a poem, it suddenly occurred to me that all my friends in real-life fall across a very wide age range from people in their twenties to people in their seventies. The realisation was that in the past twenty years I had not changed, then as now, my friends spanned the same wide age range. I have never seen these people in terms of their ages at all. I have only ever seen them as people for whom I cared and who cared for me. If ever I was in difficulty it was frequently the wise counsel of my older friends that I sought, not people in my own age group. For me, age differences, as with most interpersonal differences, provides interest in our friendship that I value. I do not feel threatened by difference of any sort. I welcome and celebrate it. It is the real spice of life.
A whole chain of feelings and thoughts à propos of very little sparked off this writing. Perhaps it is because I am ageing too. I am emotionally and sexually healthy. Perhaps I no longer feel a slave to my raging hormones as I may have done in my twenties. I feel more balanced and whole now as if my sexuality works in harmony with all of my emotions. I cannot remember a time when sex felt so fulfilling, perhaps that is because I no longer have any pressing desire for sex alone. Perhaps I am post-menopausal man. The prospect of making love is something altogether different to me. It is wonderful. Also it means that I engage all of my feelings with my partner who wishes to do the same and to me that feels like heaven on earth.
This poem was given to me as part of a collection by my partner, Lizzie. It is written in French and I could not do it justice in translation. My French is not that good but still I can hear the beauty and lyricism of the language and understand its meaning. I read and write halfway reasonable French (very slowly).
I love this poem that is a homage to a woman in her autumn years…of about 50 years old. Perhaps at 50, the beauty of youth may have faded a little, but I feel that there is an altogether deeper beauty in women of this age. I shall make a translation of its last two lines as they describe this womanly radiance perfectly:
C'est à la fin du jour, c'est au soleil couchant
Que le ciel horizon est le plus éclatant.
Such beautiful language!
It is at the end of the day, it is at sunset
When the sky's horizon is at its brightest.
So many changes are going on in me. Sooner or later, someone is bound to ask me if I'm losing the plot! No, I am not losing the plot. It is only now that I am starting to write the script, the script of my new story. It may be the best yet.
La Femme Automne
Comme un premier frisson, comme un début d'hiver,
Avec un peu de pluie, aux bord de tes yeux verts,
Comme un châle de laine jeté sur vos épaules,
Avec le premier vent qui fait pleurer le saule,
Comme un vol d'hirondelles dans le ciel de septembre,
Comme une après-midi couleur de rose et d'ambre,
Comme un premier brouillard, comme un soleil voilé,
Vous m'êtes apparue comme une fin d'été…
Oh! mon automne, ma belle Dame,
La cinquantaine, tu sais, te vas si bien….
Votre visage prend, au passage du temps
Une nouvelle ride, un nouveau cheveu blanc
L'eau de votre miroir, le reflet de l'étang
Vous apprennent soudain qu'ils sont loin vos vingt ans.
Pourtant rien n'a changé, vous rêvez tout autant
D'un éternel amour, d'un éternel printemps,
Et bien que votre vie fut parfois décevante,
Vous avez su garder un coeur d'adolescente….
Oh! mon automne, ma douce, ma belle Dame,
La cinquantaine, tu sais, te vas si bien…
Vos lèvres de raison que ma bouche vendange,
Donnent à vos baisers une saveur étrange,
Forte comme un alcool où se noie ma raison,
Vous êtes devenue mon unique saison,
Et ne vous souciez point, ne prenez point ombrage
De la fuite du temps pas plus que de votre âge,
Vos sourires-jeunesse et vos regards fraîcheur
Ont raison de mon âme et font battre mon coeur.
Oh ! mon automne, ma belle Dame,
La cinquantaine, tu sais, te vas si bien….
Et ne vous souciez point, ne prenez point ombrage
De la fuite du temps pas plus que de votre âge,
C'est à la fin du jour, c'est au soleil couchant
Que le ciel horizon est le plus éclatant.
Alexandre-Henri Fourrier
Liz, who gave me this poetry met Fourrier, the poet. He was a man of about 75 years of age. He was in the company of his lover, a beautiful woman of about 50 years old. We imagined that this woman was the poem's inspiration.
I'll translate a few more words before ending.
Vous êtes devenue mon unique saison,
Et ne vous souciez point, ne prenez point ombrage
De la fuite du temps pas plus que de votre âge,
Vos sourires-jeunesse et vos regards fraîcheur
Ont raison de mon âme et font battre mon coeur.
You have become my only season
Do not be concerned, please do not hide
Not from time passing, nor from your ageing,
Your youthful smiles, your lively glances
Have overcome my soul and live within my heart.
That is very lovely to me!
That time I had help from Liz. It was another Franglish collaboration where we both worked to capture the sense of the poem rather than focus on literal meaning.
England! Oh England!
Much time in my Anglo-French household is spent debating the victories in battle of the English over the French and vice versa. It’s time to put the record straight. Apart from Bill le Conk and Joan of Arc, the French have beaten the English in battle very few times. The wars went on down the centuries from 1066 until the nineteenth century. It seems that the English fought the French more often than they fought any other nation! Apart from a short run of bad luck in part of the fifteenth century, one might say… there’s Agincourt, Waterloo, Oudenarde, Trafalgar, Blenheim, Poitiers and Crecy to name but a few of England’s victories!
But I’m not going to strut triumphantly around the kitchen lest I be personally defeated by the rolling pin of the French contingent here. I shall appease her immediately by offering this excellent account by Sellar and Yeatman of 1066 and all that…
“1066 and All That...
The Norman Conquest was a grisly tale of treachery, deception and intrigue. But why and how did it happen?
Normandy was a region in northwest France which, in the 155 years before 1066, was settled in by Vikings. In 911, French ruler Charles the Simple allowed a group of Vikings, under their leader Rollo, to settle in northern France with the idea that they would provide protection along the coast against future Viking invaders.
This worked well and the Vikings in the region became known as the Northmen (from which Normandy is derived). The Normans quickly adapted to the indigenous culture, doing away with paganism and converting to Christianity, transforming the language of their new home into the Norman language, and intermarrying with the local people.
Why did they invade England?
Well, it's a bit complicated, but very dramatic.
William, Duke of Normandy, was born in 1027. In 1064, he was named heir to the throne of England, based on the fact that his aunt was the mother of King Edward the Confessor of England, making the two men cousins.
According to William, Harold Godwinsson, Earl of Wessex, carried the news to him, and swore a holy oath to support his claim, and to follow him. However, Harold claimed that Edward the Confessor on Edward the Confessor's deathbed in January 1066, he commended the country into Harold’s care. Knowing this claim must have sounded a bit dodgy, Harold had himself crowned king of England the day following the death of Edward.
Harold was excommunicated by the Pope for going against his holy oath to support William's claim to the throne.
Now invasion from Normandy (and a miffed William) was inevitable, and for several months, Harold kept his army ready. However, as the summer wore on and no assault came, supplies were used up, and eventually Harold had to stand down much of his force.
The third wannabe
As if things weren't messy enough, at this point a third contender for the English throne, Harald Hardrada, king of Norway, made a move to capture it. His claim was based on an agreement with Harthacut, the last Danish king of England, who preceded Edward the Confessor on the throne.
