Aragon, La rose et le réséda ~ qu'elle vive et qui vivra verra

When I was at school in France, we learned about WWII and the French Resistance.

I loved this poem by Aragon.

It was written to honor 4 members of the French Resistance, from the left and the right, who were killed by firing squad by the Germans:

* Gabriel Péri: a French politician and journalist, member of the Communist Party, killed in 1941

* Honoré d'Estienne d'Orves: French Naval officer, called to assist General de Gaulle in 1940, killed in 1941

* Guy Moquet: son of a Communist Deputy, killed by firing squad while being held hostage, in 1941, at the age of 17

* Gilbert Dru: organised the Resistance movement within the Christian Youth, killed in 1941, in Lyon, at age 24

(Notes above translated from: http://www.chez.com/bacfrancais/roseetreseda.html)

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Tous deux adoraient la belle
Prisonnière des soldats
Lequel montait à l'échelle
Et lequel guettait en bas

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Qu'importe comment s'appelle
Cette clarté sur leur pas
Que l'un fut de la chapelle
Et l'autre s'y dérobât

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Tous les deux étaient fidèles
Des lèvres du coeur des bras
Et tous les deux disaient qu'elle
Vive et qui vivra verra

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Quand les blés sont sous la grêle
Fou qui fait le délicat
Fou qui songe à ses querelles
Au coeur du commun combat

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Du haut de la citadelle
La sentinelle tira
Par deux fois et l'un chancelle
L'autre tombe qui mourra

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Ils sont en prison Lequel
A le plus triste grabat
Lequel plus que l'autre gèle
Lequel préfère les rats

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Un rebelle est un rebelle
Nos sanglots font un seul glas
Et quand vient l'aube cruelle
Passent de vie à trépas

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Répétant le nom de celle
Qu'aucun des deux ne trompa
Et leur sang rouge ruisselle
Même couleur même éclat

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
Il coule, il coule, il se mêle
À la terre qu'il aima
Pour qu'à la saison nouvelle
Mûrisse un raisin muscat

Celui qui croyait au ciel
Celui qui n'y croyait pas
L'un court et l'autre a des ailes
De Bretagne ou du Jura
Et framboise ou mirabelle
Le grillon rechantera
Dites flûte ou violoncelle
Le double amour qui brûla
L'alouette et l'hirondelle
La rose et le réséda

Rose picture from:
http://www.rosen-meile.de/Rosengalerie/Rosen_jpgs/R/Rose_duRoi.html



Réséda picture from:
http://www.floradecanarias.com/imagenes/reseda_lancerotae.jpg



Mirabelle image from:
http://www.saveursdumonde.net/ency_4/mirabelle/mirabelle-plat.jpg



Framboise/raspberry image is my own.

Mom, her granddaughters, and Victor Hugo

MomandGranddaughters2
Originally uploaded by NanaP.

Demain, dès l'aube

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

Victor Hugo

Two other Merrit Malloy poems that speak to me...

As for me,
I would rather be able to love
things I cannot have,
Than to have things
I'm not able to love.

The Lowest Common Denominator

Love does not live
In the streets
Unless
the streets are your home.

Breath does not mean you're alive
Unless
You're so little alive
You have no bread to fill
Your mouth
Or mind.

Life isn't always a game
Unless games are your life.

Love does not live
In the streets
Unless
The streets
Are your home.

Grieving

It's weird. Some days I want to immerse myself in work and avoid feeling my grief. Other days I get it by tidal waves of grief; I miss my Mom. I wish things had been different for her. I am glad we had the opportunities we did to work through the lingering issues of our past. For that I am thankful, and I don't think that would have ever happened had she not been sick or had other circumstances not occurred. I am glad she isn't suffering, and that she isn't trapped in her body anymore. But I wish I could call her. Or chat with her online. Or just know she was out there, somewhere, being her. Okay, not out there, but here, on earth, in Minnesota... Some days I want to hide. Never talk to anyone again. Never have to compromise to accommodate anybody else's stuff. Other times I am terrified of being alone with my loss, alone with my feelings. Some days I am mad, some sad, some fine. I never was one for amusement park rides, and this process is hardly amusing.

Excerpted/adapted from 9/27/68

They buried her [that] day [. . .]

I watched the people
And I tried to find her
In their eyes.

I loved them
For loving her.

I wanted to scream
"Mom!"
"Mom!"
"I'm sorry, Mom!"

I wanted to reach her.
But there was no way to her anymore. [. . .]

They buried her [that] day.
If I were to write a thousand books
In her name, what would it matter now?
No, I can't give her anything
Anymore.

~Merrit Malloy

Epitaph

When I die
Give what's left of me away
To children
And old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
Cry for your brother
Walking the street beside you.
And when you need me,
Put your arms
Around anyone
And give them
What you need to give me.

I want to leave you something,
Something better
Than words
Or sounds.

