On blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths, Pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass : In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet. I shall let the wind bathe my bare head. I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing : But endless love will sorge in my soul ; And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy, Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman. March, 1870 Translated by Oliver Bernard : Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)

RIMBAUD Sensation

On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths, Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass : In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet. I shall let the wind bathe my bare head. I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing : But endless love will mount in my soul ; And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy, Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman. March, 1870 Translated by Oliver Bernard : Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)

Ophélie RIMBAUD

Ophelia HUGHES

I

Sur l'onde calme et noire où dorment les étoiles

La blanche Ophélia flotte comme un grand lys,

Flotte très lentement, couchée en ses longs voiles ...

- On entend dans les bois lointains des hallalis. Voici plus de mille ans que la triste Ophélie

Passe, fantôme blanc, sur le long fleuve noir;

Voici plus de mille ans que sa douce folie

Murmure sa romance à la brise du soir. Le vent baise ses seins et déploie en corolle

Ses grands voiles bercés mollement par les eaux;

Les saules frissonnants pleurent sur son épaule,

Sur son grand front rêveur s'inclinent les roseaux. Les nénuphars froissés soupirent autour d'elle;

Elle éveille parfois, dans un aune qui dort,

Quelque nid, d'où s'échappe un petit frisson d'aile:

- Un chant mystérieux tombe des astres d'or.

II

O pâle Ophélia! belle comme la neige!

Oui, tu mourus, enfant, par un fleuve emporté

- C'est que les vents tombant des grands monts de Norwège

T'avaient parlé tout bas de l'âpre liberté; C'est qu'un souffle, tordant ta grande chevelure,

A ton esprit rêveur portait d'étranges bruits;

Que ton coeur écoutait le chant de la Nature

Dans les plaintes de l'arbre et les soupirs des nuits; C'est que la voix des mers folles, immense râle,

Brisait ton sein d'enfant, trop humain et trop doux;

C'est qu'un matin d'avril, un beau cavalier pâle,

Un pauvre fou, s'assit muet à tes genoux! Ciel! Amour! Liberté! Quel rêve, ô pauvre Folle!

Tu te fondais à lui comme une neige au feu:

Tes grandes visions étranglaient ta parole-

Et l'Infini terrible effara ton oeil bleu!

III

- Et le Poète dit qu'aux rayons des étoiles

Tu viens chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis

,Et qu'il a vu sur l'eau, couchée en ses longs voiles

,La blanche Ophélia flotter, comme un grand lys.

Arthur Rimbaud (1854 - 1891), Poésies (1895), Ophélie (1870).

Sensazione by Rimbaud

Farmhouse and Evening Cornfields

by Mervyn Goode

Sensations by Rimbaud

Nelle azzurre sere d'estate, io andrò

per i sentieri,

Punzecchiato dal grano, a pestare l'erba minuta:

Sognatore, io ne sentirò la frescura ai piedi.

Io lascerò che il vento bagni il mio capo nudo. Io non parlerò, io non penserò a nulla:

Ma l'amore infinito mi salirà nell'anima,

E io andrò lontano, molto lontano, come uno zingaro,

Nella Natura, - felice come se fossi con una donna.

(Marzo 1870)

Forgetfulness by Yannis Ritsos

The house with wooden staircase

And orange trees,

Looks out towards the azure mountains.

The countryside wanders nonchalantly around the rooms.

Two mirrors reflect the singing of the birds.

And in the the bedroom

Lie abandoned two slippers made of cloth

The type used by the elderly.

So, when night falls,

The departed visit the house once more,

In order to collect something they left behind,

A scarf, a vest, a shirt, two socks

And then, possibly due to forgetfulness

Or carelessness,

Take along something of ours.

Next day, the postman passes our door

Without stopping.

Les Oranges by Fabrice de Villeneuve

Rosamunda

Painting by Waterhouse

Fierce Albion Born on the hostile plain Son of ferocious migrants from northern swamps; Lord of the Lombards with piercing eyes of keenest blue And skin scorched hard and brown by relentless summer rays, And winter's bitter wrath: Did you not see on the banks of the Danube The fair child Rosamunda Flaxen haired and sweet as a windflower In her home-spun dress tinged with the juices of wìld berries? And did you not for desire of her Sweep down with your fearless warriors like a crashing tidal wave, Engulfing the Gepidae settlements 0f her fore-fathers, Killing her beloved father and uncle And humiliating her grandfatherThe king? How triumphantly you carried her away Lashing your coal black steed, Followed by your warriors galloping up behind With their precious plundered trophies And decapitated heads, Riding through the thick forests 0f the towerering snow-capped Alps Back to your kingdom at sunset. Alboin. Did you not see in the pining sky, Bleeding violets and roses mourning the fate of your sweet bride, A breathing premonition of your own Dark death?

