Long summer days

There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again. ~Elizabeth Lawrence

School children will soon breaking up for their summer holidays, those weeks that seem to last forever and yet vanish in a blink of an eye. My French class will break up too, so I will have to try and study through my folder of notes. The last few months I have developed an interest in French poetry, this is a shock to me.

Here is a poem, that sums up for me some of those teenage feelings. by Louise Labe

I live, I die, I burn, I drown
I am extemly hot and endure cold
Life is too easy and too hard
I have big troubles entangled with joy

All of a sudden I laugh and I cry
And in my pleasure I endure many a tormenting grief
My happiness goes and yet it never lasts
All at once I dry up and grow green

Thus I suffer love's inconstancies
And when I think the pain is most intense
Without thinking, it is gone again.

Then when I feel my joys certain
And my hour of greatest delight arrived
I find my pain beginning all over once again.
~~~

Click on the link to read more about Louise Labé

Clink on the link to read the poem in English, modern and old French; About.com helps me with a great deal of my French homework. There are of course a few different translations of this poem but the feeling is the same in all of them.

Today is the longest day of the year, so here are a few pictures with a pagan feel to them.

The Green Man

Flowers at the Cordon des Druides

Sunshine on The Ancient Stones


The Sleeping Stone

The French word for blink is cligner
The French word for vanish is disparu

Jacques Prévert

Those who do not know how to weep with their whole heart don't know how to laugh either. ~Golda Meir

One of my latest books from the library is Textes et poemes by Jacques Prévert, perhaps not your cup of tea, since he doesnt care much about the rhyming. However the words below are so simple and yet so powerful.

Breakfast

He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the coffee with milk
With a small spoon
He stirred
He drank the coffee
And he put down the cup
Without speaking to me
He lit
A cigarette
He made circles
With the smoke
He shook off the ash
Into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put
A hat on his head
He put on
A raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
In the rain
Without a word
Without looking at me
And I buried
My face in my hands
And I cried.

Here is a link to the words in French (warning it is set to music), although you can turn the music off.

Link about Jacques in wikipedia.

It is raining here so here is one of my puddle pictures.

Entwined

The French word for cry is pleurer.

The French word for tears is larmes.

Etymology for the word ignore

Look like a child

There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child. There are seven million. ~Walt Streightiff

On Thursday my French class resumed after the Easter hols and we were given more poems. Prof would like us to write what we think about a poem called A man and an ant! written by Alain Bosquet. Well we read the poem and even when we understood all the words and phrases there are chunks of it that make no sense at all! So I searched for another which I like instead, not keen on ants this week!

A different Poem by Alain Bosquet

A child said to me:
This stone is a sleeping frog.

Another child said to me:
The sky, it is very fragile silk.

A third child said to me:
The ocean when it is afraid, it shouts.

I do not say anything, like a mouse.

The dream of a child it is a law.

And then I know that stone,
Really is a frog, but instead of sleeping
it looks at me.

About the poet Alain Bosquet

Sometimes it is good to see the world like a child. In January I saw what was left of this tree and thought I saw an elephant.

Elephant in Bretagne.

The French word for eyes is yeux

The French Slang word for eyes is mirettes....I like that word.

Left handed?

I willingly confess to so great a partiality for trees as tempts me to respect a man in exact proportion to his respect for them. ~James Russell Lowell

I have attempted to translate a poem, you cannot translate French word by word because it may not work out. I must see what my French teacher makes of my attempt. I hope she doesnt think it is too clumsy.

I must get on with my French homework and do some grammar!

Poem by Maurice Fombeure.
I am of wood, my hands and my face,

Of wood I am, yes, of hard heart of oak,

Worked by a clumsy sculptor,

But the forests quiver in my heart.

Torn apart by ceaseless storms,

Indifferent to the hot breath of the animals,

Blind and deaf to the sources in the moss,

Already ready for its dark drop,

Already ready for its eternity.

Fombeure, Maurice (1906-81). French poet. his poetry had a natural simplicity his ability to inject everyday living with humour and poetry.

Here is a picture that I took on 24th December, when the sun is so low in the sky it hides behind the trees.

Left all Alone.

Today's post is my way of plugging two other bloggers who both work the wood with talent, I wonder if they are left handed?

Art Propelled where Robyn makes totems and other wonderful pieces.

Woodwose Carving where Dave carves small pieces of wood often with a lot of humour.

The French word for clumsy is maladroit.

The French word for straight is droit.

Etymology for dexterity.

A birds tear

Imaginary gardens with real toads in them. ~Marianne Moore's definition of poetry, "Poetry," Collected Poems, 1951

My French class is sadly on another two week break, until after the Easter holidays, so more time for gardening if the weather stays fine. We read another short poem out loud of course.