In mid-September Hardrada tried to invade Yorkshire, and Harold was compelled to lead his forces north to counter this threat. The Battle of Stamford Bridge followed, and Harold's men beat the invaders.
However, as the English army was recovering, news came that William had landed at Pevensey in Sussex. Harold had to subject his troops to another forced march along the length of the country to meet the Normans, a far scarier enemy.
The armies were about the same size (4,000-7,000), but the English force was made up of peasants and poorly trained infantry, while the Norman force was purely fighting men and contained archers and cavalry, both of which the English lacked. To make matters worse, Harold's troops were tired, while William's were fresh.
On October 14, after the customary insults were exchanged, the armies started fighting.
Harold's troops made a shield wall, to protect themselves from arrows, but even so, they made easy targets for the Norman archers, and as the bowmen began to fall, William brought his cavalry to the fore, to charge the English shield-wall.
Throughout the day, he wore down the English. William pretended to retreat twice. The English give chase, and the Normans turned and charged them. The result was devastation for the English. Harold and both his brothers were killed, along with much of the English aristocracy.
It is very unlikely that the figure with the arrow in its eye depicted on the Bayeux Tapestry is Harold. Reports from the time say that, in fact, Harold was so badly hacked and disfigured that his mistress had to identify him.
William moved on to London and was crowned king on December 25, 1066, his name becoming William the Conqueror.”
Missing England...
So there you have it! I do find myself from time-to-time feeling a little homesick for England. I love English humour and the quirky eccentricities of English life. I’m sure part of what I miss is an iconic illusion of yesteryear and nothing properly to do with any English reality. It’s about warm beer, fish and chips, Rumpole of the Bailey, Just William, the idyll of the village pub, Blackadder and Monty Python! But then the part about warm beer is probably right! I happen to like warm bitter beer!
The late poet, John Betjeman, is something of an English icon too. He used to love to mock the “nouveau riche”, the aspiring English lower middle classes. Here’s one of my favourites of his on that same theme:
How to get on in society
Phone for the fish-knives, Norman,
As Cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.
Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.
It's ever so close in the lounge, dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea,
And Howard is out riding on horseback,
So do come and take some with me.
Now here is a fork for your pastries,
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know what I wanted to ask you --
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?
Milk and then just as it comes, dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.
by John Betjeman [1906 - 1984]
In a TV interview he gave in his old age, John Betjeman was asked "Do you have any regrets?"
He replied: "Yes. I wish I'd had more sex."
Late-Flowering Lust
My head is bald, my breath is bad,
Unshaven is my chin,
I have not now the joys I had
When I was young in sin.
I run my fingers down your dress
With brandy-certain aim
And you respond to my caress
And maybe feel the same.
But I've a picture of my own
On this reunion night,
Wherein two skeletons are shewn
To hold each other tight;
Dark sockets look on emptiness
Which once was loving-eyed,
The mouth that opens for a kiss
Has got no tongue inside.
I cling to you inflamed with fear
As now you cling to me,
I feel how frail you are my dear
And wonder what will be--
A week? or twenty years remain?
And then--what kind of death?
A losing fight with frightful pain
Or a gasping fight for breath?
Too long we let our bodies cling,
We cannot hide disgust
At all the thoughts that in us spring
From this late-flowering lust.
by John Betjeman [1906 - 1984]
Some of my readers from across the pond might not get this next one. It needs to be read in a cockney accent. I’m unsure of its origin but I believe that it was an old music-hall song:
DAHN THE PLUG'OLE
A muvver was barfin 'er biby one night,
The youngest of ten and a tiny young mite,
The muvver was pore and the biby was thin,
Only a skelington covered in skin;
The muvver turned rahnd for the soap off the rack,
She was but a moment, but when she turned back,
The biby was gorn; and in anguish she cried,
'Oh, where is my biby?' - the Angels replied:
'Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug-'ole,
Your biby 'as gorn dahn the plug;
The poor little thing was so skinny and thin
'E oughter been barfed in a jug;
Your biby is perfeckly 'appy,
'E won't need a barf any more,
Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug 'ole
Not lorst, but gorn before!'
Anon
À Bientôt… À la prochaine!
But I’m not going to strut triumphantly around the kitchen lest I be personally defeated by the rolling pin of the French contingent here. I shall appease her immediately by offering this excellent account by Sellar and Yeatman of 1066 and all that…
“1066 and All That...
The Norman Conquest was a grisly tale of treachery, deception and intrigue. But why and how did it happen?
Normandy was a region in northwest France which, in the 155 years before 1066, was settled in by Vikings. In 911, French ruler Charles the Simple allowed a group of Vikings, under their leader Rollo, to settle in northern France with the idea that they would provide protection along the coast against future Viking invaders.
This worked well and the Vikings in the region became known as the Northmen (from which Normandy is derived). The Normans quickly adapted to the indigenous culture, doing away with paganism and converting to Christianity, transforming the language of their new home into the Norman language, and intermarrying with the local people.
Why did they invade England?
Well, it's a bit complicated, but very dramatic.
William, Duke of Normandy, was born in 1027. In 1064, he was named heir to the throne of England, based on the fact that his aunt was the mother of King Edward the Confessor of England, making the two men cousins.
According to William, Harold Godwinsson, Earl of Wessex, carried the news to him, and swore a holy oath to support his claim, and to follow him. However, Harold claimed that Edward the Confessor on Edward the Confessor's deathbed in January 1066, he commended the country into Harold’s care. Knowing this claim must have sounded a bit dodgy, Harold had himself crowned king of England the day following the death of Edward.
Harold was excommunicated by the Pope for going against his holy oath to support William's claim to the throne.
Now invasion from Normandy (and a miffed William) was inevitable, and for several months, Harold kept his army ready. However, as the summer wore on and no assault came, supplies were used up, and eventually Harold had to stand down much of his force.
The third wannabe
As if things weren't messy enough, at this point a third contender for the English throne, Harald Hardrada, king of Norway, made a move to capture it. His claim was based on an agreement with Harthacut, the last Danish king of England, who preceded Edward the Confessor on the throne.
In mid-September Hardrada tried to invade Yorkshire, and Harold was compelled to lead his forces north to counter this threat. The Battle of Stamford Bridge followed, and Harold's men beat the invaders.
However, as the English army was recovering, news came that William had landed at Pevensey in Sussex. Harold had to subject his troops to another forced march along the length of the country to meet the Normans, a far scarier enemy.
The armies were about the same size (4,000-7,000), but the English force was made up of peasants and poorly trained infantry, while the Norman force was purely fighting men and contained archers and cavalry, both of which the English lacked. To make matters worse, Harold's troops were tired, while William's were fresh.
On October 14, after the customary insults were exchanged, the armies started fighting.
Harold's troops made a shield wall, to protect themselves from arrows, but even so, they made easy targets for the Norman archers, and as the bowmen began to fall, William brought his cavalry to the fore, to charge the English shield-wall.
Throughout the day, he wore down the English. William pretended to retreat twice. The English give chase, and the Normans turned and charged them. The result was devastation for the English. Harold and both his brothers were killed, along with much of the English aristocracy.
It is very unlikely that the figure with the arrow in its eye depicted on the Bayeux Tapestry is Harold. Reports from the time say that, in fact, Harold was so badly hacked and disfigured that his mistress had to identify him.
