At a time when women are still subject to much injustice and criminal behavior, even in the West, and that worldwide fanaticism are relegated to the role of servants whose lives matter and that should be eliminated to feed the machine grinding the brains and men, today the example of " Sakineh " Iran reminds us cruelly (see link for the petition at the end of article) , I am proposing today a reflection on two exceptional women writers who have held high the fragile standard of humanity ...
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Poetry is a matter of "heart" must have some nerve to be awake somehow! Many say they are in fact little or not at all interested in poetry, considered as a museum piece and stuffed dead, but they do not even realize that this same poetry took refuge in singing and in other media called "media" such as photography, so do Should we not wake up our brains, our curiosity and indulge in the slow waltz of words ...
Today I want to share with you a sweet poetry, poetry of the everyday kind that has fallen into any quarrel membership any group which owes everything to the extreme sensitivity of their champion, namely two single women, who have mastered the authentic rhythms, the words and inspiration with a science instinctive.
Marceline Desbordes Valmore (1786-1859) and Marie Christmas (1883-1967) are among the few French poets of our literature. As has been said and found poetry is unfortunately a "people business" for centuries ... This already means two things: both the limited space devoted to literary women in the past and still the little publicity and recognition around these women writers curiously little known to the general public, despite more room left for women in recent decades in the literary field.
The few women writers that we know of the XIXth century, up to half of the twentieth century owe their success now seems to me there than in air of scandal that could wrap their careers in their infancy, such as Georges Sand, Colette and Sagan, as the vice of the communication highlights sides "sour" or unusual at the expense of those whose lives are of less influence and greed.
But why this silence and forgetfulness about these poets? This is neither the talent they lack, or the originality of their works, often ahead of their time! Without doubt one could blame them during their lives too much discretion and humility about their publications and after death without a literary Pygmalion to help us realize the value of their creations and inspire us to discover them!
One of these women began his career in early 19 th century first as an actress in theater and one in the early 20 ° s and have had an immense gift for poetry, a kind of pure poetry and very easy to come away from the sterile quarrels style or movement where to rub delight of exuberant hacks while ranting and mindless scribblers fantastic creative.
Away from all these upheavals, the two women offered a beautiful reflection on life, opening their heart through a daily simple and touching, reaching an undeniable beauty in their versification In the inventive rhythms and employees in the deployment of all of their verses diversified structures, all in a manner as natural as spontaneous.
They leave a testimonial of inestimable quality and great depth. They are above all "authentic", and revealed that part so delicate and elusive to grasp is that, in painting the feelings and sensations experienced, the essence of a being and the glimpses of a lifetime.
Marceline Desbordes Valmore - The separated
Do not write. I'm sad, and I would extinguish me.
The beautiful summers without you is the night without a torch.
I closed my arms can not reach you,
And knock on my heart is beating to the grave.
Do not write!
Do not write. Do not learn to die to ourselves.
Do not ask God to ... but you, if I loved you!
Deep in your absence hear that you love me,
hear is heaven without ever mounted.
Do not write!
Do not write. I fear you, I'm afraid my memory
She kept calling me your voice often.
Do not show the white water that can not drink it.
A dear writing is a living portrait.
Do not write!
Do not write these sweet words I dare not read
It seems that your voice pours them upon my heart;
What I see them burning through your smile
It seems that a kiss imprinted on my heart.
Do not write!
Mary Christmas - Song
When he walked into my house closed
J'ourlais a heavy cloth at the window,
Winter in the fingers, the shadow on the back ...
know since when I was there not be?
"My heart, what were you doing?
He asked me the tools to us.
My feet ran, so lively in the room,
they appeared, if gays, if light, so soft, -
Two small birds caressing the slab
-my heart, what what you wanted?
He asked for butter, bread,
-opening it in my hand stroking the hutch-
cider again, and my hand was going
stroked bowls, table, pitcher.
Twice, ten, twenty times I ... touched
"My heart, what you were looking for?
I talked about everything from chickens, goats,
cold, hot, people, and my voice
Leaving me stroking my lips ...
And I talked, I talked, I talked ...
"My heart, what do you say?
That I left, I sat ...
The needle was singing, the needle flew,
My fingers caressed our brown canvas ...
-my heart, what were you doing?
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Notes:
On Marceline Desbordes Valmore: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marceline_Desbordes-Valmore
On Mary Christmas http://agora.qc.ca/mot.nsf/Dossiers/Marie_Noel
Petition to save Sakineh: http://laregledujeu.org/2010/08/ 16/2616/signez-la-petition-il-faut-empecher-la-lapidation-de-sakineh /
