Robin Ouzman Hislop

A UNE JEUNE APHRODITE DE MARBRE

Prologue

C’était il y a dix ans : ou ce marbre ou ta vue…
Tête blonde étudiant aussi l’agrégation,
Tu me troublas. Seuls des mots ourlés d’émotions
Attardèrent tes traits, durant des mois diffus,

En mon ambre mémoire. Où je te revois mieux
En cette Aphrodite capitoline aimée
Qui s’impose à mon art, qui coiffe mes sonnets,
Emprunte ton visage et l’approche des dieux.

Transposant en l’IPhone aventure ténue,
Ces vers entre âge mûr et ta jeune étincelle
Où j’invente piano, amant et entrevues,

Il me faut te chanter sans prénom retenu.
Marbre si pur du temps et Muse fictionnelle,
Où est la faille abrupte ? Au langage, au réel ?

*
Thierry Guinhut
***

To a young marble Aphrodite

Prologue

It was ten years ago: either this marble or your sight …
Fair head also studying the agrégation,
You moved me. Only emotion hemmed words
Lingered your features, during diffuse months,

Within my amber memory. Where I see you better
In this beloved Capitoline Aphrodite
Who enforces my art, who covers my sonnets,
Borrow your face and approach it to the gods.

Transposing in the iPhone a tenuous adventure,
These verses between middle age and your young spark,
Where I invent piano, lover and encounters,

I must celebrate you without remembered name.
Marble so pure of time and fictional Muse,
Where is the steep fault? In language, in reality?
*
Jo-Elle
***

I.

L’ossature sensible aux tempes et au front,
Le crâne si mortel sous la diaphane peau,
Le regard hirondelle ont la pudeur du beau :
Caresser l’idéal, mes respects le sauront.

Praxitèlienne icône en blondeur incarnée,
Où charmer l’impossible, où les Moires calmer,
Pulpe d’ardeur sensuelle, hellénistique don,
Constante cosmologique et joie sans affront…

Or saurais-je, enthousiaste, à la sculpture absente,
Immobile, des seins, leur tendresse et frisson,
Mieux offrir que grise esquisse pour vie décente ?

Au souffle d’intellect, à ce marbre plastique,
J’offre Amour distillé, sa promesse lyrique :
Pour l’ourlet de ta lèvre et l’esprit de ton front.
*
Thierry Guinhut
***

I.

The sensible frame at the temples and forehead,
The skull so deadly under diaphanous skin,
The swallow-like gaze have beauty’s modesty:
An ideal to caress, my respects will know how to.

Praxitelian icon in fairness embodied,
Where to charm the impossible, where to calm the Fates,
Pulp of sensual ardour, hellenistic gift,
Cosmological constant and joy without affront…

But could I enthusiastically to the missing sculpture,
Still, of breasts’ tenderness and quiver,
Offer better than grey sketch of decent life?

To the breath of intellect, to this plastic marble,
I offer distilled Love, its lyrical promise :
For the hem of your lips and the spirit of your forehead.
*
Jo-Elle
***

Thierry Guinhut, born in Poitiers, France, in 1956, is an art and literary critic, who has frequently contributed to the journals Art Press, Calamar, La République des Lettres, La Revue des Deux Mondes, Encres Vagabondes and Edelweiss. Lately, his articles researching literature in foreign languages have appeared in Le Matricule des Anges, Europe and L’Atelier du roman. He has also exhibited his photography of the ponds of la Brenne and la Montagne Noire (The Black Mountain), and has held vernissages of his paintings and collages he calls “geographical triptychs”. His photograph, Le Marais poitevin (The Poitiers Marsh), well received by the press, was acclaimed winner of le Grand prix Hippolyte Bayard de Photographie 1991 (The Hippolyte Bayard Grand Prize in Photography 1991), earning him his place among the 70 modern Masters of Right Brain Left Brain Photography (Amphoto, New York, 1994). As a prose writer, he is working on a huge “polymorphous” novel, La République des rêves (The Republic of Dreams), and another novel, Les Métamorphoses de Vivant (The Metamorphoses of one’s Life), which is a mixture of fantasy, social criticism and philosophical dialogue. We are publishing a few of his lovely sonnets in his series, À une jeune Aphrodite de marbre (To a Young Aphrodite in Marble) from his anthology, Muses Academy, TBP. For more information, visit his blog,

http://www.thierry-guinhut-litteratures.com/

https://artvilla.com/plt/a-une-jeune-aphrodite-de-marbre-sonnet-cxci-poem-thierry-guinhut/

http://www.thierry-guinhut-litteratures.com/article-to-a-young-marble-aphrodite-119381338.html

 

***

Jo-Elle (re-)discovered writing very recently, when an accident put her professional career on hold for two months. She has been writing poems since, mostly to learn English as a member of AllPoetry.com, but her best poems are in her mother tongue.
An analytical mind and an eternal learner, she writes about any subject, from nature to the human condition, which she observes from a detached point of view, and even more so when the subject is close to her heart.

