yesterday
say this is only a dream and afterwards morning
say i will emerge from this shadowy darkness
obstinately I grab the day in my teeth
taking steps back growling
but life pulls it away tearing it to shreds
blindfolded in my dream
i summon up names of streets
places that witnessed my life and youth
port au prince streets i owned as a young girl
and in my sleep
my lost steps join street corners I crisscrossed
in childhood days
men ki kote la ri fè kwen
grande rue
rue des fronts forts
rue bonne foi
rue pavée
ruelle marcelin
where have you all gone streets I loved?
i miss you down to the sole of my shoes
how many places this temblor stole from me
the champs de mars had dovecotes once
and now they’re gone
and the palace? my palace collapsed
tell me what careless hands dropped this old confection
it lays now
ruined
crumbled like a white layered cake
rue des miracles
dear to my heart
miracles happen in this country
don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,
the first major recorded one was in 1804
and a january too
and a few days ago
15 days after the earth trembled
a 15 year old girl’s live breath trembled too
a small miracle
one out of two hundred thousand
miracles happen
haitians would have died of willful neglect
hunger and grievous pain but here they are
rue des miracles street of miracles
i’ll say a hail mary and hail all the saints to you
rue bonne foi
street of good faith where we have been tried and found righteous
rue des fronts-forts
se lè gen dife ou konn konbyen kokobe ki gen nan ri dè fwonfò
this entire city of wounded
how will they all fit in rue des fronts forts?
ruelle chrétien
konbyen kretyen vivan ki rete pou entere tout mò sa yo?
and the living remain only to bury the dead
in my sleep i roam in a city i have lost
and two hundred thousand ghosts
i have yet to grieve for
ki mouri san libera
sans je-ne sais-quoi
kou avadra
died without a flower
a song or a prayer
but a white cross placed by daniel rouzier
black ribbons floating in the wind
so we do not forget
two hundred thousand ghosts follow my footsteps
the earth opened magaly said
and swallowed the house and the people
as if it were hungry
i did not
i did not master the art of losing elizabeth bishop
the world is empty of what I prized and what was mine
and like a dog i try obstinately to keep yesterday in my teeth
taking steps back and growling
as life pulls it away tearing it to shreds
michèle voltaire marcelin
(painting: sénèque obin)
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love declaration
Photo: Paul Cava
In the gardens of my youth, trees were green and love was easy. Easy for me to feel, that is. That was before I realized others believed it was a war where all blows were allowed. Before it became apparent that unskilled as I was in such battles, love might become painful. In the beginning, there were all these first loves. I will not name the innocent and unsuspecting boys who played musical chairs in my open heart during my adolescence: the one whose name I carved in the family soap – such sweet lather – until my brothers complained and threatened to inform the proper authorities. What a metaphor. To have equated love to a purifying element was rather poetic for a 10 year old. Years later, I am not jaded. I still believe love can make me clean, can renew me. There was also the boy to whom I wrote long missives filled with convoluted phrases where I argued the sex of angels since I could not pretend to discuss actual sex. Letters I read and reread, folded and unfolded so often before I hand delivered them, the fading ink blurred the shape of the words. Another metaphor. Love as a code, incomprehensible save to the one who initiated the communication. That is somehow still true. We feel our hearts and feelings are clearwater, yet how mysterious they seem to others. There was the boy who initiated me to Mozart. Symphony No. 40, all light and grace yet so intensely emotional; it became my favorite. Love as music. Do not argue; love is music. There was the requisite bad boy. The sullen and foul-mouthed one who leaned bare-chested against walls and to whom I would bring the offering of peppery fragrant carnations – having no doubt the flowers would promptly be offered in turn to a girl his age – but no matter. It was at 13, a grand gesture against the established romantic protocol of that small town I lived in, where declarations of love were as rigidly codified as personal conduct and party menus. One did not deviate from that line. The boy made the first move always. Depending on his degree of boldness, he would approach the girl to hand over a note or say the fated words: I love you. There were only two possible answers. A yes or a no. No more, no less. Boldness again would dictate whether one would respond in person or by letter. Whereas I chose the boy and gave flowers. Rumors were rife and no doubt puritans would have had me sew a “S” to my chest. I lived that down and equated love with giving unselfishly.
“Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth, “You owe me.”
Look what happens with a Love like that!
—It lights the whole Sky.”
Hafiz
Ah, love. Easy, difficult. Always foremost in my mind. Then, now, forever. Is there a subject of more importance in our lives?
“Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love” says Rosalind in Shakespeare’s “As you like it” , yet according to Helen Fisher, an anthropologist at Rutgers University: “People live for love, die for love, kill for love. It can be stronger than the drive to stay alive” and Edna St. Vincent Millay expands in a sonnet:
“Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone….”
I am an incurable romantic. An illness caused by poetry and reading too many novels (that used to be the diagnosis in the 17th century). Across half a lifetime, that young girl still lives in me; I have never disowned her. Like her, I would carve your name in a bar of soap, unabashedly walk across a room with an armful of flowers for you, the molto allegro of violins rising in the background, an unreadable letter in hand, to declare like Frida Kahlo:
‘I love you more than my own skin.’
I know there is only one answer. No more, no less.
Michele Voltaire Marcelin
of wine and roses
I love reading wine reviews. While some wine critics write well – and I enjoy reading inspiring and lyrical prose- the affectations of others and their utter nonsense make me hoot with laughter. So I’m happy either way. Witness the story (told by wine critic Jonathan Meades) of an American nouveau-wine connaisseur who was visiting the home of a great viticulturalist. She tasted the wine offered, gargled, lip-smacked, parked her nose in a glass of her host’s finest recent vintage. Coming up for breath she gasped: “Raspberries . . . myrtles . . . heather . . . honeysuckle . . . I’m getting melons, with marram grass!” She turned eagerly to the gentleman. He replied with the most charmingly imperious disdain: “Personally, I prefer my wine to taste of grapes.”
James Thurber’s famous cartoon also made fun of this high-flown wine language:
“It’s a naive domestic Burgundy without any breeding, but I think you’ll be amused by its presumption.”
And in Evelyn Waugh’s novel “Brideshead Revisited”, two young men mock social pretense when they describe the wine they’re tasting:
“It is a little, shy wine, like a gazelle.”
“Like a leprechaun.”
“Dappled, in a tapestry meadow.”
“Like a flute by still water.”
“And this is a wise old wine.”
“A prophet in a cave.”
“And this is a necklace of pearls on a white neck.”
“Like a swan.”
“Like a unicorn.”
I thought the topper had to be American satirist Ralph Steadman’s description of an Algerian wine:
“Very soft and very round, like sheep’s eyes with square pupils. The hint of promise got steeper and sparser yet, and it began to taste like dull pewter covered in dust and cobwebs stuck to the roof of my mouth.”
But that was before I read this:
Wine X magazine aims to “provide a new voice for a new generation of wine consumers.” Describing one California cabernet, it asks us to “imagine Naomi Campbell in latex.” An Australian shiraz is a “Chippendales dancer in leather chaps—tight, full-bodied and ready for action.” A New Zealand cabernet merlot is like “a Victoria’s Secret fire sale: smoky charred wood, leather, spicy and very seductive.”
You see what I mean? Endless hours of enjoyment await you while you sip that particular vintage that tastes of…? Wait…I have it on the tip of my tongue…but perhaps I should let a critic have the last word? The one who described drinking Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc to “hearing Glen Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations”.
But wines really do have very complex aromas and flavors because there are thousands of different kinds of molecules in wine, and many of those molecules are found in flowers, herbs, fruits, spices and minerals. Although it may seem like a daunting task, most of us can recognize a far wider range of aromas and flavours than we think ourselves capable of. It just takes a little discipline, some concentration, and lots of practice. So put on some music, open a bottle and pour yourself a glass while you enjoy matching these descriptions to your wine:
Austere – Austere means “severe or strict in manner, attitude or appearance”. For a wine this is used to describe a wine which is quite wound up and tight or not showing lush, ripe fruit. This is not necessarily a bad thing as many young wines that are meant to age will be quite austere in their youth, showing abundant acid and/or tannin structure, but will open up nicely with age. This is approximately the opposite of “fruit forward”, fruity, lush and/or opulent.
Bouquet – The perfume of a wine. A wine’s bouquet is generally only described as such if the aromas are particularly complex, with many aromas in harmony, and/or floral. The aroma of a wine which is simple or not particularly pretty would not typically called its bouquet or perfume.
Cassis – One of the most common wine descriptions in tasting notes, cassis is a syrupy liqueur made with black currants. Often used to describe wines with a sweet aroma of ripe currants, such as Cabernet Sauvignon and other rich, dark grapes. Not to be confused with Cassis, the village in Provence on the French Mediterranean coast which produces a crisp, dry white wine.
Complex – A complex wine is one which has a plethora of aromas and flavors, generally harmonizing in a way that makes for a beautiful sensory experience. The best wines in the world are very complex when mature with many different facets of flavor and aromas. The opposite wine descriptions would be “simple” or one dimensional.
Concentrated – A concentrated wine is one which is richly flavored with a high concentration of flavor. This is the opposite of “thin”, “watery”, or “bland”.
Corpulent – Corpulent literally means fat. While this is generally not used as a compliment when referring to a person, it is usually a compliment to a wine which is big and rich and has a round, full feel in the mouth. Usually used to describe very full-bodied wines.