William moved on to London and was crowned king on December 25, 1066, his name becoming William the Conqueror.”
Missing England...
So there you have it! I do find myself from time-to-time feeling a little homesick for England. I love English humour and the quirky eccentricities of English life. I’m sure part of what I miss is an iconic illusion of yesteryear and nothing properly to do with any English reality. It’s about warm beer, fish and chips, Rumpole of the Bailey, Just William, the idyll of the village pub, Blackadder and Monty Python! But then the part about warm beer is probably right! I happen to like warm bitter beer!
The late poet, John Betjeman, is something of an English icon too. He used to love to mock the “nouveau riche”, the aspiring English lower middle classes. Here’s one of my favourites of his on that same theme:
How to get on in society
Phone for the fish-knives, Norman,
As Cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.
Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.
It's ever so close in the lounge, dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea,
And Howard is out riding on horseback,
So do come and take some with me.
Now here is a fork for your pastries,
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know what I wanted to ask you --
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?
Milk and then just as it comes, dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.
by John Betjeman [1906 - 1984]
In a TV interview he gave in his old age, John Betjeman was asked "Do you have any regrets?"
He replied: "Yes. I wish I'd had more sex."
Late-Flowering Lust
My head is bald, my breath is bad,
Unshaven is my chin,
I have not now the joys I had
When I was young in sin.
I run my fingers down your dress
With brandy-certain aim
And you respond to my caress
And maybe feel the same.
But I've a picture of my own
On this reunion night,
Wherein two skeletons are shewn
To hold each other tight;
Dark sockets look on emptiness
Which once was loving-eyed,
The mouth that opens for a kiss
Has got no tongue inside.
I cling to you inflamed with fear
As now you cling to me,
I feel how frail you are my dear
And wonder what will be--
A week? or twenty years remain?
And then--what kind of death?
A losing fight with frightful pain
Or a gasping fight for breath?
Too long we let our bodies cling,
We cannot hide disgust
At all the thoughts that in us spring
From this late-flowering lust.
by John Betjeman [1906 - 1984]
Some of my readers from across the pond might not get this next one. It needs to be read in a cockney accent. I’m unsure of its origin but I believe that it was an old music-hall song:
DAHN THE PLUG'OLE
A muvver was barfin 'er biby one night,
The youngest of ten and a tiny young mite,
The muvver was pore and the biby was thin,
Only a skelington covered in skin;
The muvver turned rahnd for the soap off the rack,
She was but a moment, but when she turned back,
The biby was gorn; and in anguish she cried,
'Oh, where is my biby?' - the Angels replied:
'Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug-'ole,
Your biby 'as gorn dahn the plug;
The poor little thing was so skinny and thin
'E oughter been barfed in a jug;
Your biby is perfeckly 'appy,
'E won't need a barf any more,
Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug 'ole
Not lorst, but gorn before!'
Anon
À Bientôt… À la prochaine!
The Poetry of Antonio Machado
12/05/08 23:10 Filed in: Poetry | Spanish Poetry
Antonio Machado (1875 – 1939) is one of my favourite Spanish poets. His work here was originally written in Spanish and translated to English. A Spanish-speaking friend tells me that his work loses a great deal in translation, but nevertheless I like it still for its beauty and simplicity.
I discovered Machado's work at about the age of 42 that for me was far from the answer to life, the universe and everything! I suspect it was probably my first mid-life crisis. There was something dreadful about that crisis, a feeling of waking up one morning and asking the questions, "What have I done with my life so far? What if anything have I achieved that is worthwhile?" It was a bleak time, but it spurred me on to make some important life changes that I have never regretted. I mention this here since the poem "The wind, one brilliant day" says to me more than I could ever say about that crisis, in fewer words and with a simplicity that is breathtaking.
The wind, one brilliant day by Antonio Machado
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odour of jasmine.
"In return for the odour of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odour of your roses."
"I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead."
"Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."
And the wind left. And I wept. And I said
"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"
From "The Water Wheel" by Antonio Machado
Is my soul asleep?
Is my soul asleep?
Have those beehives that labour at night stopped?
And the water-wheel of thought,
is it dry, the cups empty,
wheeling, carrying only shadows?
No, my soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its clear eyes open,
far off things, and listens
at the shores of the great silence.
From Moral Proverbs and Folksongs 1 by Antonio Machado
I love Jesus, who said to us:
Heaven and earth will pass away.
When heaven and earth have passed away,
my word will remain.
What was your word, Jesus?
Love? Affection? Forgiveness?
All your words were
one word: Wakeup!
Passageways by Antonio Machado
Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?
Who painted the purple mountains
and the saffron, sunset sky?
The hermitage, the beehives,
the cleft of the river
the endless rolling water deep in rocks,
the pale-green of new fields,
all of it, even the white and pink
under the almond trees!
I discovered Machado's work at about the age of 42 that for me was far from the answer to life, the universe and everything! I suspect it was probably my first mid-life crisis. There was something dreadful about that crisis, a feeling of waking up one morning and asking the questions, "What have I done with my life so far? What if anything have I achieved that is worthwhile?" It was a bleak time, but it spurred me on to make some important life changes that I have never regretted. I mention this here since the poem "The wind, one brilliant day" says to me more than I could ever say about that crisis, in fewer words and with a simplicity that is breathtaking.
The wind, one brilliant day by Antonio Machado
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odour of jasmine.
"In return for the odour of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odour of your roses."
"I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead."
"Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."
And the wind left. And I wept. And I said
"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"
From "The Water Wheel" by Antonio Machado
Is my soul asleep?
Is my soul asleep?
Have those beehives that labour at night stopped?
And the water-wheel of thought,
is it dry, the cups empty,
wheeling, carrying only shadows?
No, my soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its clear eyes open,
far off things, and listens
at the shores of the great silence.
From Moral Proverbs and Folksongs 1 by Antonio Machado
I love Jesus, who said to us:
Heaven and earth will pass away.
When heaven and earth have passed away,
my word will remain.
What was your word, Jesus?
Love? Affection? Forgiveness?
All your words were
one word: Wakeup!
Passageways by Antonio Machado
Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?
Who painted the purple mountains
and the saffron, sunset sky?
The hermitage, the beehives,
the cleft of the river
the endless rolling water deep in rocks,
the pale-green of new fields,
all of it, even the white and pink
under the almond trees!
The Liverpool Poets and The Mersey Sound
08/05/08 22:24 Filed in: Poetry | The Liverpool Poets
A few years ago I got to do a trade with a journalist that I knew: I would write reviews for a local newspaper in return for being able to go and see and hear concerts and eat at restaurants of my choosing. How could anyone refuse an offer like that?
Two of the Liverpool poets, Brian Patten and Roger McGough, were giving a reading of their work at a local concert hall. These were men who I had seen time and time again back in my college days so I was enthusiastic to go off and hear them again. I was apprehensive too about the possibility of finding them to be cynical, grey and jaded in their late middle age.
Here are a couple of their poems and the review I wrote at the time. I like both poems for different reasons.
The Ambush by Brian Patten
When the face you swore never to forget
Can no longer be remembered,
When a list of regrets are torn up and thrown away
Then the hurt fades,
And you think you've grown strong.
And you sit in bars and boast to yourself,
'Never again will I be vulnerable,
It was an aberration to be so open,
A folly never to be repeated.'