A Labyrinth of Narrow Streets by Antonio Machado

Antonio Machado was born in Seville in 1875 His poems are full of Mediterranean atmosphere. I especially like this one. The painting is by David Solomon. "A Labyrinth of Narrow Streets," A labyrinth of narrow streets converges on the deserted plaza. On one side the old big wall in shadowof a church in ruin; on the other the whitish adobe wall of an orchard with cypresses and palms, and before me the house, and on the house the iron grille outside the window that light blurs her placid and smiling face. I will go away. I don't wantto call at your window... Spring comes, her white dress floats in the wind of the dead plaza. She comes to burn the red roses of your bushes ... I want to see her... From Border of a Dream: Selected Poems , translated by Willis Barnstone.

This woman can be found in Piccadilly. Huddled on the pavement Perilously close to the tramping feet of passers-by, She clutches her son to her. A ragged cup is waved listlessly. Her eyes are downcast. She neither talks to nor accosts those who stride past. Her cup becomes no heavier. The sleeping child, hardly visible beneath a blanket Seems less beggar's prop than tired mite. Is this woman, headscarfed and olive-skinned, A genuine "gypsy"? . Does she need to have the message that begging is unacceptable "brought home" to her? http://it.wrs.yahoo.com/;_ylt=AknCEN8bMDWQcxDqA9uMR_ImDQx.;_ylu=X3oDMTA4NDgyNWN0BHNlYwNwcm9m/SIG=12elc1om2/EXP=1131781427/**http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/low/uk_news/676053.stm

Paris 1997

Grey as the clouds and scowling at gargoyles and suchlike I entered the great door into the gloom of Notre Dame Unusually empty for the time of year And I stood for a while gazing up With the usual sense of awe at the ancient vaults. An elderly woman in white, elegant and slim, Sat listlessly amongst dark clad beings on a few chairs Scattered along the aisle. Then in a fragment of time A narrow shaft of rainbow light touched her snowy hair And my eyes recieved a melancholy glance. Years and miles away as I was walking my dog By the side of a river, I was aware that I was not alone! Scraps of information emerged: An aged husbandRich and indifferent, forever absent. A lover: an artist, young and false. A fatal illnes......Ageless now. Free of pain and heartbreak. You turned up at odd moments: Laughing at questions, giving advice. Annie, it was nice having you around for a while. Perhaps we'll meet again...sometime....somewhere......

Holy Communion In the obscurity of the ancient church Steeped in incense, Smoke from flickering candles Mingles with sunbeams Filtering through stained-glass windows, Tinting with rainbow hues The altar blossoms Drifting onto the marble floor Then into the front pews File a flock of white-clad darlings With well-scrubbed faces And chubby cheeks Bulging with sugared almonds. And outside on the cold stone steps In the shadow of the porch A sorrowing bare-footed gypsy Sits with babe And outstretched hand. While portly matrons With husbands and relations In expensive new spring clothes, Dip their fingers in holy water And cross themselves; And each and every doting mother With happiness and pride Stretches her neck to try to see Her own beloved child. But now photographers arrive Clicking and flashing from every side, Despite the old priest's remonstrations, Who in desperation then resignation Tries to explain to the congregation, The real and sacred signification Of the Holy Communion... But nobody listens. Lights flash. Women chat. Babies cry Children run joyfully Up and down the aisle... And now it's over At last! Excitedly they pour out Down the steps Into the sunlight, Totally ignoring the gypsy. And after more photos, Climb with their angelic children Into their washed and polished cars And drive off To their long awaited banquets. while in the quiet of the lonely church The priest laments, And the gypsy With a thousand curses, Trails back to her encampment.

Lavender Fields by Jennifer E. Young

This is what I miss most of France.

Blue Bell Woods

This is an oil on canvas painted by Suzanne Haimes. This is what I miss most of England.