Creosote – Creosote is a dark brown oil distilled from coal tar. It is also used to describe the build up of crusted, oily black material that forms in chimneys. It is used to describe a wine which has a tarry, smokey aroma resembling these things, usually rich red wines. This aroma can come from oak barrels used to age the wine if the oak was heavily charred prior to use.
Density – The density of a wine is how concentrated its flavors are. So a wine with a lot of density can also be said to be concentrated.
Depth – While depth can be used to refer to the density, size and concentration of a wine, it is more appropriately used to describe a sense of many layers of flavors and “stuffing” in the wine. The opposite of a thin or superficial wine, it is a wine which has layers of flavors to explore and a sense that it has a lot “hidden under its hood”.
Elegant – One of the hallmarks of a great wine is its mouthfeel, or its texture in your mouth. Great wines generally have a well put together feel that has no hard edges. Elegant is one of the wine descriptions often used to describe a wine with a great mouthfeel, a wine that is pretty, complete and has no hard edges.
Ethereal – The definition of ethereal is “extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world”. This description is used to describe wines that glide over the palate with a silky, soft texture that almost feels like it is not a liquid, more like a spirit of a wine gliding over your palate. This is usually used to describe wines that have that unique and hard to find characteristic of being both intense in flavor and complex, yet at the same time paradoxically light on its feet.
Forward – A wine which is easy to understand and appreciate. As opposed to an austere or tight wine, this is a wine whose flavors are right out front for you to appreciate. Not hesitant or shy. In your face.
Grip – Great wines have grip on the palate, a sense of texture and traction that grabs your palate and gives the other flavors in the wine balance. This usually results from the wine’s structure of acid and/or tannin. Without grip, a wine will feel flabby, simple or juicy.
Jammy – Like jam, a wine with big, very ripe fruit. Usually reserved for wines with an almost sweet, sticky texture of ripe fruit flavors. Sometimes used to describe a wine which does not have adequate structure to stand up to that sweet, ripe fruit.
Laser-like – This is one of the wine descriptions used to describe a wine with a vibrant, shimmering, “linear” feel to it. As opposed to an opulent or jammy wine, a laser-like wine has bright acidity and focused flavors that cut a sharp swath across your palate. Very commonly used to describe wines with pristine, intense acidic structure such as Savenniè:res, German, Austrian and Alsatian Rieslings, among others.
Layered – This is one of the subjective wine descriptions of a wine which feels like it has layers of flavor, as opposed to a simple wine which is one dimensional. A complex with with “layers” of flavor, density and extract that coat your palate.
Lush – Similar to opulent, a luxuriant wine that coats the palate with forward, pretty flavors. Not austere or closed up.
Intense – This is one of the wine descriptions used to describe a wine with flavors that stand up and make themselves known. Bold and bright flavors that hit your palate with a strong impact. This does not necessarily mean a full-bodied wine, an intense wine, whether big or lighter, is bright and powerful in the way it hits your palate.
Minerally – Minerality is the characteristic of having mineral-like flavors in the wine. Wine, after all, is grown in vines that sit in earth and can absorb things in that vineyard, such as components of rocks and minerals, which can influence the flavors of the wine. Many people would argue that for many types of wine, minerals in the aromas and or flavors is a necessity for greatness. These minerally aromas and flavors can present in many different ways, from chalk, to pencil lead, to stones, to granite, to slate, to gunflint, to petrol, to oyster shell, to salt, to gravel. All of these are somewhat related and often described as mineral flavors.
Mocha – Mocha is coffee flavored with chocolate. Many rich red wines, particularly those with a significant amount of oak aging, can get these wine descriptions. These flavors can be partially from the grapes themselves and partially from the oak aging. Very common in Bordeaux wines, particularly those from the Right Bank with a significant proportion of Merlot.
Monolithic – A big wine, but lacking flavor complexity. Usually a big, slightly clumsy, inelegant wine which is full-bodied, with big flavor, but not much complexity.
Opulent – “Ostentatiously rich and luxuriant or lavish”, opulent is often used similarly to lush and unctuous. It is used to describe very rich, lush, fat and round wines that coat the palate with layers of flavor.
Pain grille – Literally “grilled bread” or “toast”, this aroma can be found in many wines. It is one of the wine descriptions used to describe a wine with a smokey, toasted bread aroma or flavor. Again, this can sometimes come from the wine itself or can be imparted to the wine by the oak aging as the insides of oak barrels are variably toasted prior to use.
Quince – Quince is a fruit, related to apples and pears, that is often used to make jam, jelly and pudding.
Refined – Refined wine is pure, elegant and without blemish. A regal wine which does not have rough edges or imperfections.
Reglisse – The French term for licorice root (black licorice), the aroma and flavors of which can often be found in red wines.
Rich – Concentrated and dense with flavor, as opposed to thin, watery or bland.
Silky – A wine description of the wine’s texture, being fine and like silk. The opposite of rough or rustic.
Smoke – All sorts of smoke-like aromas can be found in wines. Some of this can be caused by the oak aging the wine receives but some wines have it on its own. For example, some wines made of Syrah are described as having a smokey bacon aroma.
Stone – Smelling or tasting stones in a wine is not uncommon. This is one of the common wine descriptions for a wine with stone-like mineral flavors. Some tasters will go as far as to describe the type of stone, such as granite, slate, chalk, or flint.
Torrefaction – Torrefaction is the process of roasting as is used in roasting coffee beans. The process produces typical aromas that we associate with roasted coffee and chocolate-like aromas. Wines with significant roasted qualities are sometimes described as exhibiting torrefaction.
Unctuous – “Having a greasy or soapy feel” literally, this is used to describe wines that have a very rich, creamy texture in the mouth that coats the palate.
Vanillin – Vanillin is the name for a fragrant compound that is the principle component of vanilla. So why don’t we just say a wine smells of vanilla? Well, you can, but people tend to say vanillin to indicate that the aroma or flavor came from another source. French oak barrels are a common source of a bit of a vanillin aroma and flavor.
Velvety – Like silky, these are wine descriptions for the texture or mouthfeel of a wine. Although they are often used interchangeably, some would argue that a velvety wine is a bit more coarse than a silky wine, silky being the epitome of the most elegant, fine and refined wines.
The Finish – is the final impression that remains in your mouth after you have swallowed the wine (ex. lingering). A distinct, smooth, rich lingering finish is ideal. A wine with tastes and flavors that end abruptly with no after taste is considered lacking.
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bottled poetry
judi bagnato
“Wine is bottled poetry.”
Robert Louis Stevenson
Wine and poetry have always made great companions. In regards to poetry, I have willingly followed Baudelaire’s invocation: “Enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse…Get drunk, get drunk all the time! On wine, on poetry or on virtue – just as you please…” and I’m very fond of the Omar Khayyam classic verse : “A flask of wine, a book of verse – and thou” which describes a perfect state of happiness: a lover, some wine, and poetry -whether the state of giddiness comes from love or the wine, who knows?- Drinking for taste and not intoxication, (although one summer in Aix, this was not a mutually exclusive affair with certain Chateau Grand Seuil bottles), I am not an indifferent wine drinker. In fact, I fondly remember my first glass of Cloudy Bay. The experience was as memorable as described by a wine critic: “Drinking one’s first New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc is like having sex for the first time… ” and like an infatuated teenager, I wanted to share this event with the world. I have a memory of writing to friends to describe fruits suddenly blooming in my mouth and sunlight trapped in a bottle. This was no extravagant hyperbole. It was, trust me on that one, a grand experience. Lately I have indulged more in deep garnet Argentinian malbecs and neglected the lovely whites from the Marlborough region but I returned last night to my first love, and let me assure you the magic was intact: the wine still exploded in my mouth with raw, unadorned beauty.
“Wine comes in at the mouth – sings the poet Yeats,
and love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.”
As I read in the Song of Solomon: “Let me kiss thee with the kisses of my mouth, for thy love is better than wine …” , I rejoice that we don’t have to choose between love, poetry and wine… and we can enjoy all three- simultaneously!
Michele Voltaire Marcelin
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perfume
Smells can invoke memories, sexually arouse you, or even drive you mad…
There are perfumes as fresh as children’s flesh,
as sweet as oboes, as green as prairies,
and others corrupted, rich and triumphant
that sing the ecstasies of the mind and senses… writes French poet Baudelaire in Corrrespondances, while the great French perfumer Jacques Guerlain once said that perfumes should smell of “the underside of my mistress.” (a euphemism for “les dessous de ma maîtresse”-my mistress’s undies-) Smell is the most provocative, sensual and misunderstood of the senses:
In France, armpits were once known as “spice boxes.” A Victorian courtesan made a fortune by selling handkerchiefs kept between her bed sheets. Some Austrian girls still wear slices of apples under their arms to create fragrant gifts for their suitors. “I’ll be arriving in Paris tomorrow evening,” Napoleon wrote to Josephine. “Don’t wash.” As for me, the fragrance of vetiver invariably makes me fall weak at the knees and swoon … Its peculiar earthy scent captured my heart and my senses since childhood – I grew up near a field of vetiver, you see, playing often near and around the great bundles of roots, returning home with clothes redolent of warm wood. To this day, I am passionately attracted to the scent. Had I been the apprentice Grenouille in Patrick Suskind’s wonderful novel “Perfume”, I would have chosen to recreate a vetiver fragrance.