How absurd and fragile such promises.
Hidden from you, crouched
Among the longings you have suppressed
And the desires you have tamed,
A sweet pain waits in ambush.
And there will come a day when in a field
Heaven's mouth gapes open,
And on a web the shadow
Of a marigold will smoulder.
Then without warning,
Without a shred of comfort,
Emotions you thought had been put aside
Will flare up within you and bleed you of reason.
The routines which comforted you,
And the habits in which you sought refuge
Will bend like sunlight under water,
And go astray.
Your body will become a banquet,
Falling heavenwards,
You will loll in spring's sweet avalanche
Without the burden of memory,
And once again
Monstrous love will swallow you.
At Lunchtime by Roger McGough
When the bus stopped suddenly
to avoid damaging
a mother and child in the road,
the younglady in the green hat sitting opposite,
was thrown across me,
and not being one to miss an opportunity,
I started to make love.
At first she resisted,
saying it was too early in the morning,
and too soon after breakfast,
and anyway, she found me repulsive.
But when I explained
that this being a nuclearage
the world was going to end at lunchtime,
she took off her green hat,
put her busticket into her pocket
and joined in the exercise.
The buspeople,
and there were many of them,
were shockedandsurprised,
and amusedandannoyed.
But when word got around
that the world was going to end at lunchtime,
they put their pride in their pockets
with their bustickets
and made love one with the other.
And even the busconductor,
feeling left out,
climbed into the cab,
and struck up some sort of relationship with the driver.
That night,
on the bus coming home,
we were all a little embarrassed.
Especially me and the lady in the green hat.
And we all started to say
in different ways
how hasty and foolish we had been.
But then, always having been a-bit-of-a-lad,
I stood up and said it was a pity
that the world didn't end every lunchtime,
and that we could always pretend.
And then it happened…..
Quick asa crash
we all changed partners,
and soon the bus was aquiver
with white mothball bodies doing naughty things.
And the next day
and everyday
In everybus
In everystreet
In everytown
In everycountry
People pretended
that the world was coming to an end at lunchtime.
It still hasn't.
Although in a way it has.
My review
“In college and university halls, darkened rooms and smoky pubs…in the 1970's, I had read, seen and heard the Mersey poets many times. Roger McGough, Adrian Henri and Brian Patten. McGough always appearing with some zany band of jesters, poets and musicians….there was hope, innocence, energy and exuberance in this group – an ability to find the absurd in the mundane. Harangued by the literary establishment of the time as trivial and naïve, it was often these qualities that drew people to them. Theirs was a poetry of everyday life with guts and bite.
On Tuesday I approached their recital with curiosity. What would these men be like now? Would they be tired, jaded and cynical? Would they be quieter, contemplative, reflecting on life's lessons? Would I be looking at my watch hoping to leave after the first twenty minutes? Overall their performance was charming but time had brought its divergence in style to these two poets.
Brian Patten's performance was riveting; drawing one in with the skill of a conjurer, transporting one between joy and tears in seconds. Here was a man giving expression to all of his life in all of his work. It was the work of the deep soul and the playful child.
Roger McGough was different. His performance was slick, professional but lacked Patten's depth. Patten could have been of any age. McGough felt like a faded pop icon of some past generation. Perhaps he is seeking to develop his career with the BBC now. He did say that the BBC had commissioned his poems, on three or four occasions. And he did host BBC Radio 4's “Home Truths programme” last Saturday standing in for John Peel. Now there's an idea! Perhaps I should send the BBC an e-mail message now and suggest that they let Brian Patten cover in future.” (Review ends)
There was a third “Liverpool Poet”, Adrian Henri, who sadly died in 2000. Henri, Patten and McGough had risen to fame in the sixties following the publication of their excellent poetry anthology, “The Mersey Sound”. Published in 1967, and republished in 2000, then again in 2007, this book has sold more than half a million copies to-date. I am not aware of any other collection of modern poetry that has sold so well. The "Liverpool Poets" succeeded, in the words of one critic, in "wrestling poetry out of the hands of academe and taking it into pubs, clubs and the lives of everyday people."
I’ll end here by including three more poems, one from each of the "Liverpool Poets" starting with Adrian Henri:
Tonight at Noon by Adrian Henri
Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise threepence extra on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World War I generals will sell poppies on the street on November 11th
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees
Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and on the landing fields
A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
And Nelson will not only get his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
In front of the Black house
And the monster has just created Dr. Frankenstein
Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Art galleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
There's jobs for everybody and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing in broad daylight
In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly bury the living
and
You will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon.
You and I by Roger McGough
I explain quietly. You
hear me shouting. You
try a new tack. I
feel old wounds reopen.
You see both sides. I
see your blinkers. I
am placatory. You
sense a new selfishness.
I am a dove. You
recognize the hawk. You
offer an olive branch. I
feel the thorns.
You bleed. I
see crocodile tears. I
withdraw. You
reel from the impact.
The Minister for Exams by Brian Patten
When I was a child I sat an exam.
The test was so simple
there was no way I could fail.
Q1. Describe the taste of the moon.
It tastes like Creation I wrote,
it has the flavour of starlight.
Q2. What colour is Love?
Love is the colour of the water a man
lost in the desert finds, I wrote.
Q3. Why do snowflakes melt?
I wrote, they melt because they fall
onto the warm tongue of God.
There were other questions.
They were as simple.
I described the grief of Adam when he was expelled from Eden.
I wrote down the exact weight of an elephant's dream.
Yet today, many years later,
For my living I sweep the streets
or clean out the toilets of the fat hotels.
Why? Because I constantly failed my exams.
Why? Well, let me set a test.
Q1. How large is a child's imagination?
Q2. How shallow is the soul of the Minister for Exams?
Two of the Liverpool poets, Brian Patten and Roger McGough, were giving a reading of their work at a local concert hall. These were men who I had seen time and time again back in my college days so I was enthusiastic to go off and hear them again. I was apprehensive too about the possibility of finding them to be cynical, grey and jaded in their late middle age.
Here are a couple of their poems and the review I wrote at the time. I like both poems for different reasons.
The Ambush by Brian Patten
When the face you swore never to forget
Can no longer be remembered,
When a list of regrets are torn up and thrown away
Then the hurt fades,
And you think you've grown strong.
And you sit in bars and boast to yourself,
'Never again will I be vulnerable,
It was an aberration to be so open,
A folly never to be repeated.'
How absurd and fragile such promises.
Hidden from you, crouched
Among the longings you have suppressed
And the desires you have tamed,
A sweet pain waits in ambush.
And there will come a day when in a field
Heaven's mouth gapes open,
And on a web the shadow
Of a marigold will smoulder.
Then without warning,
Without a shred of comfort,
Emotions you thought had been put aside
Will flare up within you and bleed you of reason.
The routines which comforted you,
And the habits in which you sought refuge
Will bend like sunlight under water,
And go astray.
Your body will become a banquet,
Falling heavenwards,
You will loll in spring's sweet avalanche
Without the burden of memory,
And once again
Monstrous love will swallow you.
At Lunchtime by Roger McGough
When the bus stopped suddenly
to avoid damaging
a mother and child in the road,
the younglady in the green hat sitting opposite,
was thrown across me,
and not being one to miss an opportunity,
I started to make love.
