Pilgrimage of poems: Ocelot serre chypre

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):

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