Set in Paris in the latter part of the 18th century, “Perfume” is the story of a boy born with no personal body odor and one sublime gift — an absolute sense of smell. As he begins to decipher odors and fragrances, he becomes obsessed with procuring the perfect scent that will make him fully human. So many try to mask their personal human scent with commercial fragrances in opposition to Grenouille’s quest, yet an interesting study from the University of California in Berkeley found the natural smell emanating from her lover’s armpits can make a woman swoon (with ecstatic pleasure that is). The male sweat pheromone raises the levels of the female hormone cortisol, causing the woman to feel aroused. The Cognitive Neuroimaging Lab. at Monell Chemical Senses Center further determined that a woman who is in love tends to fixate on the smell of her lover, and loses the ability to distinguish the scents of other males. Psychology professor Rachel Herz from Brown University in Rhode Island who spent 17 years studying the human sense of smell, found it was the most emotionally evocative sense and the one most closely tied to mental health and happiness. A survey she conducted in 2002 of 99 men and 99 women found that women ranked how a man smells as more important than anything else in terms of their sexual attraction to him, outranking all social features except for pleasantness. I surmise then there’s only one ultimate seduction tool: smell -whether au naturel or with an added fragrance; preferably …vetiver!
Michele Voltaire Marcelin
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violence
louise_woodard_violent_passages
“All a poet can do today is warn” remarks the poet Wilfred Owen. Warnings come in varied ways. In “The People of the Other Village”, a beautiful, brutal poem written by American poet Thomas Lux in opposition to the Gulf War, these warnings come in the form of dark irony and cutting wit when he compares its escalating violence to that of tribal conflicts:
The People of the Other Village
hate the people of this village
and would nail our hats
to our heads for refusing in their presence to remove them
or staple our hands to our foreheads
for refusing to salute them
if we did not hurt them first: mail them packages of rats,
mix their flour at night with broken glass.
We do this, they do that.
They peel the larynx from one of our brothers’ throats.
We devein one of their sisters.
The quicksand pits they built were good.
Our amputation teams were better.
We trained some birds to steal their wheat.
They sent to us exploding ambassadors of peace.
They do this, we do that.
We canceled our sheep imports.
They no longer bought our blankets.
We mocked their greatest poet
and when that had no effect
we parodied the way they dance
which did cause pain, so they, in turn, said our God
was leprous,hairless.
We do this, they do that.
Ten thousand (10,000) years, ten thousand
(10,000) brutal, beautiful years.
la joie après la peine…
Le Pont Mirabeau
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l’onde si lasse
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
L’amour s’en va comme cette eau courante
L’amour s’en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l’Espérance est violente
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Apollinaire (Alcools)
La Seine chantera toujours Apollinaire et je chanterai toujours Le Pont Mirabeau….
“Le Pont Mirabeau” est l’un de mes textes favoris d’Apollinaire. Ce poème à la mélodie intemporelle est extrait du recueil Alcools paru en 1913. L’auteur y fait allusion à sa rupture avec le peintre Marie Laurencin et au-delà, évoque la fuite du temps et de l’amour semblable à l’eau qui s’en va. Apollinaire a immortalisé ce joli pont et l’a rendu mon préféré d’entre les ponts de Paris.
Le Pont Mirabeau a été mis en musique par Léo Ferré, par Serge Regianni, et plus récemment par Marc Lavoine. Mais écoutez plutôt:
http://fr.youtube.com/watch?v=zg7eMk88BC4&feature=related
http://fr.youtube.com/watch?v=xUS-eIw7_Eg
http://fr.youtube.com/watch?v=xUS-eIw7_Eg
Né en 1880, ce poète de l’air du temps, de l’amour, de la diversité, du parfum, des fleurs, des villes, est mort à 38 ans en nous laissant une oeuvre déterminante.
Maurice Vlaminck, Portrait de Guillaume Apollinaire (1903)
Guillaume Apollinaire (Wilhelm de Kostrowitzky) est né en août 1880 à Rome. Il est le fils d’un officier italien et d’une Française. Cette dernière s’installe à Paris en 1889. Apollinaire travaille pour subvenir aux besoins de la famille et en 1902, il est précepteur en Allemagne. Parallèlement, il publie ses premiers textes. Lorsqu’il rentre à Paris, Apollinaire se lie aux milieux artistiques : ce sera un ami très proche de Picasso. Il aura une liaison avec Marie Laurencin (peintre ), avec laquelle il vivra jusqu’en 1912. En 1913, il connaît le succès avec la publication d’Alcools. Il est mobilisé en 1914, blessé en 1916, et trépané. Il est mort tragiquement de la grippe espagnole en 1918 alors qu’il venait juste de se marier.
Apollinaire et son ami Rouveyre
Mama Africa
Miriam Makeba died Sunday night of a heart attack after a concert in Italy. She was 76.
It seems that she collapsed after singing her signature song Pata Pata. An enormous talent with a beautiful voice and a smile to match, she will not soon be forgotten.
“I look at an ant and I see myself: a native South African, endowed by nature with a strength much greater than my size so I might cope with the weight of a racism that crushes my spirit.”
Miriam Makeba
I was barely a teenager when she entered my life. I didn’t know she was a protest singer. She was simply this beautiful, sexy chanteuse with an irrepressible smile. I copied her butterfly- winged dashiki minidresses and her go-go boots and danced to Pata Pata at parties. She as well danced it while performing, with fluid moves and a sexy twirling of hips. It was pure joy. That is the moment I remember most fondly. Thanks for the music, Mama Africa!
This girlchild of South Africa, born under apartheid, crossed oceans to sing traditional African music and with her clear, sparkling voice, touched the hearts and souls of people worldwide.
She began her lifelong struggle at the age of two weeks when she served a six-month jail term with her mother. As a girl in South Africa, she worked as a domestic servant for white families. In her teens she got involved in the progressive jazz scene to pursue a singing career. In 1960, while on tour in the U.S., Makeba was denied a visa to return home for her mother’s funeral. The white South African Government then cancelled her citizenship to punish her for speaking out against apartheid at the United Nations. A defiant Makeba was thrust into the position of being black South Africa’s de facto ambassador to the Western world, where she earned the affectionate nickname of ‘Mama Africa’. Her politics, particularly her outspokenness about the evils of apartheid after the Sharpeville massacres, caused her to be banished from South Africa for 30 years. Her recordings were similarly banned. In 1968 her marriage to Black Panther activist Stokely Carmichael caused a storm of controversy which led to the cancellation of her American concerts and contracts. She was exiled again and moved to New Guinea, where she continued her musical career. In 1990, she was finally allowed to return to her homeland. Makeba collaborated with Dizzy Gillespie, Paul Simon, Nina Simone, Harry Belafonte and trumpeter Hugh Masekela (also her former husband). Although her music was described as “World” music, she questioned that distinction, saying:
“And why is our music called world music? What they want to say is that it’s third world music. Like they used to call us under- developed countries, now it has changed to developing countries, it’s much more polite.”
Makeba has received a staggering number of awards, prizes, testimonials and honorary degrees to recognize her long commitment to women’s rights, political freedom and ending apartheid. June 16 is declared Miriam Makeba Day in Berkeley, while the date is March 22 in Tusagee, Alabama. There’s even a street named after her in Guadeloupe. She has also had her share of turmoil: she’s been sued over the authorship of her hit ‘Malaika,’ in East Africa, survived one plane and eleven car crashes. Add to this her bouts with cancer, five marriages and the death of her beloved and troubled only daughter. She wrote that at times, she was close to madness and was convinced that mischievous amadlozi spirits had taken hold of her. But the music was always center stage, and her powerful and distinctive voice retained the clarity and range that enabled it to be both as forceful as a protest march and as poignant as an African lullaby.
Michele Voltaire Marcelin
Sources:
New Internationalist
Supine Views form the Archives
Happy Thursday?
Michele, Temar and Francesca
Sometimes you don’t need a reason
Not a birthday
Not a holiday
Just celebrating the day that is
The friends that are
New and old
And the music that makes it all
Allright….
Or as poet Lucille Clifton writes:
come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
So, Happy Thursday to all of you who were here in body and spirit last night at Toukouleur.
Music by Buyu Ambroise and his quartet & special guest Chude Mondlane
With singer Chude Mondlane from Mozambique
With guitar player Obed Jean-Louis
With story-teller Tammy Hall 
With saxophonist Buyu Ambroise and story teller Tammy Hall
Lou Rainone on piano
Michael Vitali on drums
Bobby Raymond on bass
The Maestro himself on tenor sax
Guest drummer Brian Humblestone from Nassau
Vocalist Chude Mondlane
Relaxing after the show:
Chude, Buyu, Michele and Michael
The woman in my bed….
I woke up with a French tune this morning: La femme qui est dans mon lit…The woman in my bed. Written by Moustaki for Edith Piaf when they were lovers, it is a song of praise for the older woman (she was nearly 20 years older than him).
It brought back memories of one of my trips and my encounter with a younger man. I was in my early thirties when I visited Sénégal and met Suleyman, the son of a village chief.
It was a 2 week trip which could have changed my life. I could now be writing to you from a Peuhl village by the Lac Rose. No, I am not delusional and this is not a flight of fancy. Marriage was proposed (preceded by an entirely platonic courtship).
He was young and beautiful. As beautiful as his name. Suleyman, the Magnificent. Now, Suleyman translated is Solomon, a name I particularly dislike. Please forgive me, but the first one I knew was King Solomon and he rather irritated me – so self-righteous, with his air of knowing everything and God, his rather idiotic plan of cutting the baby in half… How naive were these women to think he would actually do that?