At first she resisted,
saying it was too early in the morning,
and too soon after breakfast,
and anyway, she found me repulsive.
But when I explained
that this being a nuclearage
the world was going to end at lunchtime,
she took off her green hat,
put her busticket into her pocket
and joined in the exercise.
The buspeople,
and there were many of them,
were shockedandsurprised,
and amusedandannoyed.
But when word got around
that the world was going to end at lunchtime,
they put their pride in their pockets
with their bustickets
and made love one with the other.
And even the busconductor,
feeling left out,
climbed into the cab,
and struck up some sort of relationship with the driver.
That night,
on the bus coming home,
we were all a little embarrassed.
Especially me and the lady in the green hat.
And we all started to say
in different ways
how hasty and foolish we had been.
But then, always having been a-bit-of-a-lad,
I stood up and said it was a pity
that the world didn't end every lunchtime,
and that we could always pretend.
And then it happened…..
Quick asa crash
we all changed partners,
and soon the bus was aquiver
with white mothball bodies doing naughty things.
And the next day
and everyday
In everybus
In everystreet
In everytown
In everycountry
People pretended
that the world was coming to an end at lunchtime.
It still hasn't.
Although in a way it has.
My review
“In college and university halls, darkened rooms and smoky pubs…in the 1970's, I had read, seen and heard the Mersey poets many times. Roger McGough, Adrian Henri and Brian Patten. McGough always appearing with some zany band of jesters, poets and musicians….there was hope, innocence, energy and exuberance in this group – an ability to find the absurd in the mundane. Harangued by the literary establishment of the time as trivial and naïve, it was often these qualities that drew people to them. Theirs was a poetry of everyday life with guts and bite.
On Tuesday I approached their recital with curiosity. What would these men be like now? Would they be tired, jaded and cynical? Would they be quieter, contemplative, reflecting on life's lessons? Would I be looking at my watch hoping to leave after the first twenty minutes? Overall their performance was charming but time had brought its divergence in style to these two poets.
Brian Patten's performance was riveting; drawing one in with the skill of a conjurer, transporting one between joy and tears in seconds. Here was a man giving expression to all of his life in all of his work. It was the work of the deep soul and the playful child.
Roger McGough was different. His performance was slick, professional but lacked Patten's depth. Patten could have been of any age. McGough felt like a faded pop icon of some past generation. Perhaps he is seeking to develop his career with the BBC now. He did say that the BBC had commissioned his poems, on three or four occasions. And he did host BBC Radio 4's “Home Truths programme” last Saturday standing in for John Peel. Now there's an idea! Perhaps I should send the BBC an e-mail message now and suggest that they let Brian Patten cover in future.” (Review ends)
There was a third “Liverpool Poet”, Adrian Henri, who sadly died in 2000. Henri, Patten and McGough had risen to fame in the sixties following the publication of their excellent poetry anthology, “The Mersey Sound”. Published in 1967, and republished in 2000, then again in 2007, this book has sold more than half a million copies to-date. I am not aware of any other collection of modern poetry that has sold so well. The "Liverpool Poets" succeeded, in the words of one critic, in "wrestling poetry out of the hands of academe and taking it into pubs, clubs and the lives of everyday people."
I’ll end here by including three more poems, one from each of the "Liverpool Poets" starting with Adrian Henri:
Tonight at Noon by Adrian Henri
Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise threepence extra on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World War I generals will sell poppies on the street on November 11th
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees
Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and on the landing fields
A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
And Nelson will not only get his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
In front of the Black house
And the monster has just created Dr. Frankenstein
Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Art galleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
There's jobs for everybody and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing in broad daylight
In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly bury the living
and
You will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon.
You and I by Roger McGough
I explain quietly. You
hear me shouting. You
try a new tack. I
feel old wounds reopen.
You see both sides. I
see your blinkers. I
am placatory. You
sense a new selfishness.
I am a dove. You
recognize the hawk. You
offer an olive branch. I
feel the thorns.
You bleed. I
see crocodile tears. I
withdraw. You
reel from the impact.
The Minister for Exams by Brian Patten
When I was a child I sat an exam.
The test was so simple
there was no way I could fail.
Q1. Describe the taste of the moon.
It tastes like Creation I wrote,
it has the flavour of starlight.
Q2. What colour is Love?
Love is the colour of the water a man
lost in the desert finds, I wrote.
Q3. Why do snowflakes melt?
I wrote, they melt because they fall
onto the warm tongue of God.
There were other questions.
They were as simple.
I described the grief of Adam when he was expelled from Eden.
I wrote down the exact weight of an elephant's dream.
Yet today, many years later,
For my living I sweep the streets
or clean out the toilets of the fat hotels.
Why? Because I constantly failed my exams.
Why? Well, let me set a test.
Q1. How large is a child's imagination?
Q2. How shallow is the soul of the Minister for Exams?
Le Papillon - a Franglish poetry collaboration
07/05/08 07:29 Filed in: Poetry | French Poetry
My partner, Liz and I met through our love of writing. We swapped poetry, stories and thoughts together and suddenly we were a ten-phone-call-a-day phenomenon. We discovered that we had so very much in common, we make new discoveries of common interests, likes and dislikes all the time these days. Then came the cross-channel period when we would fly, drive and sail to the other’s home across the English Channel whenever we could…at every opportunity. Writing took a back seat for a while as one might suspect! We do still have a work-in-progress that is a children’s fairy story for adults (It has some naughty bits in it!). Perhaps when it is complete one day we may try and publish it. It is very funny!
The poem here is one of our Franglish collaborations. I cannot claim that it is Anglo-French as it is Liz’s work that I translated. My French needs much improvement. I’m working on it. But in translating poetry the search for poetic meaning rather than a literal translation of language can yield wonderful outcomes. What follows is a fine example. My first attempt at literal translation meant little to nothing. I love this poem in both our languages. It’s called “Le Papillon” or ”The Butterfly”.
Le Papillon
L’Amour est comme un papillon
Qui tente de ne pas brûler ses ailes
Dans l’enfer de ce Monde.
Il veille au creux de notre être
Prêt à s’épanouir.
Il est seule Réalité, seule réponse,
Seul bouclier infranchissable
Contre la violence environnante.
Il est Sérénité
Fil d’Ariane complice de notre paix intérieure.
Il est Don absolu de soi,
Transparente beauté du diamant,
Vierge de toute trace,
Eclat et perfection.
Il est cet or protéiforme,
Miracle partagé,
Secret magique,
Miroir complice et éternel
D’un DEUX entrelacé.
Painting - Butterfly Paintings by Damien Hirst - Copyright © Damien Hirst
The Butterfly
Love is like a butterfly
Seeking not to burn its wings
In the fires of this world.
It tends the core of our being
As it prepares to bloom.
It is our reality, our only answer,
That impassable obstacle
Protecting us from harm.
It is Calmness.
It is the thread of Ariadne
Leading to internal peace.
It is the gift of oneself.
It is as clear as crystal
With the beauty of a diamond:
Flawless, bright, perfect.
It is gold,
Melting, changing shape and form
Remaining forever pure.
It is a shared miracle,
A magical secret,
A loving, endless reflection
Of two entwined as one.
