Yay—it’s Friday, and it’s Friday in National Poetry
Month. And today I’m getting as silly as it’s possible to be without aid of chemical
substances.
There’s this collection of, uh, well, you know—rhymes—by a
fellow called Luis d’Antin van Rooten (and, no, I am not making that name up). The
book is Mots d’Heures: Gousses, Rames.
And no, I am not making that title up, either:
See, this is a, um, scholarly presentation and
deconstruction of these very interesting poems from, oh, way, way back. I mean—it has footnotes and
everything. Yeah, okay, I’ll show you.
Keep in mind that, as with all poetry, these verses are
meant to be read aloud to get the full appreciation. This may be difficult if
you don’t speak French. It might be a challenge even if you do. So I have
included the, erm, phonetic transliteration of the poems at the bottom of this
post, in invisible electrons. If you really, really need it, just highlight the space and the text will become
visible. As will the reason why this is a Friday set of poetry.
The poems don’t have titles; they are helpfully numbered,
like Shakespeare’s sonnets. Or the Psalms. Or items on a Chinese menu.
By the way, though this is a slim volume, I’ve been
extremely hard put to choose which gems to share, because they all cry out to
be known by the wider world. It’s a tough job to blog during National Poetry
Month, so I’ll just suck it up and get on with it.
2
Eau la quille ne colle
Oise à me rest haulte de soles
Aîné marié au sol, vas-y!1
École vorace paille
Pain école vorace boule
En école vorace fille de loterie. 2
Et vérifie d’allure, ah! des fidèles
En avarie faille ne fille te l’a dit
Et puis, tu lui dis, tu lui dis, tu lui dis, vingt-deux
filles de loure.3
Oh! d’hère, se nom soeur erre
Ascain compère
Huit qui ne collent et ne se fient de loterie.4
1. An eldest son, wedded to the family estates by
primogeniture, is here urged to seek adventure. The general area in which he
lives is clearly identified by the Oise River, a tributary of the Seine,
navigable for most of its length. A truly poetic image is created by the first
line and the promise of a sea teeming with Channel sole in the second line.
2.
Here he is warned of fish that will rise to any lure, but also of voracious
schools of lottery girls. Evidently, he is to seek adventure and a wife.
3.
He is told to study their bearing, so many having failed or come to grief, who
might have been faithful. He is particularly warned against twenty-two dancing
girls, perhaps some notorious corps de ballet of the period.
4. The country boy is told not to give his name to an
erring sister. The good example of his pal from Ascain (small Basque town in
the foothills of the Pyrenees, not far from St.-Jean-de-Luz) is set before him.
He didn’t get stuck because he didn’t trust to luck.
35
Lille1 beau pipe
Ocelot serre chypre
Endouzaine aux verres tuf indemne
Livre de melons un dé huile qu’aux mômes
Eau à guigne d’air telle baie indemne.2
1.
Lille is one of the great industrial cities of France and must be assumed to be
the residence of the subject of this little poem.
2. We are dealing with a chemist or alchemist, since this
can’t be anything but a recipe for an ointment or perfume of doubtful magical
qualities. The scent sac of an ocelot which produces a disturbingly penetrating
odor is squeezed with a quantity of chypre (which ditto) in a dozen containers
of flawless volcanic glass. To this is added a pound of melons, a thimbleful of
oil (1/2 oz.), a sweet cherry and the fragrance of unspoiled berries, any kind
will do. The verse, unfortunately, gives no clue as to its application. We
must, of course, suspect an aphrodisiac.
* * *
Transliteration—only reveal by highlighting the space below with your mouse after you’ve really tried (and I'm being nice by giving it to you; van Rooten doesn't let slip a dicky bird on this):
Transliteration—only reveal by highlighting the space below with your mouse after you’ve really tried (and I'm being nice by giving it to you; van Rooten doesn't let slip a dicky bird on this):
2
Old King Cole was
a merry old soul,
And a merry old
soul was he.
He called for his
pipe, and he called for his bowl,
And he called for
his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler, he
had a fiddle,
And a very fine
fiddle had he.
Oh there's none so
rare, as can compare
With King Cole and
his fiddlers three.
* * *
35
Little Bo-Peep
Has lost her sheep
And can’t tell
where to find them
Leave them alone,
and they’ll come home
Wagging their
tails behind them.
Il n'y à pas de quoi
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