Junichiro's Naomi by Kimberly Hitchins www.jamagination.com.jm

'Rabindranath Tagore, an inspiring Bengali poet and philosopher was born in Calcutta on May 7, 1861. Rabindranath Tagore was very well-known all over the world even before he was awarded the Noble Prize for Literature in 1913. In addition to poetry Rabindranath Tagore also wrote songs, plays, short stories, essays, and novels. There are truly no word to be found to describe the Greatness of Respected RabindranaSoon, I feel the time comes near to leave. With sunset shadingsscreen the parting day .Let the hour be silent; let it be peaceful. Let not any pompous memories or meetings create a sorrow's stance. May the trees at the gate raise the earth's chant of peace in a cluster of green leaves. May the night's blessings be in the light of the seven stars. (From Arogya, translation: Amiya Chakravarty)th Tagore.'

Ophélia by Flora Schanda

Painting by Waterhouse.

What do you dream

amidst the deep dark waters of moonlit streams,

dressed in your silvery gown?

While 'round your locks of silken hair

the violet water lilies drown Your love was bitter

like the murmuring reed

that whispers of your gentle madness

The love, embraced and twined by death,

born by sweet sorrow,

unsoothed sadness What secrets did you seek within wild roses?

What mysteries are hidden among those twilight wreaths?

And did the willow sing your mourning song? The blossoms all grew pale and withered

the beauty of your heart fled from the sun

What do you dream amidst the deep dark waters?

Tell me!

My soul and yours are one... (c) FaeryFlora/Flora Schanda

The Unconsenting Bride by Jules

Painting by Edward Hughes

And there, at the water's edge I stood useless. While you, oblivious, Drifting through spires of reeds and rushes And sepulchral purple iris, No longer of this world. Your face so lily pale Your eyes so sweetly closed With trailing wild forget-me-nots Like blue stars glistening In your flowing midnight curls, Yes. There at the water's brink I stood . Helpless. While you, dreamless, On dew-drenched grasses were tenderly laid In your mud-soaked bridal gown. Your spirit flown. And there was no man, Who, that day looking on, Would not willingly for your love Have given heart and home. And I Not least for one.

The Malachite Vase by Jules

Sensing his displeasure And anticipating his intentions The little stone heart Of the finished vase Trembles and pleads Under the dark eye Of her maker. But he, like a god Undiscerning and insensitive Deaf to her entreaties Seeing only her imperfections Smites her to the ground Sending her hurtling To the ground. Then covers his eyes With remorse. And as she lies there broken Comes the sound Of the fluttering of wings And the scent Of a thousand flowers In a beautiful garden in spring And all the scattered fragments Fly together as he gazes Forming a vase Of equisite beauty With unearthly verdant haze. Then from the vase there does emerge A wonderous fairy woman With auburn hair and slender form And eyes of burnished gold Sad soulful golden eyes Reproachful eyes and cold. As would a child he reaches out But she as lightening swift Takes up the vase against her breast Dissolving to a mist Hence does he work with fervour He labours day and night To please the fairy woman With her lovely eyes so bright And people come from near and far To see his magic art. And often in the evening As he sits beneath the stars He feels the gracious presence Of the lady of the vase.

Market Day in Provence by Jules

In rememberance of Jean Giono

Market day, on a blustering May morning

And the blue sky clear as glass

Wiped clean by the wind with an open hand

Sending clouds like soapsuds flying

And nevertheless

You set down your jarsof shining black olives

Your little earthenware pots of honey

And bundles of pungent herbs

And purple lavender on the paving stones

In the violet shadow of a plane tree.

Market day can scarcely be put off

If rain threatensyou put up your umbrella.

If it's windy, you just wade through it

Waving your armsLike the sails of a windmill

Shouting out your prices all day long.

You lose your voice

Your eyes smart

Your cheeks are scorched by salt and wind

But you make a profit all the same!

Then in the quiet of the evening

You go wandering through sheltered lanes

Where the wind threads more peaceably

Clutching your bulky wallet

Full of bits of grass and sand

Looking for a place to sleep

Something tasty to eat

And a bottle of good wine!

© 2000 Jules

Market Day near Paris by Jules

At break of dawn..............

A pebble hits your window

Jerking you to your feet

And you hear the voice of your gypsy man

Calling you from the street.

Then pulling on your old blue jeans

To the cellar you stumble down

To haul out heavy crates of cheese

Into the old red van.

Five minutes for a coffee

Now it's time to hit the road

You sit back with your Gauloises

While your friend there drives the load.

There's not much traffic at this hour

The sky is misty and grey

You turn the windscreen-wipers on

To sweep the raindrops away.