The poem here is one of our Franglish collaborations. I cannot claim that it is Anglo-French as it is Liz’s work that I translated. My French needs much improvement. I’m working on it. But in translating poetry the search for poetic meaning rather than a literal translation of language can yield wonderful outcomes. What follows is a fine example. My first attempt at literal translation meant little to nothing. I love this poem in both our languages. It’s called “Le Papillon” or ”The Butterfly”.
Le Papillon
L’Amour est comme un papillon
Qui tente de ne pas brûler ses ailes
Dans l’enfer de ce Monde.
Il veille au creux de notre être
Prêt à s’épanouir.
Il est seule Réalité, seule réponse,
Seul bouclier infranchissable
Contre la violence environnante.
Il est Sérénité
Fil d’Ariane complice de notre paix intérieure.
Il est Don absolu de soi,
Transparente beauté du diamant,
Vierge de toute trace,
Eclat et perfection.
Il est cet or protéiforme,
Miracle partagé,
Secret magique,
Miroir complice et éternel
D’un DEUX entrelacé.
Painting - Butterfly Paintings by Damien Hirst - Copyright © Damien Hirst
The Butterfly
Love is like a butterfly
Seeking not to burn its wings
In the fires of this world.
It tends the core of our being
As it prepares to bloom.
It is our reality, our only answer,
That impassable obstacle
Protecting us from harm.
It is Calmness.
It is the thread of Ariadne
Leading to internal peace.
It is the gift of oneself.
It is as clear as crystal
With the beauty of a diamond:
Flawless, bright, perfect.
It is gold,
Melting, changing shape and form
Remaining forever pure.
It is a shared miracle,
A magical secret,
A loving, endless reflection
Of two entwined as one.
The Velveteen Rabbit...
07/05/08 07:24 Filed in: Poetry | Children's Literature
A short while ago, a friend sent me a passage from a children's story called "The Velveteen Rabbit". They had heard their five-year-old daughter reading it to a young friend and they, like me, were struck by its profundity of its emotional wisdom so I'm reproducing it here.
I've included a couple of other pieces too. There is a poem from "Captain Corelli's Mandolin" – I did not really enjoy this book but the poem says so much that's true about love for me. There are two other poems: "To Love is Not to Possess" by James Kavanaugh. Perhaps this is not my all-time favourite but I like the idea of love free from possessiveness and childish dependency that resonates in its words.
Finally there is another poem by Michael Shepherd called "Love's Grammar Book." Shepherd is an English poet from Lancashire (Born 1929) of whom I had not heard until very recently. His work is prolific. I'll stow this one away in my kitbag! I love it. It's funny, clever and insightful too. I hope you enjoy these pieces as I did.
From "The Velveteen Rabbit" by Margery Williams (1929)
"What is REAL?" asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When someone loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," asked the Rabbit, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
From Captain Corelli's Mandolin by Louis de Bernières
Love is a temporary madness,
it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of eternal passion.
That is just being "in love" which any fool can do.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom have fallen from their branches,
they find that they are one tree and not two.
To Love is Not to Possess by James Kavanaugh
To love is not to possess,
To own or imprison,
Nor to lose one's self in another.
Love is to join and separate,
To walk alone and together,
To find a laughing freedom
That lonely isolation does not permit..
It is finally to be able
To be who we really are:
No longer clinging in childish dependency
Nor docilely living separate lives in silence,
It is to be perfectly one's self
And perfectly joined in permanent commitment
To another – and to one's inner self.
Love only endures when it moves like waves,
Receding and returning gently or passionately,
Or moving lovingly like the tide
In the moon's own predictable harmony,
Because finally, despite a child's scars
Or an adult's deepest wounds,
They are openly free to be
Who they really are – and always secretly were,
In the very core of their being
Where true and lasting love can alone abide.
Love's Grammar Book by Michael Shepherd
I love you.
That's it, really.
all there is to say.
sums it up.
in a nutshell.
the long and the short of it.
the be-all and the end-all.
I know what I mean;
you know what I mean.
more or less.
we know what I mean.
most of the time.
But though love's sometimes
best defined by silence
it may be good
to say a few good words
since you, and love, have taught me
love's grammar-book:
I love 'love'.
though love as noun is difficult to define.
I love love as an adjective:
love's.. just lovely, isn't it?
But most of all
I love love as verb.
and this I know:
this my love's active voice:
I love. (you) .
I loved you. How well I remember.
I have loved you. I'm so grateful for that.
I shall love you. That I promise.
and when all is done, I'll be proud to remember that
I shall have loved you;
and that
we shall have loved.
And in love's passive voice,
I'm so blessed that
I am loved;
rejoice in the hope that
I shall be loved
and promise that
you shall be loved.
I'll always be blessed that
I have been loved.
and that I can say
you shall have been loved (forever) .
Then there are love's moods
as they're called in grammar:
the indicative - I love you; do you love me?
the exciting imperative mood:
'Love me, do - I promise I'll be true...' or better,
'Love me! Now! ';
the subjunctive mood
which is rather subtler in other languages:
'Don't leave me, please';
'May we love each other till we die...';
'If only you were to love me
as much as I love you..'
And then, those other parts of speech
that few of us get around to sorting out
but all lurking there under 'amo'
in the Latin grammar-book of love:
The perfect infinitive:
'It is better - to have loved - and lost - than
not -to have loved -at all';
that great feeling
called future infinitive:
to be about to love;
and that dizzy future infinitive passive:
to be about to be loved;
the gerund:
'Oh the loving and the kissing
and the kissing and the loving...';
that cautious supine:
'in order to love...';
the passive imperative -
the parents' wish (with qualifications) :
'let her be loved'...
and that loaded gerundive:
'fit to be loved'...
All of which, I hope, leaves you
in that state curiously undefined
by grammar -
a sort of active gerundive:
'fit to love' - to love
love's grammar-book
in full
for love conquers all, it's said,
even a hatred of grammar.
I've included a couple of other pieces too. There is a poem from "Captain Corelli's Mandolin" – I did not really enjoy this book but the poem says so much that's true about love for me. There are two other poems: "To Love is Not to Possess" by James Kavanaugh. Perhaps this is not my all-time favourite but I like the idea of love free from possessiveness and childish dependency that resonates in its words.
Finally there is another poem by Michael Shepherd called "Love's Grammar Book." Shepherd is an English poet from Lancashire (Born 1929) of whom I had not heard until very recently. His work is prolific. I'll stow this one away in my kitbag! I love it. It's funny, clever and insightful too. I hope you enjoy these pieces as I did.
From "The Velveteen Rabbit" by Margery Williams (1929)
"What is REAL?" asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When someone loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," asked the Rabbit, "or bit by bit?"
From Captain Corelli's Mandolin by Louis de Bernières
Love is a temporary madness,
it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of eternal passion.
That is just being "in love" which any fool can do.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom have fallen from their branches,
they find that they are one tree and not two.
To Love is Not to Possess by James Kavanaugh
To love is not to possess,
To own or imprison,
Nor to lose one's self in another.
Love is to join and separate,
To walk alone and together,
To find a laughing freedom
That lonely isolation does not permit..
It is finally to be able
To be who we really are:
No longer clinging in childish dependency
Nor docilely living separate lives in silence,
It is to be perfectly one's self
And perfectly joined in permanent commitment
To another – and to one's inner self.