Myosotis
J'aime les e'tangs, et j'habite
Partout où l'eau se creuse un lit.
Ma fleur, d'un bleu pâle, s'agite
Au moindre vent, au moindre bruit,
Ma coupe d'or est si petite
Qu'une larme d'oiseau l'emplit.

Alphonse de Lamartine

Forget-me-not
I like the pools, and I live
Everywhere where there is water,I dig a bed.
My flower, a pale blue, trembles,
With the least wind, the least noise,
My gold cup is so small
A tear of a bird fills it up.

To read more about Alphonse click on the link here.

Yesterday afternoon in the garden weeds were dispatched, sadly I cant tell my weeds from my flowers. The forget-me-not grows wild and often where it isn't wanted.

Here is a picture that I took last year, the flowers grow wild near the stream in the village, I thought that they would look good on a cake. They were so tiny they were very difficult to photograph.

Cake Decorations

Are you caught up in the gardening frenzy?

PS. We have toads in the garden here.

The French word for wild is sauvage...fleur sauvage

The French word for sadly is malheureusement

Cheap and Cheerful

I am back at my French class and I am enjoying the poems, poetry can be hard to understand at the best of times but at least it gets you thinking. I have attempted to translate a French poem, I hope it makes some sense!

The Secret

On the country lane close to the wood,
I found a treasure,
A nut shell,
A golden grasshopper,
A rainbow had died.

Noone said anything,
In my hand encased
I keep it closed,
Closed like a strangler,
From Monday to Saturday.

On Sunday I reopened it,
But there was nothing there anymore,
And I talked with a dog,
Laying in his green kennel,
That I had sorrow,

He said without barking,
This night you are going to dream,
Of the night that was so black,
I believed in the story,
And all was lost.

But in an instance I saw well,
A ship in the sky,
Trailed by a grasshopper
On the waves of a rainbow.

Le Secret

Sur le chemin près du bois
Jai trouvé un trésor
Une coquille de noix
Une sauterelle en or
Un arc-en-ciel qu'était mort

À personne je n'ai rien dit
Dans ma main je les ai pris
Et je l'ai tenue fermée
Fermée jusqu'à l'ètrangler
Du lundi au samedi

Le dimanche l'ai rouverte
Mais il n'y avait plus rien!
Et j'ai raconté au chien
Couché dans sa niche verte
Comme j'avais du chagrin

Il m'dit sans aboyer,
Cette nuit, tu vas rêver.
La nuit, il faisait si noir,
Que j'ai cru à une histoire
Et que tout était perdu.

Mais d'un seul coup j'ai bien vu,
Un navire dans le ciel
Traîné par une sauterelle
Sur des vagues d'arc-en-ciel!

So are there golden grasshoppers at the end of the rainbows in France, no I dont think so, but then who ever found a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow in England? I dont have a pot of gold but here are some golden sunflowers, at the wheelbarrow race last year. Hope your pots are not empty, if they are find something nice to put in them. Maybe some Daffodils, cheap and cheerful.

Golden Brouette

The French word for golden colour is doré.

The French word for empty is vide.

Mouse problems

A small creature, who appears to be rather cute but can cause trouble especially in the wintertime. Yes a lot of people in these old stone houses set in rural Brittany, Bretagne, suffer from this unwanted guest. The house mouse. Personally I think they may look cute but just prefer them to stay away.

At my French class on Thursday morning we were given a poem to memorise it is a French children's poem about Mice. Three of them in different colours. THRICE mice.

La Souris
C'est la petite souris grise,
Dans sa cachette elle est assise,
Quand elle n'est pas dans son trou,
C'est qu'elle galope partout.


So she is a little grey mouse, and she sits in her hideout, when she is not down her hole she is galloping everywhere!

C'est la petite souris blanche
Qui ronge le pain sur le planche,
Aussitôt qu'elle entend du bruit,
Dans sa maison elle s'enfuit.

So she is a little white mouse, and she gnaws the bread on a plank, as soon as she hears a noise she flees into the house.

C'est la petite souris brune
Qui se promène au clair de lune,
Si le chat miaule en dormant,
Elle se sauve prestement.

So she is a little brown mouse, and she walks in the moon light, when the cat meows it its sleep, she nimbly runs away.

Well that's what I think it means!

While we are on the small theme here is a lovely little French home with a lovely little door.

Cachette the hiding place.

Ronge the mouse gnawed the bread

Miaule the cat meowed in its sleep

Papillion Nuit

I still have to memorise this poem about the River Seine. I have been distracted and havent done any homework yet today.

A line from the darned poem.

Avec sa belle robe verte.......With her beautiful green dress.

(referring to the banks not the water I hope)

Here is a tree in a beautiful green robe or dress, but wait what have I done, a tree arbre is masculine so is this tree in drag,??........Oh no.

Et ses lumierères dorées.......which I think means And its gilded lights.

I think I may have been a moth in a previous life, because I am attracted to it.

Robe

Paper Boats

I have started a new French class, and I have to memorise this poem.

Tombe la pluie
Arrose les jardins
Et la rue et les chiens

Tombe la pluie
Et fais sonner tes gouttes
sur les toits et les routes
Tombe la pluie le long des caniveaux
Et change les papiers en tout petits bateax
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I think that the last two lines mean.
The rain falls along the gutters And changes all the papers into small boats

When it rains like mad around here the force of the water can be witnessed at the castle in Fougeres.