Now you're waiting in the market place

For the man from the old town hall

To show you a nice little corner

Where you can set up your stall.

You hoist your yellow and purple umbrellas

And roll out your cheese on the straw.

Then the sun comes out as you go into the bar

Where you keep watch on your stall from the door.

With prams and dogs the wives arrive

Bustling up the hil

lWith flustered faces and empty baskets

Ready to be filled.

You thrust out little bits of cheese

On the ends of gleaming knives

Calling and enticing passers-by

To taste your merchandise.

The cheese comes from the mountains

Where the air is fresh and clean

Where motherly cows with velvet eyes

Graze in pastures green.

But the housewives like your gypsy's looks

They laugh and blush at his patter

And you sell a lot of cheeses

Which is really all that matters.

Then when the town hall clock strikes twelve

You have to stack up and go

You clutch your greasy money-bag

And you make for the nearest bistro.

You down a bowl of onion soup

With a bottle of dry white wine

Then it's home again to have a rest

And get ready for 'demain'.

© 2000 Jules

The Home Coming by Jules

A house Sketched inky black Against a moonlit sky. Velvet roses dark and sultry Flatter the arum lilies Candle glowing, near the pond. And jasmin Scatters a million phosphorescent stars Whilst frogs croak, And giddy moths inebriated In the perfumed night Flirt with the blushing honeysuckle Clinging to the mossy wall. Then a cat, pale and ghostlike, Leaping from the ferns Like a phantom ballerina, Dances and twirls with fireflies And moonbeams In the dew drenched grass. Then all at once, There is a hush... Frogs mute. Cat scampers... A gate creaks. Footsteps sound along the path. A lamp lights up in an upstairs room. A flimsy curtain flutters On a new born breeze A face appears. From who knows where A sweet voice whispers very close, 'Welcome Home, my dear'. © 2000 Jules

Sea-Warriors by Jules

The island in question is Jersey, Ile Anglo-Normand off the north west coast of France but part of the British Isles. The west coast which faces the Atlantic is one long bay with sand dunes and a few straggling trees bent by the wind. The tide goes out for miles and it is exhilarating to see the sea gallopping towards land and every wave breaking with a roar on the gravel. I always think it is particularly beautiful to see the light through the water shining turquoise just before they break. It is equally lovely to see the bay when the sea is far out. A watery pacific scene with aquatic colours in blues, greys, pinks and mauves. There is an island in the north Where west winds blow in from the ocean; Dispersing mists And driving clouds like scattering sheep towards the east, Sweeping the sand into humped up dunes along the coast, Forcing defenceless trees to cower and cringe, While gleeful seagulls soar shrieking and screaming. And fearless sea-warriors Ride up the bay on the incoming tide, Rearing transparent like turquoise glass Against the light, Then crashing down with roaring cry In a chaotic whirl of foam ,Ever advancing All engulfing, Until hurtling triumphantly against the old sea wall, Fling spray and gravel relentlessly On to the coastal road. Then finally By strange command retreat On the ebbing tide, Leaving a world0f delicate hues In the light of the emerging sun.

ROWENA

Rowena is one of the best known names in the world of science-fictionand fantasy illustration. During a career that has spanned over two decades,her paintings have appeared on hundreds of book covers, on calendars,portfolios, trading cards and in magazines such as Playboy and Omni. Books of her own work have included The Fanastic Art of Rowena,Imagine (in France), Imagination (in Germany), and The Art of Rowena.She has also been included in many anthologies, such as, Tomorrow and Beyond and Infinite Worlds. Rowena began her career in New York Citywhere she lived for sixteen years. She presently lives in upstate New Yorkgaining creative inspiration from the beautiful countryside.

The Leggend of Rosamunda 572 AD

Alboin was a Lombard warrior who fought against the Francs and the Burgundians and made many conquests. It was just after his last conquist in Verona that he fell victim to a conspiration by his wife Rosamunda and her lover Elmichi. The leggend would have it known that Rosamunda was the daughter of the king of the Gepides. It is said that Alboin after killing her father, made her drink from his skull and then forced her to marry him.This could well have been true because we know from documents that Alboin killed her father and we know that he was murdered by them. .Alboin is buried under the steps of the Palazzo Reale in Verona. Rosamunda and Elmichi had the intention of taking over the throne but the conspiracy was discovered and they seized all the treasure they could and fled to the Imperial City of Ravenna on The Adriatic under the protection of the Bizantine governor Longino who could hardly believe his eyes when they showed him the Lombard treasure. Rosamunda and Longino then began to conspire against Elmechi, to kill him and then to marry. Rosamund takes a bath with her unsuspecting lover Elmichi and offers him poison wine. It is soon only too obvious to Elmichi that he has been poisoned and in excruciating pain he finds the strength to get hold of the goblet in which there is still some poison left. He holds a dagger to her throat and makes her drink what is left. The two of them contorted with pain fall dead in a macabre embrace.