Love only endures when it moves like waves,
Receding and returning gently or passionately,
Or moving lovingly like the tide
In the moon's own predictable harmony,
Because finally, despite a child's scars
Or an adult's deepest wounds,
They are openly free to be
Who they really are – and always secretly were,
In the very core of their being
Where true and lasting love can alone abide.
Love's Grammar Book by Michael Shepherd
I love you.
That's it, really.
all there is to say.
sums it up.
in a nutshell.
the long and the short of it.
the be-all and the end-all.
I know what I mean;
you know what I mean.
more or less.
we know what I mean.
most of the time.
But though love's sometimes
best defined by silence
it may be good
to say a few good words
since you, and love, have taught me
love's grammar-book:
I love 'love'.
though love as noun is difficult to define.
I love love as an adjective:
love's.. just lovely, isn't it?
But most of all
I love love as verb.
and this I know:
this my love's active voice:
I love. (you) .
I loved you. How well I remember.
I have loved you. I'm so grateful for that.
I shall love you. That I promise.
and when all is done, I'll be proud to remember that
I shall have loved you;
and that
we shall have loved.
And in love's passive voice,
I'm so blessed that
I am loved;
rejoice in the hope that
I shall be loved
and promise that
you shall be loved.
I'll always be blessed that
I have been loved.
and that I can say
you shall have been loved (forever) .
Then there are love's moods
as they're called in grammar:
the indicative - I love you; do you love me?
the exciting imperative mood:
'Love me, do - I promise I'll be true...' or better,
'Love me! Now! ';
the subjunctive mood
which is rather subtler in other languages:
'Don't leave me, please';
'May we love each other till we die...';
'If only you were to love me
as much as I love you..'
And then, those other parts of speech
that few of us get around to sorting out
but all lurking there under 'amo'
in the Latin grammar-book of love:
The perfect infinitive:
'It is better - to have loved - and lost - than
not -to have loved -at all';
that great feeling
called future infinitive:
to be about to love;
and that dizzy future infinitive passive:
to be about to be loved;
the gerund:
'Oh the loving and the kissing
and the kissing and the loving...';
that cautious supine:
'in order to love...';
the passive imperative -
the parents' wish (with qualifications) :
'let her be loved'...
and that loaded gerundive:
'fit to be loved'...
All of which, I hope, leaves you
in that state curiously undefined
by grammar -
a sort of active gerundive:
'fit to love' - to love
love's grammar-book
in full
for love conquers all, it's said,
even a hatred of grammar.
Developing digital technology - a lament for the passing of film photography
07/05/08 07:19 Filed in: Photography
I am an exponent and great fan of technology progress. The pursuit of technological development is what preoccupies me in most of my working life. But every so often the development of so-called new technologies seems to take a backward step and offer worse performance than the technology it succeeded. Most of this is obvious: I have an iPod that I love! It keeps me company on the many boat and plane journeys I undertake. iTunes makes free downloads that help me in learning French. For a small portable device the sound quality is pretty good! But to compare it with my ‘Cambridge Audio’ hi-fi system would be a nonsense. The quality of my hi-fi system really is like having an orchestra or a band playing in the front room. The iPod acoustic experience comes nowhere close. It’s with real sadness that I read that new CD recordings by famous artists have bombed because of the download market.
But that was not my main purpose in writing. Another casualty of the digital age has been photographic film. One can still buy film, of course. But companies who were once big names, like Kodak, Canon and Nikon, have already made their exodus from film photography. There is a big part of me that feels that a lot of photography skill died with the demise of film. Who needs to understand photographic principles when one can hold one’s mobile phone in the air, point and click! It makes me smile when I read of Nokia telephones sporting Carl Zeiss lenses like Hasselblad cameras. I suspect it matters little to the Nokia user who probably doesn’t know the difference between an f-stop and a bus stop!
I’m not sure if I’m being an elitist or a Luddite but I do mourn that passing of film photography. The modern high-convenience, low-cost digital camera requires little by way of skill to take photographs. I’m not sure what or how much the modern digital camera user would understand about aperture, depth of field, speeds, light, and colour. It’s almost as if the art and science of photography have been forgotten in an age of digital convenience that is often as appealing as fast food. I have stood in queues in English chemist shops behind people who have frequently collected their party pictures of beheaded bodies and limbless beings. I’m joking although I do wonder if photography as a skill or an art form is going the same way as painting that preceded it. People still visit art galleries in thousands to see the work of the masters, I doubt if master photographers will have the same appeal in time.
Some photographers still take wonderful photographs. One can see them in magazines and newspapers daily. But the digital revolution has brought about a vast polarisation not only in skill but also in the economic accessibility and affordability of top-class digital equipment. I once owned a Mamiya medium-format camera. As I thought about writing this piece I thought I’d check out the price of its modern digital equivalent. It was £13,500! (USD $26,000, Euros 16,875) I could never entertain spending that sort of money on a camera.
If you would like to see photography at its best, take a look at www.magnumphotos.com, an organisation that comprises some of the world’s best photographers as its members. I’ll finish with some fine examples of film photography; first, the work of landscape photographer – Ansel Adams then the work of the wonderful French photographer, Henri Cartier Bresson. Cartier Bresson says more about human behaviour in his images than one could say in ten thousand words, and he does so with enormous wit, humour and charm.
Ansel Adams
All images Copyright © Ansel Adams. Publishing Rights Trust/CORBIS
Henri Cartier-Bresson
All images Copyright © Henri Cartier-Bresson / Magnum Photos
And here’s some of my own stuff, all taken on film - No digital manipulation, photoshop or retouching here!
But that was not my main purpose in writing. Another casualty of the digital age has been photographic film. One can still buy film, of course. But companies who were once big names, like Kodak, Canon and Nikon, have already made their exodus from film photography. There is a big part of me that feels that a lot of photography skill died with the demise of film. Who needs to understand photographic principles when one can hold one’s mobile phone in the air, point and click! It makes me smile when I read of Nokia telephones sporting Carl Zeiss lenses like Hasselblad cameras. I suspect it matters little to the Nokia user who probably doesn’t know the difference between an f-stop and a bus stop!
I’m not sure if I’m being an elitist or a Luddite but I do mourn that passing of film photography. The modern high-convenience, low-cost digital camera requires little by way of skill to take photographs. I’m not sure what or how much the modern digital camera user would understand about aperture, depth of field, speeds, light, and colour. It’s almost as if the art and science of photography have been forgotten in an age of digital convenience that is often as appealing as fast food. I have stood in queues in English chemist shops behind people who have frequently collected their party pictures of beheaded bodies and limbless beings. I’m joking although I do wonder if photography as a skill or an art form is going the same way as painting that preceded it. People still visit art galleries in thousands to see the work of the masters, I doubt if master photographers will have the same appeal in time.
Some photographers still take wonderful photographs. One can see them in magazines and newspapers daily. But the digital revolution has brought about a vast polarisation not only in skill but also in the economic accessibility and affordability of top-class digital equipment. I once owned a Mamiya medium-format camera. As I thought about writing this piece I thought I’d check out the price of its modern digital equivalent. It was £13,500! (USD $26,000, Euros 16,875) I could never entertain spending that sort of money on a camera.