Solomon’s one redeeming grace was falling in love with Sheba. But she was so alluring, so winsome, who would not have? Sheba. Queen in her own right, independent and beautiful and wise; who God knows why, went looking for a master – women never know how to leave well enough alone.
I think it was French actress Jeanne Moreau who said: Freedom is being able to choose who you will be a slave to. I remember a story about Sheba being so beautiful, other women disliked her intensely and spread the rumor that she was Belial’s daughter, and Solomon to make sure he would not be cavorting with the devil’s offspring, had her walk over a mirrored floor so he could see whether she had cloven feet. I have another thought about this mirrored floor trick. I know guys who have done it, albeit on a much smaller scale (handmirrors), but I’d say it was about looking higher than the feet…
High, low, it’s a question of perspective. A woman who was being courted told the man “But sir, my heart is taken” only to have him respond “But madam, I was not aiming so high..”
In any case, Suleyman – Ah! that name. I felt I was dealing with a sultan – Suleyman was our travel guide on this trip and he was young and handsome. We left Dakar and were visiting small villages on our way to the beach area of Saly, and Suleyman started sweet-talking me. As he was charming and as we were captive in the tour bus for a few hours, I listened intently: Behold, thou art fair, my beloved…Those who know and love me can vouch for my clumsiness – I regularly bump into people and furniture – but Suleyman compared me to a gazelle and although Senegalese women are among the most attractive I have seen, he thought me as beautiful as the Peuhl women of his tribe. I also learned that he lived with 2 wives in another village; that he had built a house for each and that he would do so for me as well: Sénégal would be my land of milk and honey. No one had ever offered me such riches before.
To persuade me further, Suleyman made a detour so we could visit his village. We entered through dirt roads and reached a small, dusty, humble village, where he was greeted warmly by women and children alike. He introduced me to both wives (young and pretty) standing at the doorstep of their modest brick homes. I was offered tea, which according to the custom, was served in three rounds: the first strong and bitter, the second sweetened, with a little mint, and the third very sweet, with more mint – these stages reflecting friendship which becomes sweeter the longer it lasts.
Afterward, we stood on the porch and having displayed all his worldly treasures, Suleyman asked me for my response. I talked about my life in the United States but he begged me to consider his proposition as there was some urgency regarding children. That prompted my answer that at my age, I didn’t want anymore children. Age? responded Suleyman, baffled. What is your age? When I told him, he looked as if I had purposely deceived him. His previously exuberant demeanor turned to sadness and then to brusque and total coldness.
I watched him gather his thoughts before he methodically explained that he had been mistaken, that he’d thought I was younger and that he was sure I’d understand that he could never get involved with someone my age. I watched him turn away, climb back in the tour bus and ignore me royally for the remainder of the trip.
Ah, Suleyman who had gifted me his brass and copper cigarette holder (I still have it- a woman must keep mementoes of such moments!) … If I had his address, I would have sent him a recording of Moustaki’s song… It begins with:
The woman in my bed
has not been 20 for many years
Her eyes are darkly circled from nights of love
And her mouth is used by too many kisses…
and ends with this declaration of love:
Yet she offers me her body and her hands
And it is her bruised heart that reassures me….
Here are 2 different recordings of the Moustaki song: the classic Regianni and a newer version by Christian Delagrange:
Regianni
Chritian Delagrange
They are both preceded by Baudelaire’s poem, Pour une lionne illustre (In honor of an illustrious prostitute)
“Si vous la rencontrez, bizarrement parée,
Se faufilant, au coin d’une rue égarée,
Et la tête et l’oeil bas comme un pigeon blessé,
Traînant dans les ruisseaux un talon déchaussé,
Messieurs, ne crachez pas de jurons ni d’ordure
Au visage fardé de cette pauvre impure
Que déesse Famine a par un soir d’hiver,
Contrainte à relever ses jupons en plein air.
Cette bohème-là, c’est mon tout, ma richesse,
Ma perle, mon bijou, ma reine, ma duchesse…”
“La femme qui est dans mon lit
N’a plus 20 ans depuis longtemps
Les yeux cernés
Par les années
Par les amours
Au jour le jour
La bouche usée
Par les baisers
Trop souvent, mais
Trop mal donnés
Le teint blafard
Malgré le fard
Plus pâle qu’une
Tâche de lune
La femme qui est dans mon lit
N’a plus 20 ans depuis longtemps
Les seins si lourds
De trop d’amour
Ne portent pas
Le nom d’appas
Le corps lassé
Trop caressé
Trop souvent, mais
Trop mal aimé
Le dos vouté
Semble porter
Des souvenirs
Qu’elle a dû fuir
La femme qui est dans mon lit
N’a plus 20 ans depuis longtemps
Ne riez pas
N’y touchez pas
Gardez vos larmes
Et vos sarcasmes
Lorsque la nuit
Nous réunit
Son corps, ses mains
S’offrent aux miens
Et c’est son cœur
Couvert de pleurs
Et de blessures
Qui me rassure”
Georges Moustaki
Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite
Pleasure
I was oh, perhaps 9? the very first time I heard the word Fuck. Emmanuel, the school hunk, had cornered Caterina by the back stairs of Union School and said I want to fuck you. Fuck… Fuck… Fuck. I didn’t know what it meant but the intensity with which it was said stirred something in me that led me to ransack bookshelves with some urgency in search of that open-sesame word. Does anyone else remember when we had to read books to get the information we sought? Before the Internet and the general media made everything so accessible? Am I the only one with fond remembrances of The Medical Encyclopedia’s Human Body pages, worn beyond reason? I memorized page numbers from dictionaries and could recite entire definitions of any word with the prefix sex. I’ve memories of a schoolgirl self, with restless stirrings and yearnings, searching feverishly through books for these entrancing words. I riffled through pages, looking for sentences or passages that steamed, while I strummed and hummed…. Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s complaint became a favorite as I read and re-read the masturbation scene. Candy, the heroine of the similarly named novel who ceaselessly wriggled out of her panties, became a familiar night-time companion after lights-out. I have forgotten the characters in The Harrad Experiment, but its dog-eared pages and underlined paragraphs were proof that I had been a meticulous note-taker. These were however merely titillating readings which didn’t teach me much, and I only discovered the Kama Sutra after I had started college. I have not yet overcome the regret of this delayed knowledge (precious time wasted I feel – as it should have been required reading material – followed by pop quizzes and hands-on examinations-) Here for example is a section on Foreplay. Necessary knowledge,wouldn’t you say, for both sexes?
“In the pleasure room, decorated with flowers, and fragrant with perfumes, attended by his friends and servants, the citizen should receive the woman, who will come bathed and dressed, and will invite her to take refreshment and to drink freely. He should then seat her on his left side, and holding her hair, and touching also the end and knot of her garment, he should gently embrace her with his right arm. They should then carry on an amusing conversation on various subjects, and may also talk suggestively of things which would be considered as coarse, or not to be mentioned generally in society. They may then sing, either with or without gesticulations, and play on musical instruments, talk about the arts, and persuade each other to drink. At last when the woman is overcome with love and desire, the citizen should dismiss the people that may be with him, giving them flowers, ointments, and betel leaves, and when the two are left alone, only then should they proceed to sexual union.”
According to ancient Indian texts, man had 3 main goals in life – Dharma (duty and responsibility for your actions), Arta (gaining power through politics and wealth) and Kama (pleasure). Kama Sutra, the world’s most renowned ancient sacred text is about the art of living, the art of sensual pleasure and love, marriage and spirituality . Over 800 years of Hindu wisdom writings about social norms and love-customs were connected, compiled, and commented on by the fourth-century editor Vatsyayana. Not a lover’s guide for the masses, the Kama Sutra was written for the wealthy male city-dweller in patriarchal Northern India. It was an attempt to show how enjoyment of sexual loving could enhance one’s quality of life and to relate that to established traditions. Using a structured approach mixed with sensual poetry, Vatsyayana explained techniques of love-making in diverse situations.
“The Embrace”
Here is an excerpt of a translation by Sir Richard Burton, of one of the subjects which treats of sexual union: The embrace.
The embrace which indicates the mutual love of a man and woman who have come together is of four kinds:
Touching – Rubbing – Piercing – Pressing
The action in each case is denoted by the meaning of the word which stands for it:
When a man under some pretext or other goes in front or alongside of a woman and touches her body with his own, it is called the `touching embrace’.
When a woman in a lonely place bends down, as if to pick up something, and pierces, as it were, a man sitting or standing, with her breasts, and the man in return takes hold of them, it is called a `piercing embrace’.
(The above two kinds of embrace take place only between persons who do not, as yet, speak freely with each other.)
When two lovers are walking slowly together, either in the dark, or in a place of public resort, or in a lonely place, and rub their bodies against each other, it is called a `rubbing embrace’.
When on the above occasion one of them presses the other’s body forcibly against a wall or pillar, it is called a `pressing embrace’.
(These two last embraces are particular to those who know the intentions of each other.)
Burton goes on to describe some of the embraces used. The descriptions bear names that are both poetic and explicit and one can visualize the intimacy suggested:
The twisting of a vine.
Climbing a tree.
The mixture of sesame seed with rice.
The milk and water embrace.
Wishing you moments of inspired readings!