Rosamunda by Jules

Fierce Alboin Born on the hostile plain, Son of ferocious migrants From northern swamps; Lord of the Lombards With piercing eyes of keenest blue And skin scorched hard and brown By relentless summer rays, And winter's bitter wrath: Did you not see On the banks of the Danube The fair child Rosamunda, Flaxen haired And sweet as a windflower In her home-spun dress Tinged with the juices of wìld berries? And did you not for desire of her Sweep down with your fearless warriors Like a crashing tidal wave, Engulfing the Gepidae settlements 0f her fore-fathers, Killing her beloved father and uncle And humiliating her grandfather The king? How triumphantly you carried her away Lashing your coal black steed ,Followed by your warriors Galloping up behind With their precious plundered trophies And decapitated heads, Riding through the thick forests0f the towerering snow-capped Alps Back to your kingdom at sunset. Alboin.Did you not see in the pining sky, Bleeding violets and roses, Mourning the fate of your sweet bride, A breathing premonition0f your own Dark death?

Andy Warhol

Fireflies by Tagore

I touch God in my song as the hill touches the far-away sea with its waterfall. The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough .Let my love, like sunlight, surround you and yet give you illumined freedom. Love remains a secret even when spoken, for only a lover truly knows that he is loved. Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree. In love I pay my endless debt to thee for what thou art.

Not My Best Side by U.A. Fanthorpe

Paulo Uccello: St George and the Dragon (oil on canvas) National Gallery Not my best side, I'm afraid. The artist didn't give me a chance to Pose properly, and as you can see, Poor chap, he had this obsession with Triangles, so he left off two of my Feet. I didn't comment at the time (What, after all, are two feet To a monster?) but afterwards I was sorry for the bad publicity. Why, I said to myself, should my conqueror Be so ostentatiously beardless, and ride A horse with a deformed neck and square hoofs? Why should my victim be so Unattractive as to be inedible, And why should she have me literally On a string? I don't mind dying Ritually, since I always rise again, But I should have liked a little more blood To show they were taking me seriously. II It's hard for a girl to be sure if She wants to be rescued. I mean,I quite Took to the dragon. It's nice to be Liked, if you know what I mean. He was So nicely physical, with his claws And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail, And the way he looked at me, He made me feel he was all ready to Eat me. And any girl enjoys that. So when this boy turned up, wearing machinery, On a really dangerous horse, to be honest I didn't much fancy him. I mean, What was he like underneath the hardware? He might have acne, blackheads or even Bad breath for all I could tell, but the dragon-- Well, you could see all his equipment At a glance. Still, what could I do? The dragon got himself beaten by the boy, And a girl's got to think of her future. III I have diplomas in DragonManagement and Virgin Reclamation. My horse is the latest model, with Automatic transmission and built-in Obsolescence. My spear is custom-built, And my prototype armour Still on the secret list. You can't Do better than me at the moment. I'm qualified and equipped to the Eyebrow. So why be difficult? Don't you want to be killed and/or rescued In the most contemporary way Don't You want to carry out the roles That sociology and myth have designed for you? Don't you realize that, by being choosy, You are endangering job prospects In the spear- and horse-building industries? What, in any case, does it matter what You want? You're in my way.

Yannis Ritsos

Our houses are built on other, straight lined houses, made of marble, and these on other houses. Their foundations are supported on the heads of upright armless statues. And so, no matter how much lower our huts roost in the fields under the olive trees, small, grimy with smoke, with only a water pitcher by the door, you imagine you are living high up, that all about you the air shines, or at times you imagine you are outside the houses, that you have no house at all, that you are walking naked, alone, under a sky startlingly azure or white, and a statue, now and then, leans his hand lightly on your shoulder. (‘Perspective’, from Testimonies, translated by Kimon Friar.) wbrant said... Hey, you have a great blog here! I'm definitely going to bookmark you!I have a macbeth by william shakespeare site/blog. It pretty much covers macbeth by william shakespeare related stuff.