If you would like to see photography at its best, take a look at www.magnumphotos.com, an organisation that comprises some of the world’s best photographers as its members. I’ll finish with some fine examples of film photography; first, the work of landscape photographer – Ansel Adams then the work of the wonderful French photographer, Henri Cartier Bresson. Cartier Bresson says more about human behaviour in his images than one could say in ten thousand words, and he does so with enormous wit, humour and charm.
Ansel Adams
All images Copyright © Ansel Adams. Publishing Rights Trust/CORBIS
Henri Cartier-Bresson
All images Copyright © Henri Cartier-Bresson / Magnum Photos
And here’s some of my own stuff, all taken on film - No digital manipulation, photoshop or retouching here!
First Poems
07/05/08 07:17 Filed in: Poetry
Last year in October I went through a phase of “doom and gloom”. I’m normally a very positive person although I must confess that during despairing times my writing output can be prolific.
It was then that I first turned my hand to poetry. I wrote my first two poems, both of them in blank verse. The sadness seeps through them both. I still find them very poignant.
Here they are:
Do you know who you are?
Do you know who you are?
You, whose sweetness I can smell on the sheets
My face glued to the place where you lay.
You, whose touch sends longing through my soul,
Whose smile melts in my eyes,
Whose tenderness stirs deep inside me.
Do you know who you are?
Do you know who I am?
A man who had emptied his soul
Who sank in pain, despair and brokenness so deep
That emptiness felt like some relief.
A man who had locked and shackled his heart
And barred his insides from women like you.
Do you know who I am?
But do you know who I really am?
My mistakes
My failings
My pains
My errors of judgment
My hurt inside
My guilt
My vulnerability
My stubbornness
My stupidity
My impulsiveness
My blindness
My arrogance – always an illusion
I never wished to touch you with these weaknesses
There is another me:
Loving
Tender
Warm
Gentle
Open
Strong, but vulnerable
Mortal
Kind
Generous-hearted
Loyal
Faithful
Passionate
Intuitive
Insightful
Sexual
Sensual
Honest
With humility as well as arrogance
So now may I know you too?
And will you accept me as I am?
Full of contradictions and failings
Struggling to find the light of your love
And the truth of our desire.
That does say a lot about me in very few words. Here’s another:
I am not a bad poem
I am not a bad poem,
Though once I was scratched
From a lavatory wall
For my good taste.
I am not a playful poem
That jumps and pranks
That laughs and smiles
And plays in children’s chants.
I do not sing and fail to rhyme.
I am not a love poem:
Full of wants and desires,
Of boundless giving,
Of some joy fulfilled,
That I may never know.
I may be a sad poem:
Of barren emptiness
Of loves lost and hopes dashed,
Of life almost passed
Unknowing and unknown.
Perhaps I am life’s own poem:
Of birth and death
With brief time in-between
That I should have cherished
More than I did.
It was then that I first turned my hand to poetry. I wrote my first two poems, both of them in blank verse. The sadness seeps through them both. I still find them very poignant.
Here they are:
Do you know who you are?
Do you know who you are?
You, whose sweetness I can smell on the sheets
My face glued to the place where you lay.
You, whose touch sends longing through my soul,
Whose smile melts in my eyes,
Whose tenderness stirs deep inside me.
Do you know who you are?
Do you know who I am?
A man who had emptied his soul
Who sank in pain, despair and brokenness so deep
That emptiness felt like some relief.
A man who had locked and shackled his heart
And barred his insides from women like you.
Do you know who I am?
But do you know who I really am?
My mistakes
My failings
My pains
My errors of judgment
My hurt inside
My guilt
My vulnerability
My stubbornness
My stupidity
My impulsiveness
My blindness
My arrogance – always an illusion
I never wished to touch you with these weaknesses
There is another me:
Loving
Tender
Warm
Gentle
Open
Strong, but vulnerable
Mortal
Kind
Generous-hearted
Loyal
Faithful
Passionate
Intuitive
Insightful
Sexual
Sensual
Honest
With humility as well as arrogance
So now may I know you too?
And will you accept me as I am?
Full of contradictions and failings
Struggling to find the light of your love
And the truth of our desire.
That does say a lot about me in very few words. Here’s another:
I am not a bad poem
I am not a bad poem,
Though once I was scratched
From a lavatory wall
For my good taste.
I am not a playful poem
That jumps and pranks
That laughs and smiles
And plays in children’s chants.
I do not sing and fail to rhyme.
I am not a love poem:
Full of wants and desires,
Of boundless giving,
Of some joy fulfilled,
That I may never know.
I may be a sad poem:
Of barren emptiness
Of loves lost and hopes dashed,
Of life almost passed
Unknowing and unknown.
Perhaps I am life’s own poem:
Of birth and death
With brief time in-between
That I should have cherished
More than I did.
Poetry by Rumi
07/05/08 07:09 Filed in: Poetry
I gave my beloved a book of poetry by Rumi as a Christmas present. This poem was the reason why and it is just for her:
What is it that beats inside me now?
Only the rhythm of your blood
only the waves of the ocean
into which you have cast me.
Knowing not how to swim,
I am at peace
Drowning without choice
In these unknown waters
Alone
Bereft of all things
save this one gift
to be so emptied
as to become myself
the cup of longing
filled to the brim…….
Many …have I known,
Yet none have known me
Never has one knocked on this door
Which you have pierced and entered
Before I even thought
To lay a stone across the way
against your coming.
What is it that you offer me,
That my being opens,
as a tide turning,
as a flowers face
knowing the direction of the sun?
Nothing can you give me.
Yet all my being
Opens
Without thought of price
And gives itself to You.
What is it that beats inside me now?
Only the rhythm of your blood
only the waves of the ocean
into which you have cast me.
Knowing not how to swim,
I am at peace
Drowning without choice
In these unknown waters
Alone
Bereft of all things
save this one gift
to be so emptied
as to become myself
the cup of longing
filled to the brim…….
Many …have I known,
Yet none have known me
Never has one knocked on this door
Which you have pierced and entered
Before I even thought
To lay a stone across the way
against your coming.
What is it that you offer me,
That my being opens,
as a tide turning,
as a flowers face
knowing the direction of the sun?
Nothing can you give me.
Yet all my being
Opens
Without thought of price
And gives itself to You.
La Folle Journee, Nantes
07/05/08 07:05 Filed in: Classical Music
La Folle Journee (The foolish or crazy day) is the “Woodstock” of classical music - A long weekend with over 240 concerts in 15 venues. Attended by well over 150,000 people, it’s an amazing production.
It’s a brilliant idea, one designed to demystify the classical concert, to strip away the aura and pretensions that put off the more timid or dissuades the less well-off from splashing out. Each concert is short (around forty-five minutes of music with no interval); there is a reduced admission price, a wide variety of different performances and, finally, a truly enthusiastic audience.
There is no class distinction, no discrimination between professional and amateur musicians (with wind orchestras and steel bands giving performances in the central hall of the conference centre). One can see why the City of Nantes supports this unifying project that boosts social harmony and brings great music to everyone.
Over two days at this year’s festival at the end of January and beginning of February, we managed to fit in five concerts that included the Russian virtuoso pianist, Boris Berezovsky performing Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto and a stunning performance of Schubert lieder.