On the Anniversary of Jean Daurat's Demise

I am waiting in the wings, certain 

This time -- when 

The curtain opens -- November 

Will not be so niggardous a month --  

 

Songbirds will sing and 

I may hear the infectious patter 

Of washing syllables, so many 

Fetching maids afoot 

The sun readied cradle 

Preparing to torment my heart 

Yet again. For Heaven --

Cold and fastidious --

Is a lonely place for smiths: 

Carpenters, and fish 

Consume the mind -- and 

Nothing stokes the furnace.

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

Atmospheric and very visual to me. There are volumes unspoken between the line here in this multi layered poem.

[emmajoygreen]

Seems the ears and eyes were wide open and alert when this and its true predecessor laid the bones. Many a time empties its worth yet the just after and the almost there is worthy - so seems rebirth and your brief wander gives credit when and where credit is deserved. Long live Jean Daurat - whatever non interest or knowledge the few recognise or not. Grey is the month that offers little or no conception, is how it is: mix and mutter is searching as it always has, seasonally and conceptually. Perhaps.

[Lorry]

Yep, it is a lonely place for smiths, of the word variety at least.
They have always been November days those days, when the cold bites your bits and numbs not only those bits, but the mind too, into a dystopian explosion of ARGH!!! being the most common sound my mouth utters, with even whispers screaming and spreading their frostiness.
I'd much rather just enjoy the mess we've made of things, as I grab a pineapple from my mountain of calm and perhaps a mango too, as I mix another set of cocktails and drink myself into the sweet oblivion, where I can hand the baton to the next generation, before throwing up on their trainers and passing on to the great big whatever the hell I'd up next... Which I'm guessing will be another attempt at getting this life s**t right and not blowing anyone up just because what is under their feet is more valuable than what is under ours.
Maybe we should try to get caring trending, just for the look on the smug and pious: faces as we for once, have a Christmas to remember, with that story being the only news of the day.
Well, we can hope still, can't we? 😊

[Perdition]

What the hell was in the air of the Renaissance? Or the Lost Generation for that matter or...etc.
That slam of the word "niggardous" in the first stanza sells everything...a stingy month or night or blink of another blank page as another poet disappears all but to those who wish to go digging through the halls of the plìades ...what defines a night or moment no better described by that word and the landscape of the mind, come to the crossing of both death and sudden tilt of the axis and you'll find the door to November. What is the sun's cradle but night perhaps nothing but darkness comes to mind when I read these words. You are surrounded and yet not a flicker comes to engage the multiplicity of arguments made with a single stanza till you beat the beast down and into submission and realize it is not ego that writes but something else. When you can't write .." write about your inability to write" when nothing else will sway then that's the only thing I always believed. Not that you are in that place by the way but I hear this water tapping at two ayem into the mental sink of this poem. Wonderful as always. And welcome back! Don't envy at all your editing days ahead, a terrible process and quite enlightening at the same time. Might as well Sundance while you're at it..lol. Cheers ken

[Ken e Bujold]

God how I love, and missed your reviews. Always remind me of what it would be like if Ginsberg, or Keroauc, had love child with either Yeats or Blake, or perhaps all four sat round the table in poetic Vallaha and said ...hm, a little of this, yes a little of that ... and voila.
As for the poem: simple birth. And you are not far off in your 2am riff. The other day I was reading through a collection of French poetry, badly I may say, since it's a muscle I haven't exercised much in yrs. Anyhow came across a snippet of paper I had tucked inside, which was my translation of a Durat poem. No idea why I had originally translated it, so a rabbit search began. Most likely reason, he died 374 years and a day before I was born. The genesis for the opening verse and November image. From there a riff on rebirth. Last line is inspired by the closing line of his poem which was about Love being fouly abused by heaven's blacksmith.

[Perdition]

He takes a deep breath and then SLAM! Enters and reads the Pollock's return and spillage in lightning across his bow of "what a table that should have been"...now you must go and paint it in Jersey..lol. I've made a run of asking quite a few poets lately how they enter into their poems...I'm truly astonished at the frozen look and feeling I get from their eyes. I don't think I'd dare ask you unless there was a solid firepit and a good amount of "This is where we came to die-ism's" floating about..lol. Now remember in Valhalla they rise to fight again come morning over and over.."Apropos", sayeth the table as that is poetry in a nutshell. The pleasure is all mine ken! Will have to consider that last line again... Heaven's blacksmith..hmm..interesting...I wonder if I went strolling if I could find that poem..interesting..he went by quite a few names as well. You must feel a connection I render..I know I would.

[Ken e Bujold]

Feel free to ask me anything, anytime. Nothing I love more than discussions about the how and why of poetic mechanics. Am always sceptical, if not over the line dismissive, of the idea that poems magically appear out of the vapors. That is not to say I don't on occasion find one so effortless than I have to wonder who/what was whispering it into my ear. But, big but, as you well know, writing is an arduous task. I literally have shelves full of note books and hard drives of work that is nothing more than garbage. Over time, if the themes and lines recur often enough, they find their way to the light.
I am a technician of the art form. Have my flights of fancy and poetic gems, but its how it is sculpted that matters

[Perdition]

Millions of stables have I nightly filled with garbage...I think we have to regurgitate these things from our mind until the "click" happens...I agree some are sculptors but I would have added Jean Luc Godard to that round table for the color along with Jackson for the spillage. Thank you for what I know must be only the surface of how you enter your poem...or how it enters you. The files are full indeed and the topics sometimes help but I tend to enter the same only when the cloud of existence is lifted and I know I must catch that horse as quickly as possible and let it ride me keeping the reigns to the title or sometimes letting loose when necessary...then the words I sometimes reverse and, I guess we all have our modalities, but I will ask from time to time if you don't mind and thanks for the offering kind sir...There is a magic to poetry but then there is an absolute madness in structuring...This is where the shelves become full along with the discs and voice memos, though they call out nightly for redeeming. Perhaps a round table of sorts somewhere here in time..but in the meantime and for now, let us write for writing's sake alone and as if there are no tomorrows~ A trillion snaps for your response. Wonderfully shared.

[Betty Hermelee]

This day, upon the death of Jean Daurat's (old poet?) this may be different than the usual hum drum days in November (looked up niggardous.....no such word) yet I like it.....it's different and powerful ..... otherwise the balance of the poem is hope for a brighter day, without excessive cold to worship the sun, heaven... yet the Smiths are a pretty ordinary family..."nothing to stoke the furnace"... tells a lot...
Warmly, B

[Ken e Bujold]

NIggardous: old english, I assure you exists. Grant you, its not been in use since the late 1400s. meaning miserly, what we would now call niggardly. Since Daurat was a French poet, of significance, in the 1500s, thought it appropriate. Genesis of the poem: my odd mind. Durant died the day before I was born 374 yrs later. You won't find his work unfortunately, least not through traditional means of google. I myself have but one small snippet, which having translated from the french gave me the theme of the closing verse and line. Glad you enjoyed Betty.

Ken

[Betty Hermelee]

I did Ken..and thanks for the explanation!!!
Warmly, B

[W. Barrett Munn]

This little ditty is a beauty and would do well nailed to the door of an Irish tavern.

Winston

[Ken e Bujold]

Ha Ha. Now that I think about it, it might. Dauart was a major poet and influence on French poetry at one point. Now he is all but lost, make that is lost. If you try to google him you will find his Wiki, but no signs of his poetry. I only have one small excert, I translated from the french, which was enough to hang this on. That and the fact he died the day before I was born, 372 yrs prior. :)