Look for me
In the people I've known
Or loved,
And if you cannot give me away,
At least let me live on your eyes
And not in your mind.

You can love me most
By letting
Hands touch hands
By letting
Bodies touch bodies,
and by letting go
Of children
that need to be free.

Love doesn't die,
People do.
so, when all that's left of me
Is love,
Give me away.

I'll see you at home
In the earth.

~Merrit Malloy

From Iyanla

"90% of the people who've seen you, have seen your issues and not your authentic self."

Something to think about, isn't it?

"Wrong Reason"

This woman can read my mind, let me tell 'ya...
Danielle

It is not always the absence of love
That makes me seem alone.
Often it's been too much love
Given to me by the wrong people
For the wrong reasons
That keeps me here,
Gladly alone,
Rather than have the life sucked
Out of me by the violent needs
Of other minds and bodies.

That does not mean
That I'm not grateful.
But I am sad.
Not to be able to put my arms
Around those who truly love me
And give them something more
Than polite indifference.
Oh, how I tried.
I think they should know
I tried.
And I choose to be alone
Rather than wrapped in arms
I could never need.

From http://www.merritmalloy.com

Poetry © Merrit Malloy

Chanel

Chanel is our dog. Well, she's Morgan's dog. She's a real sweetheart; I'm glad we have her.

She is supposedly half chocolate lab, half German Shepherd. I think her third half may involve some Rhodesian Ridgeback. When she gets mad or nervous, there is a ridge of hair that stands up straight all along her spine. I have never seen that in other dogs. Let me know if you know something about this that I don't.

Otherwise, her left side must be the German Shepherd and her right the lab, given her ears...

Truisms

These are by Jenny Holzer.
http://mfx.dasburo.com/art/truisms.html

Toxicity

Unfortunately, I have come to realize the permanence of toxicity. Just as there are toxic plants, foods, chemicals, etc., so are there toxic people.

I don't know what constitutes reality. I don't know the "best" or "right" way to live, or think, or feel. But I think I know a few things:

Most people are doing their best most of the time. It's not just you, or me.

Everybody has a story. Each of us is entitled to own his or her story.

While "everything" is not about me, my life is, just as yours is about you. None of us has the right to deny another that truth.

Respect for others' feelings, thoughts, opinions, beliefs, for others, period, is key.

Fear is a powerful motivator.

It's far easier to lie than to deal with the truth of your choices.

Nobody's pain is worse than anybody else's.

Here and now is not all that there is. The past determines where we are now and how we got here, but we choose what we do from here on out. We choose how to use that experience to define ourselves and determine the rest of our lives.

There are no "bad" babies, so people are not born "bad," so toxicity must be an evolved characteristic.

Some people are toxic. It is probably best to avoid them.

Love doesn't die. Bodies do. We are not our bodies, though they are part of us. What makes you who you are does not have a physical home; therefore, if your body dies, it does not - you do not.

Life doesn't happen to you. Rather, it is the sum total of each of our experiences and of the choices we make. My life comprises my experience and my choices; yours comprises yours.

We are responsible for the choices we make.

But, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.

I'm still thinking...

I remembered something...

Back in the day, let's say, in about 1984 or so, I went to a bookstore late one winter evening, in Madison, Wisconsin. There, I found a book of poetry with a title I liked, so I bought it. Being just about, or not quite 19, the emotional and sentimentally romantic poetry of the author appealed to me. I sat in the car in the cold and the snow, waiting for my friends, and reading poems out loud to my then-boyfriend, Tom.

I lost that book a long time ago, but found another copy in a used bookstore. Previously, I had also found a website with a collection of the woman's poems. I will try to find her other books again. Many of her writings still speak to me.

Years later, in about 1999, after being sick, and depressed, and spiraling downward for years, I re-read one of her poems, and knew what I had to do. I am not finished yet, but I have made significant strides, and wanted to share that poem. I still keep it in mind in trying to "turn my life around," and it still helps center and ground my thinking as well as motivate me:

Choices

All you have to do
to change your life
is to change your mind
...it really is that simple
But
it isn't always easy.

All you have to do
to stop feeling bad
is to start feeling good
But
"feeling good" is not a one-time event
It is a decision we make
minute by minute
day by day
...It is a creation.

The way to change the world
is to change
your attitude towards it
...not just once,
but all the time.

Merrit Malloy, From My song for Him Who Never Sang for Me

I think she's still got something there. It's made a difference for me, that's for sure!

Talk to you soon,
Danielle

Something I heard

I adapted this to fit me...
They didn't make me stay, they just didn't let me go.

Interesting thought, huh?

Thinking...

A work in slow progress!!

Okay, so it's a slooooooooooooooooooooow work in progress; what can I say?

In the meantime, I have also opened an account where you can view my art. That can be viewed at http://www.flickr.com/photos/dapmapmgmp/

My poetry and other writings will be posted to this blog as time allows.

I will try to write something of substance tomorrow...