Sources:
Spiritual Sex – Nik Douglas
Kama Sutra – Sir Richard Burton
my dear friends
My brother Leslie once came back from Brazil with a gift for me. A cassette tape. Remember these relics of another age? Remember that flimsy brown strip of magnetic tape that would melt in the summer, snap in the winter and unravel when in a bad mood? To save our music, we learned the now obsolete skill of repairing broken tapes. We became experts in the art of splicing, of rolling pencils in the tape wheel, of using paper clips to smooth the wrinkles caused by the snags…Let no one tell you otherwise: no surgeon coming out of medical school had a more precise and delicate touch than a music lover repairing a cassette tape. Of course, none of this is of any importance today as no one listens to cassettes anymore, and no one needs them repaired. All these precious moments spent… I should have learned Japanese instead. Of course, ever the romantic, when I took a language course in college, I chose Russian because I wanted to read Maiakovski’s poems in the original. (After a couple of semesters and an inseparable dictionary -memento kept as sign of my folly- I managed to decipher PRAVDA’s subtitles and to write my name before I gave up that pursuit.) But forgive my rambling. The brazilian cassette? It was by Chico Buarque, a singer I had never heard of before. Although I have visited Brazil several times, Eu Não Falo Português.. Oh, as a fluent Spanish speaker, I get along fine in an idiom I invented, a bizarre mélange of both (but isn’t language a living entity ever evolving, ever changing? No?) So, although I didn’t speak Portuguese, I loved the music and I loved his voice. Chico Buarque sang about people struggling, street kids, prostitutes, about love in times of trouble, about censorship. .. which brings me back to that cassette tape, as one of my favorite Buarque songs is Meu caro amigo (My dear friend).
Written in 1976 while Brazil was still under the rule of an oppressive military dictatorship, the song takes the form of a letter sent by cassette tape (from Buarque to his friend Augusto Boal, a playwright and director in exile.) The lyrics describe the difficult political and economic situation in Brazil at the time. During the 70’s, opponents to the regime were incarcerated, exiled or eliminated. The media was heavily censored. Newspapers and magazines had to submit their articles to the official censors before they were released to the public. Classic poetry often replaced censored articles in the newspapers. It was in that political climate that Chico Buarque, already a music legend in Brazil, released Meus Caros Amigos, considered to be one of his best recordings. Although Buarque was critical of the military government, he was aware he could not openly voice his opposition in his lyrics—some of his songs had been banned by the government—instead, he relied on clever wordplay that escaped censors’ scrutiny but was clearly understood by his fans. Here is a a rough English translation of this chorihno (a happy tune with sad lyrics):
My dear friend, please forgive me, if I can’t pay you a visit, but since I found someone to carry a message, I’m sending you news on this tape. Here we play soccer, there’s lots of samba, lots of choro and rock’n'roll. Some days it rains, some days it’s sunny but I want to tell you that things here are pretty dark. Here, we’re wheeling and dealing for survival, and we’re only surviving because we’re stubborn. And everyone’s drinking because without cachaça, nobody survives this squeeze.
My dear friend, I don’t want to bother you or make you homesick, but I can’t avoid telling you the news. Here, we’re hustling and dealing for our daily bread with spite and a bad taste in our mouths. And everybody’s smoking, because without a smoke, nobody survives this squeeze.
My dear friend, I wanted to call you, but the price of a call is nothing to laugh about. I’m distressed because I want you to know what’s going on. Here, there’s pushing and shoving and we have to swallow so many lies. And everybody’s loving, because without a little loving, nobody survives this squeeze.
My dear friend, I really wanted to write to you but the mail is a risky thing. But if this goes past them (the government), I’ll try to send fresh news on this tape… Marieta (Buarque’s wife) sends a kiss for you, a kiss for the family, for Cecilia, for the kids; Francisco (Buarque himself) also sends his regards. All the best and Goodbye…
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So, there I was looking through some boxes this evening and I found all these cassettes, and among them was my Chico Buarque tape. I no longer have a cassette player and I can’t verify this but the last time I played this, it was hissing and would sometimes get stuck right in the last part of the song. It brought back so many memories and I thought I’d give you the gift my brother gave me 20 years ago. So for you, my dear friends, meus caros amigos, here’s Chico Buarque.
May you enjoy him as much as I did:
May you enjoy him as much as I did:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPEPj3wpSb0
Other favorite Buarque songs:
Construção
Apesar de você
Calice
Funeral de um lavrador
Francisco Buarque de Hollanda (born June 19, 1944 in Rio de Janeiro) is a Brazilian poet, singer, musician, songwriter and novelist who become famous for his music which comments on Brazil’s social, economic and cultural situation. His latest book, Budapeste, achieved great critical acclaim and won the Prêmio Jabuti, a brazilian award similar to The Booker Prize Award.
‘Music kind of kidnapped me’ he says. Starting out composing songs in the Sixties, he went on to write hundreds of them. His gift as a social commentator was to inhabit the lives of Brazil’s disenfranchised. ‘Construcao’, a surrealist fantasy about a construction worker falling to his death became a popular classic, enamouring him to a public struggling with political repression under military rule. Exile is a recurrent theme in Buarque’s life and work. Buarque himself was jailed briefly and went into exile in Italy and France. He learnt the importance of words at a time when words were banned. Forced to submit his songs to government censors, nearly two-thirds of his material was rejected. “It was a challenge,” he says. ” I had to write 20 songs in order to get 2 past the censors.”
Playing ‘futebol’ with Bob Marley. Soccer is his earliest and most enduring passion. “I started playing soccer when I was four years old, and I still play every week.”
Meu caro amigo:L’une des chansons les plus connues de Chico Buarque. Une lettre en forme de chanson adressée à Augusto Boal, exilé à ce moment-là.
(Augusto Boal est surtout connu pour avoir créé le Théâtre de l’Opprimé, un ensemble de techniques qui transforment le spectateur en protagoniste du spectacle, profondément engagé dans la trame de sa propre existence.)
Meu caro amigo me perdoe, por favor
Mon cher ami tu m’excuses s’il te plait
Se eu não lhe faço uma visita
Si je ne te rends pas visite
Mas como agora apareceu um portador
Mais comme maintenant vient d’apparaître un messager
Mando notícias nessa fita
Je t’envoie des nouvelles sur cette cassette
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba beaucoup de choro et de rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
Muita mutreta pra levar a situação
Beaucoup de combines pour supporter la situation
Que a gente vai levando de teimoso e de pirraça
Qu’on supporte avec obstination et malice
E a gente vai tomando, que também, sem a cachaça
Et qu’on boit beaucoup, aussi, parce que sans la cachaça
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu não pretendo provocar
Mon cher ami je ne prétend pas provoquer
Nem atiçar suas saudades
Ni ranimer ta nostalgie
Mas acontece que não posso me furtar
Mais il se trouve que je ne peux me soustraire
A lhe contar as novidades
A te raconter les nouveautés
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba beaucoup de choro et de rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
É pirueta pra cavar o ganha-pão
Faire des pirouettes pour arracher son gagne-pain
Que a gente vai cavando só de birra, só de sarro
Qu’on arrache de têtu, de capricieux
E a gente vai fumando que, também, sem um cigarro
Et qu’on fume, aussi, parce que sans la cigarette
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu quis até telefonar
Mon cher ami j’ai même voulu téléphoner
Mas a tarifa não tem graça
Mais le coût n’a rien d’amusant
Eu ando aflito pra fazer você ficar
J’ai une envie folle de te mettre
A par de tudo que se passa
Au courant de ce qui se passe
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba, beaucoup de choro et rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
Muita careta pra engolir a transação
Des tas de grimaces pour avaler tous ces trucs
E a gente tá engolindo cada sapo no caminho
Et qu’on avale des couleuvres en chemin
E a gente vai se amando que, também, sem um carinho
Et qu’on s’aime, aussi, parce que sans la tendresse
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu bem queria lhe escrever
Mon cher ami j’ai bien voulu t’écrire
Mas o correio andou arisco
Mais on se fait difficile à la Poste
Se me permitem, vou tentar lhe remeter
Si on me le permet je vais te remettre
Notícias frescas nesse fita
Des nouvelles fraîches sur cette cassette
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba, beaucoup de choro et rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
A Marieta manda um beijo para os seus
Marieta envoie un bisou aux tiens
Um beijo na família, na Cecília e nas crianças
Un bisou à la famille, à Cécile et aux enfants
O Francis aproveita pra também mandar lembranças
Francis en profite pour également se rappeler à ton bon souvenir
A todo o pessoal
A tout le monde
Adeus
Au revoir
(Traduction de Dominique et Vagner du Forum Bossa-Nova)
Mon cher ami tu m’excuses s’il te plait
Se eu não lhe faço uma visita
Si je ne te rends pas visite
Mas como agora apareceu um portador
Mais comme maintenant vient d’apparaître un messager
Mando notícias nessa fita
Je t’envoie des nouvelles sur cette cassette
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba beaucoup de choro et de rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
Muita mutreta pra levar a situação
Beaucoup de combines pour supporter la situation
Que a gente vai levando de teimoso e de pirraça
Qu’on supporte avec obstination et malice
E a gente vai tomando, que também, sem a cachaça
Et qu’on boit beaucoup, aussi, parce que sans la cachaça
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu não pretendo provocar
Mon cher ami je ne prétend pas provoquer
Nem atiçar suas saudades
Ni ranimer ta nostalgie
Mas acontece que não posso me furtar
Mais il se trouve que je ne peux me soustraire
A lhe contar as novidades
A te raconter les nouveautés
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba beaucoup de choro et de rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
É pirueta pra cavar o ganha-pão
Faire des pirouettes pour arracher son gagne-pain
Que a gente vai cavando só de birra, só de sarro
Qu’on arrache de têtu, de capricieux
E a gente vai fumando que, também, sem um cigarro
Et qu’on fume, aussi, parce que sans la cigarette
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu quis até telefonar
Mon cher ami j’ai même voulu téléphoner
Mas a tarifa não tem graça
Mais le coût n’a rien d’amusant
Eu ando aflito pra fazer você ficar
J’ai une envie folle de te mettre
A par de tudo que se passa
Au courant de ce qui se passe
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba, beaucoup de choro et rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
Muita careta pra engolir a transação
Des tas de grimaces pour avaler tous ces trucs
E a gente tá engolindo cada sapo no caminho
Et qu’on avale des couleuvres en chemin
E a gente vai se amando que, também, sem um carinho
Et qu’on s’aime, aussi, parce que sans la tendresse
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu bem queria lhe escrever
Mon cher ami j’ai bien voulu t’écrire
Mas o correio andou arisco
Mais on se fait difficile à la Poste
Se me permitem, vou tentar lhe remeter
Si on me le permet je vais te remettre
Notícias frescas nesse fita
Des nouvelles fraîches sur cette cassette
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba, beaucoup de choro et rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
A Marieta manda um beijo para os seus
Marieta envoie un bisou aux tiens
Um beijo na família, na Cecília e nas crianças
Un bisou à la famille, à Cécile et aux enfants
O Francis aproveita pra também mandar lembranças
Francis en profite pour également se rappeler à ton bon souvenir
A todo o pessoal
A tout le monde
Adeus
Au revoir
(Traduction de Dominique et Vagner du Forum Bossa-Nova)
Sources:
Ernest Barteldes
Jemima Hunt
Ernest Barteldes
Jemima Hunt
Let me explain a few things…
Pablo Neruda is “the greatest poet of the twentieth century–in any language.” said Gabriel García Márquez
Pablo and Gabo
Explico algunas cosas (Let me Explain a Few Things), a poem written in fiery rage against what Franco’s troops had done to Madrid “And one morning, everything was burning” , is where Neruda traced his own change from the romantic who had authored love poems to the committed righter of the world’s wrongs:
“You will ask why my poetry does not speak of dreams and leaves? You will ask why it does not speak of volcanoes and of my native land?” he wrote.