 

The river coursed
Through the woodlands
Bending and winding
From a source
No soul had ever viewed
In the far mountains
Where pure water
Left new impressions…

The river flowed
And foamed
With no restraint
Tumbling and crashing
Over rocks
And precipices
As it meandered its way
Down through differing terrains
Past townships and
Small villages
Where fisher-people
Cast into the deep pools in
Amongst fallen trees and the
Outcroppings of rocks…

There was a wooden bridge,
Outside a small village- stinking
Still of the chromate copper arsenate
Used to preserve it- where turbulent
Currents caused fierce eddies in
The water around the
Structure which-
When after losing energy- began to
Gurgle along unimpeded further downstream;
Here along the bank, a woman was ambling
Contentedly at leisure listening…

The river spoke to her
Suddenly of the time of inception,
And of the life it had been given to live,
And how it would, at first, be turbulent as
It flowed from its high source down through
Many differing terrains where it would
Enrich, and damage, and carve
Varying impressions,
But then, as it neared
Its termini, it would become
Slower, lazier, and more silt-laden…

Something hued the woman’s mind
as she pondered…

She realized,
That even though the river
Was always in one place, it kept moving,
And, (given that what she saw one moment was
Gone the next) she realized the river was
Moving forward with purpose, at
Times imperceptibly, at
Times fearsomely,
And bringing with it all manner
Of things it had collected along the way,
And while each morning it seemed the
Same, it changed always as it flowed
On a relentless journey to its end…

Keen to understand
The woman dipped her
hands gingerly into the water. And
As she gazed down (into her palms) she saw
Her face reflected; stirred, she cast it back into the
River where it vanished and flowed quickly downstream

“How many reflections are mingled together
With mine in this river forever flowing forward?” she asked

“That is difficult to know,” the river whispered.
“Dip your hands again into me so I may teach you.”

Again, with purpose, the woman
Thrust her hands into the water, but
This time she sprinkled it atop her head in
An ablutionary ritual. Given that the heat was great
And the amount too little, she thrust her hands in again &
Again & again until she felt clean and fully satisfied

“The river refreshes me,” the woman sighed contentedly.

“Dip your hands again,” the river whispered.
“There is more to understand than self-satisfaction.”

Angrily she thrust her hands into the water,
But this time, being fully satisfied, she climbed up and
Cast it upon a withered flower trapped in the cleft of a rock…

“See… now I have done a good deed,” the woman simpered.

“This is very good.” The river whispered. “The flower
Is nourished by your action. But since it cannot help itself;
Will you serve it again until it is strengthened?”

“NO!” The woman balked. “Let another do this.”

Unbeknownst to any
A storm was ramping up near
The source and a swollen river had
Become fiendish in its descent towards
The woodlands and the few populated villages

Bring water again to the flower;” the river whispered.

“NO!” The woman rejoined in an outrage.
“I have no intention of nurturing this lowly flower.
I am staying down here where I am comfortable and safe,
Besides….”

As she remonstrated,
A frightful wall of water
Was roaring down through
The countryside, destroying it,
Through the village, destroying it,
Over the bridge, destroying it … Suddenly
It swept with no warning towards the woman.
Screaming in piteous horror, she turned and scrambled
Up the hillside higher towards the flower, [still
Safe in the cleft of a rock] but as she did
she was inundated by a great deluge
And pulled under and away
Down towards the sea…
—————————————

Years later a youthful
Woman was ambling leisurely
Near where her mother had been swept
Away; she was seeking closure and to understand why;
Clutched in her hand was a small bag of seeds

“Have you come seeking something?” The river whispered.

“Yes … to understand why, and to give back,” she replied
Holding up her small bag of seeds.

“This is good!” the river whispered, “Plant your seeds up
Higher, near the strong trees, where they will grow in relative safety.”

“I’m sorry, that makes no sense!” she quetched. “The soil is rich and
Moist here nearer the water and the river courses peacefully;
Who would ever care for them up there?”

Authors note:

There are varying spiritual interpretations that can be inferred in this allegorical story/poem. However, know that the fundamental message is about listening to the voice of wisdom, and how by not doing so each generation has the propensity of making the same foolish mistakes as the last.

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