And then he provided the ringing answer:
“Come and see the blood in the streets! Come and see the blood in the streets!”
Of course, Neruda’s native land, Chile, was to be the scene of repression as bloody as Franco’s after Pinochet’s coup against Allende in 1971.
Preguntaréis: Y dónde están las lilas?
Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas?
Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba
sus palabras llenándolas
de agujeros y pájaros?Os voy a contar todo lo que me pasa.
Yo vivía en un barrio
de Madrid, con campanas,
con relojes, con árboles.Desde allí se veía
el rostro seco de Castilla
como un océano de cuero.
Mi casa era llamada
la casa de las flores, porque por todas partes
estallaban geranios: era
una bella casa
con perros y chiquillos.
Raúl, te acuerdas?
Te acuerdas, Rafael?
Federico, te acuerdas
debajo de la tierra,
te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en donde
la luz de junio ahogaba flores en tu boca?
Hermano, hermano!
Todo
eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías,
aglomeraciones de pan palpitante,
mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatua
como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas:
el aceite llegaba a las cucharas,
un profundo latido
de pies y manos llenaba las calles,
metros, litros, esencia
aguda de la vida,
pescados hacinados,
contextura de techos con sol frío en el cual
la flecha se fatiga,
delirante marfil fino de las patatas,
tomates repetidos hasta el mar.Y una mañana todo estaba ardiendo
y una mañana las hogueras
salían de la tierra
devorando seres,
y desde entonces fuego,
pólvora desde entonces,
y desde entonces sangre.
Bandidos con aviones y con moros,
bandidos con sortijas y duquesas,
bandidos con frailes negros bendiciendo
venían por el cielo a matar niños,
y por las calles la sangre de los niños
corría simplemente, como sangre de niños.Chacales que el chacal rechazaría,
piedras que el cardo seco mordería escupiendo,
víboras que las víboras odiaran!Frente a vosotros he visto la sangre
de España levantarse
para ahogaros en una sola ola
de orgullo y de cuchillos!Generales
traidores:
mirad mi casa muerta,
mirad España rota:
pero de cada casa muerta sale metal ardiendo
en vez de flores,
pero de cada hueco de España
sale España,
pero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos,
pero de cada crimen nacen balas
que os hallarán un día el sitio
del corazón.Preguntaréis por qué su poesía
no nos habla del sueño, de las hojas,
de los grandes volcanes de su país natal?Venid a ver la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver
la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver la sangre
por las calles!
“Explico algunas cosas”~ Pablo Neruda
Neruda followed in anguish the coup that toppled Allende’s Government. As a prominent Communist, he was raided by the military on his deathbed, but was spirited enough to say to the soldier who marched in to his bedroom: “There is only one thing of danger for you here — my poetry!”
Twelve days after the fall of the Allende Government, Pablo Neruda died. His body lay for two days in his house, which had been ransacked by the military, and his funeral became the occasion for a spontaneous popular demonstration against the military dictatorship. Novelist Isabel Allende (and niece of Salvador Allende), who was living in Santiago and working as journalist recounts:
“In spite of the terror that reigned in the streets of Santiago, several hundred people showed up at the funeral. Neruda was a Communist and most of his friends were leftists, persecuted or closely watched by the dictatorship. People marched to the cemetery between two lines of heavily armed soldiers in battle gear, with their faces painted in black and green. The mourners started shouting “Compañero Pablo Neruda, presente” and reciting his poetry aloud, tears running down their faces. After a while the mood of the crowd became more defiant and the funeral included the President, whom we had not been able to give a proper burial. The people shouted: “Compañero Salvador Allende, presente!” and they sang the slogans of the Unidad Popular, like: “El pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido” (the people, united, will never be defeated).”
Neruda’s biographer Adam Feinstein recounts how one morning soon after his death there was an uproar in a house where Neruda had used to live — a huge eagle had got into the living-room, though all the doors and windows of the house had been locked for months. Pablo Neruda had always said that in his next life he wanted to be an eagle. No doubt his wish was fulfilled, and he soars above us today, like his poetry.
“You showed me how one person’s pain could die in the victory of all …
You have made me indestructible, for I no longer end in myself.”
Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite“I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived
with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song. “
Mon mal aviaire
Tous mes amisNe savent pas que j’ai la grippe
Cette chanson
Mon mal aviaire en temps d’oiseaux
Si je la chante
C’est pour livrer ma voix au vent
Je la reprends
Le cœur enroué de trop aimer
Je me fais tondre
Sous le gazon d’une voisine
Ma peur est bleue
Sous le ciel grand de mon pays
Regardez bien
Ce qu’en a fait la fin du monde
Un mal aviaire
Seule la mer sait si je divague
Comme j’ai la grippe
Un grain de sel sous ma langue
Me donnera
Le goût entier de toute une vie
Le cœur enroué
Je chante faux pour ma voisine
Qui m’a tondu
La raison courte des cheveux
Tous mes amis
Ne savent pas que j’ai la grippe
Cette chanson
Mon mal aviaire en temps d’oiseaux
James Noël Cœuritoire
http://james-noel.hautetfort.com/
Love and Defiance
“Bedil, weep not for your losses
this party that is life
is after all held in a glassmaker’s shop”
AHMAD FARAZ enjoys a near cult status in the pantheon of revolutionary poets. Of him, Faiz Ahmad Faiz (the greatest Urdu poet of the last century) had said: “He protests against injustice as passionately as he professes his love.”
Dreams do not die
Dreams are not hearts nor eyes or breath
Which shattered will scatter
Or die with the death of the body
His poetry was considered so subversive in Pakistan that he was blind-folded, thrown into solitary confinement and exiled. His verses captured the sentiments of an oppressed generation and he became the voice of those living in poverty under military rule in Pakistan and beyond. Widely read, his poems were set to music and sung during evening gatherings across Pakistan, and he enjoyed a popularity similar to that of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwich.
My enemy has sent a missive
That his soldiers are thronged around me
On every corner, every minaret of the city
With stretched strings are waiting his archers
Tell him he has already lost
If to fight me he must send an army…
Although he became a symbol for the struggle, Faraz was unapologetic about his ghazals (love poems) written in the Sufi vein, seeking the eternal beloved. Their bittersweet verses about unrequited love and desire are deeply touching:
Come back, even if just to hurt the heart again
Come back, even if just to leave me again….
Still, the deluded heart has a few hopes
Come back, if only to blow out this last faint light
Even if there is anguish, come still, to torment my heart
Come, even if to leave me again
If we part this time, we may meet in a dream
Like dried flowers found in the pages of old books
…………………………………………
They say she has an affinity for her sufferers
Let me then destroy myself, and see
They say she hosts pain in the arc of her eyebrows
Let me then pass through that curve, and see
They say she too has an indulgence for verse
Let me then try the miracles of art, and see
………………………………………….
The world of love is so good.
Who has created the problem of separation?
What now for the poet?
Should I stay or move ahead?
Faraz go, stars are looking at the dawn….
Faraz left this August. He was 77.
Maybe he is looking at the stars….
She said: listen
Don’t come back if
you think it is
to fulfill your promise.
People with obligations are
either compelled or
are tired of separations.
Go and fulfill others’ desires
and fall in love with other women.
I will not call you.
But when you burn inside
with the blaze of wanting me,
needing me,
and your heart weeps,
you can then
come back to me.
Ahmad Faraz (January 14, 1931 – August 25, 2008)
“IT IS TIME WRITERS REPLACED THE INK OF THEIR PENS WITH BLOOD”
FARAZ
* Urdu, the national language of Pakistan is an Indo-Aryan language with about 104 million speakers, including those who speak it as a second language.
Sources:
The New York Times (9/1/08)
International Herald Tribune (9/1/08)
plain talk
so many words don’t be misled by the laughter
i have carried you everywhere
you are there
on the tip of my tongue
i speak
and in the word
you appear
and flow through my mouth
you say
for a question so simple
so much wine for little thirst
hope surpasses the question
although i have sewn you to my soul
and i am at the end of the thread
as you are
at the tip of my tongue
michele voltaire marcelin
Bourgeoisie?
“I need my memories. They are my documents.”Louise Bourgeois with her phallic sculpture Fillette
I want to be like Louise Bourgeois when I grow up. At 96 years old and still working, bruised, battle-scarred Bourgeois is at once fragile and strong like the materials she uses to work: soft latex, fabrics, glass, wood, marble and metal. Provocative, emotionally intense, and very, very sexual, her sculptures are disquieting, definitely unpretty but unmistakably beautiful. I would meet her on Dean street in the building where my cousins Patrick and Marie-Ange lived in the late 1980’s and where she had her studio. I was intimidated by her and never said anything other than Bonjour and even that, with misgivings. How I wish I had been bolder then…
“Art guarantees sanity” Louise Bourgeois
“Certain artists inspire by formal example, other by giving permission. Ms. Bourgeois is a permission-giver. Your daily life is propelled by fear? Draw fear. You can. Impossible to sleep at night? Make night your studio, the cloth you embroider with needs and dreams. The past is an obsession you can neither embrace nor release? Make an image of obsession, any image will do. And you’ll feel better for a while.” (Holland Cotter)
Spider Couple will greet you in the atrium before you discover other personal favorites: sculptures whose tactile beauty is so seductive, it will be hard to refrain from touching them….
“Spiders have nerves of steel. So did my mother…”
I first became fascinated by her when I saw her Maman sculpture. A huge spider with long, spindly legs, it both attracted and repelled me. As I am deathly afraid of spiders (tarentulas abounded in my childhood landscape and these hairy creatures can still provoke nightmares in broad daylight) I projected my own emotions on the work and the title. But where I saw menace, Bourgeois meant protection. Her mother was a spinner, a weaver, skilled in the craft of intricate tapestry repair and for her, the spider signifies a mother’s labor, generosity and foresight.
Things fall apart, life unravels…Maman repairs the fragile threads by weaving hers…
“My childhood never lost its magic, never lost its mystery, and never lost its drama.” Bourgeois’ childhood drama was the loss of her innocence when she discovered her father and her live-in governess were carrying on a passionate love affair which her mother pretended not to notice. There are none so blind…. “There is one story and one story only that will prove worth your telling” says the poet. The trauma inflicted by her father’s infidelity has fueled Bourgeois’ work so much that she seems a willing captive of this emotional damage, tirelessly using her relationship with her parents and the role sex played in her family life as the vocabulary in which to understand and re-create that story.
Clearly one of the most influential artists alive today (gender notwithstanding- “There are inequities in our society between men and women, but they have never kept me from saying or doing what I want” she’s said), her life might have followed the path her name pointed to, but decidedly unbourgeois Louise left France at 27 (she was born in 1911), settled in New York, had three children, and worked. Restless and inventive she created drawings, etchings, moldings, carvings in stone, castings in metal, wood constructions and walk-in assemblages. She has said that she works in response to emotions: fury at the past and fear of the present among them. Not so much breathing through the pain but working through the pain so you can breathe, is the lesson I learned from her life and work.
Michele Voltaire Marcelin
“Art guarantees sanity” Louise Bourgeois
“Certain artists inspire by formal example, other by giving permission. Ms. Bourgeois is a permission-giver. Your daily life is propelled by fear? Draw fear. You can. Impossible to sleep at night? Make night your studio, the cloth you embroider with needs and dreams. The past is an obsession you can neither embrace nor release? Make an image of obsession, any image will do. And you’ll feel better for a while.” (Holland Cotter)
Come into my parlor, said the spider…
So run, don’t walk to the Guggenheim to see the retrospective of Louise Bourgeois as the exhibit (over a hundred pieces), lasts only until the end of September.
Spider Couple will greet you in the atrium before you discover other personal favorites: sculptures whose tactile beauty is so seductive, it will be hard to refrain from touching them….
The Destruction of the Father
Defiance
The blind leading the blind
Arch of hysteria
Sleep
Cell-Choisy (guillotine hanging over her childhood home)
“I work with the eternal, universal and ever-present emotions. Especially the emotions of violence, jealousy and fear. I believe in resurrection in the morning. There is a withdrawal, but it is temporary. You lose your self-esteem, but you pull yourself up again. This is about survival… about the will to survive.”
An eternal scent? How could I not love an artist who says:”The most eternal present is a perfume by Guerlain”?
Sources
Curators and art critics:
Katherine Brinson
Robert Storr
Paulo Herkenholf
Holland Cutter
Photographers:
Robert Mapplethorpe
Raimon Ramis
Annie Leibovitz
Peter Bellamy
Hanna
le bruit court sous la pluie
et en un quart d’orange
la terre fait le tour de la rumeur
le bruit court que le vent
a soufflé tellement fort
que le cyclone
larme à l’œil
a crié sur la ville
un chant de cygne
signe d’aile cynique de fin du monde
le bruit court que le vent
a enlevé le chapeau
circonflexe de l’ile
tous les vents mauvais
en boucle se défilent
la mort en bouche sur notre terre
James Noël
“Depuis le 26 août, Haïti subi les assauts répétés d’ouragans, de tempêtes tropicales, qui aujourd’hui laissent le pays dans un état de désolation absolue. Mais ce n’est pas terminé et d’autres pourraient frapper de nouveau le pays. La population dans son ensemble et celle des Gonaïves, en particulier est extrêmement fragilisée. On dénombre à ce jour près de 600 morts, des centaines de milliers de sans abris, sans nourriture. Les hôpitaux de la ville ont été inondés et l’acheminement de vivres est rendu extrêmement difficile en raison des inondations. Les Nations Unies, la Croix Rouge et la Protection Civile haïtienne sont à pied d’œuvre et ont besoin d’aide urgente”:
http://www.collectif2004images.org/
Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite
La muse du poète
Nâzim Hikmet a écrit la plus grande partie de ses poèmes en prison. Une large partie d’entre eux ont été inspirés par sa femme Piraye. Ces textes lyriques, il les a appellé “poèmes de 21 à 22 heures” puisque chaque soir il lui écrivait des poèmes. Une manière pour lui de partager sa vie à travers les barreaux avec sa bien aimée; une manière de garder l’espoir….Un poète a toujours besoin d’une muse.
Tout ce que j’ai écrit sur nous est mensonge
Ce n’est pas ce qui a été entre nous mais ce que j’aurais voulu qui soit
C’étaient mes nostalgies posées sur des branches inaccessibles
C’était ma soif tirée du puits de mes rêves
C’étaient des images que je traçais sur la clarté
Tout ce que j’ai écrit sur nous est vrai
Ta beauté
C’est-à-dire une corbeille de fruits
ou un festin sur une table champêtre
Mon manque de toi
C’est-à-dire moi dernier lampion du dernier coin de la ville
Ma jalousie
C’est-à-dire ma course les yeux bandés la nuit parmi les trains
Mon bonheur
C’est-à-dire le fleuve ensoleillé rompant ses digues
Tout ce que j’ai écrit sur nous est mensonge
Tout est vrai de ce que j’ai écrit sur nous.
(9 septembre 1960)
Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite
Love in the air…
I fell in love with a stewardess up in the air
I know I shouldn’t be doing this but I don’t care
As soon as we’re back to the usual mix it’s clear
I can hope, you can wish, but we gon’ switch gears
Mr. Right right now, now that ain’t fair
Fly by night type: pow, farewell, take care..
Upstairs neighbor, now and then braids hair
On occasion as a favor on the spot right there
In her living room, sittin’
Said honestly she’s got a thing for musicians
No kidding? Like I didn’t notice you listen extra close
But this ain’t too different from me and other folks
To myself thinkin’, “this I already know
Been there before so this is how it’s gonna go” :
Comfortable, vulnerable, fragile and unaware
She sees wings on my back that ain’t really there
Looks like a jackpot ’cause good men are rare
Mirage popped up, she saw love in the air
And now I, myself, understand these basics
At times like this we forget patience
Pony tail out ’cause she let down her pretty hair
Daydreamin where we could be in a year
My guess? Without handling with care?
Damsel in distress, mistress in despair…
(dedicated to the stewardess on the flight
from NYC to LA who never called…lucky us!)
Leo Coltrane
Leo Coltrane’s most recent music is a saga of travels, love found and lost, of appreciations and apologies. The result is a musically rich mix of seasoned hip hop stories layered with instruments and harmonies.
august evening
sitting on a stoop
amidst idle chatter and cigarette smoke
waiting for you as i waited months before
i know my heart will flutter
when you pass by and say my name
in the august evening breeze
Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite michele voltaire marcelin
Maestro!
Le Maestro
Michèle Voltaire Marcelin et Issa El Saieh ~ 1990
Un peu plus de trois ans que le Maestro est parti. Un peu plus de trois ans que je ne vais plus à l’Avenue du Chili. Ce passage désiré et obligé me manque. Et me manque aussi son affection à la fois nonchalante et généreuse. Nous allons voir le Maestro? disait mon père et la voiture gravissait la pente jusqu’à la Gallerie Issa. Nous disions bonjour à Normil qui peignait dans l’atelier; à Lefranc, accoudé à la portière de l’ancienne Lada blanche; à Titra sous l’ombrage du frangipanier. S’il n’avait pas de clients, nous retrouvions le Maestro assis près de la fenêtre. Après des embrassades discrètes, car ce grivois était curieusement un pudique des sentiments, il demandait à Josie d’apporter du café et du jus de cerises. Moi, j’explorais le fouillis habituel, dénichant parfois une nouvelle toile que je pensais tirer d’une obscurité peu méritée; une phrase d’Issa suffisait, un tu n’aimes pas lapidaire, pour renvoyer l’intruse aux oubliettes. De temps en temps, je regardais les deux amis. Entre Issa et mon père, c’était d’abord une histoire d’amitié qui se passait d’histoires et parfois se passait dans le silence. Je les ai vus désenchantés et ravis et je les ai vus rire de tout en dépit de tout, parfois d’un fou rire qui me gagnait sans que je sache pourquoi. Amis de toujours et pour la vie, ils se prédisaient leurs morts en succession. Le seul point de contention étant lequel des deux partirait le premier. Ce fut mon père. Issa le suivit deux jours après. Pour qu’ils soient inséparables jusque dans la mort, nos familles se mirent d’accord pour que leurs funérailles soient chantées ensemble. Je pense souvent à lui et à toutes les histoires partagées depuis des années.
Merci pour les souvenirs, Maestro!
Issa El Saieh (22/02/1919 ~ 02/02/2005)Issa El Saieh est né le 22 février 1919 à Petit Goâve, de parents originaires de la Palestine. Initié à la musique dans une fanfare de lycée à Boston où il joue de la clarinette en si bémol, il devient un passionné du jazz. A son retour au pays natal, il joue quelques années comme clarinettiste et saxophoniste dans la formation musicale “Jazz Rouzier”. En 1942, ce visionnaire fait appel aux musiciens les plus doués et les plus compétents de son époque pour créer l’Ensemble Issa El Saieh. Avec le trompettiste Antalcidas O. Murat devenu arrangeur et orchestrateur, cette nouvelle formation sera à l’avant-garde d’une musique haïtienne en quête de nouvelles voies après la domination des rythmes importés. Ce sera le premier ensemble à accorder une place considérable au folklore haïtien dans ses productions musicales. Issa fera appel à Ti Roro et Ti Marcel, deux géants du tambour, comme forces motrices de sa section rythmique. Le trompettiste Serge Lebon et le pianiste Emmanuel “Tonton” Duroseau viendront aussi le retrouver pour présenter aux mélomanes d’horizons divers des oeuvres de qualité. De prestigieux musiciens comme Guy Durosier, Raul Guillaume, Victor Flambert, Hilaire Dorval et Ernst “Nono” Lamy apporteront aussi leur contribution. 10 ans plus tard, “l’Orchestre Issa El Saieh” sera classé comme l’une des meilleures formations non seulement d’Haïti, mais aussi de l’Amérique latine. En 1949, en vue d’introduire l’idiome BeBop par une série d’ateliers de travail avec ses musiciens, il intégrera des musiciens de jazz au rayonnement international dans sa formation musicale: l’un des plus remarquables musiciens de la tradition du swing au bop, le saxophoniste ténor et arrangeur américain Budd Johnson ; le pianiste de be-bop Billy Taylor ; l’excellent arrangeur et trompettiste de Saint Thomas, Bobby Hicks et le pianiste et arrangeur cubain Bebo Valdés, son frère spirituel.
« L’âge d’or de “l’Orchestre Issa El Saieh” se situe entre 1947 et 1952. Sa formation se produisait alors généralement les samedis soirs à Cabane Choucoune, à Pétion-Ville et, de temps en temps, dans d’autres boîtes de nuit », commentent Louis Carl Saint Jean et Mats Lundahl.
Etant toujours prêt à venir en aide à ses pairs et ayant toujours rêvé de faire connaître la musique haïtienne à travers le monde, Issa a été un mécène musical, aidant à l’acquisition d’instruments pour diverses formations musicales et gravant des vinyles qu’il distribuait gratuitement à ses clients, selon Ed Rainer Sainvil.
Après avoir consacré près d’une vingtaine d’années de sa vie à la musique, au milieu des années 1950, Issa El Saieh s’adonnera à l’acquisition de la peinture, et deviendra plus tard un galeriste renommé. Il est mort à Port-au-Prince le 2 février 2005, à l’âge de 85 ans.
(Sources: www.nostalgiefm.com/culture/issa-el-saieh)
Issa et son petit-fils Victor, ca.1991. photo © Bill Bollendorf 1991
Le poète vagabond
Jean-Claude Pirotte
“Cet éternel colporteur de mélancolie sur les chemins perdus de la poésie…”
Christophe Mahy
Mine de rien, sur un air de ce n’est rien, pudiquement et sans mystère, ce petit poème d’une tonalité nostalgique dit le mal de vivre et célèbre avec ferveur un moment d’enchantement.
la poésie c’est bon
pour les oisons les oiseux les oisifs
disait mon père et tu ferais
mieux d’apprendre le code civil
moi j’apprenais le tango la biguine
à dire je t’aime en catalan
en croate en turc en polonais
aujourd’hui je ne dis plus jamais
je t’aime à personne en aucune
langue je suis là vieillissant
dans la bicoque du faubourg
frappée aussi d’alignement
sans doute le bonheur est-il farouche ainsi
que la brebis dont enfant tu voulais caresser la laine
en longeant l’étroit pré en pente oublié
sur le chemin de l’école maternelle, ne te réveille pas encore et que ta main palpe cette toison dont elle ne connaît qu’une tiédeur confuse,
les yeux clos gardent le trésor doucement
humide et recueille une dernière fois
la chanson du toucher sur tes paumes ravinées
Jean-Claude Pirotte
Ah, moi aussi, Jean-Claude, moi aussi je cherche l’éclat de beauté qui me consolera de la petitesse inouïe de l’existence quotidienne…
Jean-Claude Pirotte (1939-) :
Poète, romancier, peintre né à Namur, en Belgique. Avocat de 1964 à 1975, il est rayé du barreau pour avoir favorisé la tentative d’évasion d’un de ses clients (acte qu’il a toujours nié), et condamné à un emprisonnement auquel il se soustrait en vivant clandestinement jusqu’à la péremption de sa peine en 1981. Son écriture nous entraîne dans les plis du quotidien et les courbes des vignobles, “au fond des chais obscurs et du secret lumineux du paysage”
“Il y a longtemps, le namurois Jean-Claude Pirotte est entré en résistance. Contre la bêtise, les puritains, les pisse-vinaigre. Qui sont aussi les naufrageurs du vin, les fossoyeurs de la culture…”
Jacques Perrin
Amitiés nostalgiques
J’ai trois amis très chers,
et dont la qualité n’est plus depuis longtemps
discutée par personne.
Depuis bientôt trente ans,
on ne s’est pas quittés.
Ils n’ont pas la radio,
n’ont pas le téléphone,
mais j’ai de leurs nouvelles
à peu près tous les jours.
Ils aiment raconter des histoires, et des bonnes.
Ils viennent me distraire un peu, chacun leur tour.
On m’a dit qu’Honoré me ressemblait un peu.
En un mot que j’avais la gueule balzacienne.
J’ai quelque fois rêvé que j’étais son neveu,
et la chère Eugénie, ma cousine germaine.
J’ai souhaité bien souvent les connaître un peu mieux.
Apprendre d’eux comment on devient admirable.
Déchiffrer peu à peu des secrets dans leurs yeux,
un soir, où par hasard, je serais à leurs tables.
Ce que j’aurais aimé, c’est aller chez Victor,
Place des Vosges au coin, je connais bien l’addresse.
Lui dire: Il fait soleil, viens faire un tour dehors.
Jean Valjean peut attendre, après tout, rien ne presse.
Nous aurions tous les deux arpenté pas à pas le boulevard Beaumarchais,
en songeant qu’Alexandre préparait pour ce soir un superbe repas,
et que ces choses là sont toujours bonnes à prendre.
Pour me venger un peu de l’époque où je vis,
j’ai pour meilleurs amis, ces trois grands mousquetaires.
Il est assez mal vu, de nos jours par ici,
d’avoir pour compagnons des gens qui sont sous terre.
Si le monde a raison , c’est bien doux d’avoir tort.
Et je sais, croyez-moi, ce qu’on appelle un homme.
Quand parmi les vivants, je n’aurai plus personne,
il me reste Honoré, Alexandre, et Victor.
Bernard Dimay
Honoré de Balzac – 1779-1850
Alexandre Dumas- 1802-1870
Victor Hugo- 1802-1885
Alexandre Dumas- 1802-1870
Victor Hugo- 1802-1885
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