For all you folks who can speak Spanish and want to see a fine audio poetry site in that language, here is part of an email I got from Malugo for an audio poem called La Marioneta (The Puppet, in English), which is here on Desde el Alma.
“En el día de hoy traigo un poema para pensar y actuar en la vida, del mexicano Johnny Welsh, La Marioneta. Siempre se ha tenido la idea de que este poema lo escribió el colombiano García Marquez, pero la realidad es que Welsh había escrito este poema a su compañero de títeres “Mofles”, pero de alguna manera su nombre había sido sustituido por el nombre del Premio Nobel.”
With the aid of the Google translator, I was able to find out that the poem has quite a history. It has its own page in the Museum of Hoaxes, Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ Final Farewell. The poem is translated to English on there, (which is great for me even though I did listen to La Marioneta, which sounded beautiful in Spanish). It’s written in the nature of Instantes/Pick More Daisies.
My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hatred on ice
and wait for the sun to come out. With a dream of Van Gogh
I would paint on the stars a poem by Benedetti,
and a song by Serrat would be my serenade to the moon.
It’s an interesting story how people came to think it was written by Marquez, so check it out, whether you speak English, Spanish or both.
Here is a poem I came across by Eugenius Roche, adding to our poetry on Napoleon. (We noted last February that Lord Byron covered both Elba and St. Helena.) Eugenius Roche, although born in Dublin in 1786, was actually raised in France, and moved to London around 1804, where he worked as editor on a magazine that published some of Byron’s early poems. I’m just guessing, but since Mr. Roche was a young man actually living in Paris during the years leading up to Napoleon’s coronation, he probably felt a lot more connected to the events than the English poets. Roche’s father was a language professor who made sure his children spoke several languages, but Roche’s first language was considered to be French and he had composed and published several poems in French before going to England. The comments after the title belong to Mr. Roche.
THE EXILE.
The following sonnet is founded on the accounts of St. Helena, published when that island became the prison of the greatest conqueror of modern times. Thunder-storms were represented as altogether unknown. It appears, however, by the observations of his friends, that serenity is far from being the general character of the climate.
Oh, for a peal of thunder!—smile no more,
Eternal sunshine, thou fatiguest my soul!
In calm and majesty no longer roll
Vast ocean! but in all thy tempests roar,
And lash with mountain-waves my prison shore!
Send forth your voices, angels of the pole,
Hither wild whirlwinds be your constant goal,
And give my spirit wings of storm to soar:
I’ll rush into the past, and as around
The mingling thunders of your conflict peal,
Shall burst upon mine ear the battle sound,
Shall break upon mine eye the ranks of steel,
Till planting o’er the earth my flag unfurled,
I’ll stand, and seem once more the monarch of a world!
Japan invades. Far Eastern vines
Run from the clay banks they are
Supposed to keep from eroding.
Up telephone poles,
Which rear, half out of leafage
As though they would shriek,
Like things smothered by their own
Green, mindless, unkillable ghosts.
In Georgia, the legend says
That you must close your windows
At night to keep it out of the house.
The glass is tinged with green, even so,
Gold! gold! gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten graven hammer’d and roll’d;
Heavy to get and light to hold;
Hoarded, barter’d, bought and cold,
Stolen, borrow’d, squander’d, doled:
Spurn’d by the young but hugg’d by the old;
To the very verge of the churchyard mold;
Price of many a crime untold;
Gold! gold! gold! gold!
Good or bad a thousand fold!
How widely its agencies vary–
To save–to ruin–to curse–to bless
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamp’d with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.
Today we’ll look at some poems about gold. It’s the day in 1848 when James W. Marshall discovered a gold nugget at Sutter’s Mill in northern California, which led to the gold rush of ‘49, and although the above snippet from Miss Kilmansegg: Her Moral (by Thomas Hood 1799-1845), is not about the gold rush per se, we can start with that one anyway, because I like it.
Here is one about a disillusioned prospector, who decided the search was not worth the trouble and was real happy to return to mother’s bosom (reprinted from Leavenworth, Kansas Evening Dispatch in the Rocky Mountain News, Denver, 10/20/1859): Read the rest of this entry »
The Baltimore Sun reports that the “Poe Toaster” who faithfully visited Poe’s grave every January 19th for 60 years failed to show up at midnight on January 19, 2010. He would arrive sometime between midnight and 5:30 a.m. and leave a bottle of cognac and three roses.
Jeff Jerome, the curator of the Edgar Allan Poe House in Baltimore, Maryland told the Baltimore Sun that there was nothing to make anyone think the toaster wasn’t coming this year. He said the man sometimes knelt at the tombstone or put his hands on it. Sometimes he would leave a note along with his other gifts.
As the ritual came to be known over the years, people would gather nearby to watch but would not disturb the Poe Toaster. A group of 30-50 people came this year but left disappointed. People speculated that the toaster was ill, or chose to stop coming after the bicentennial of Poe’s birthday last year (or perhaps the 60th year anniversary of his own visits).
Mr Jerome said he would continue to keep vigil each morning of January 19 until 2012. “After two years if he doesn’t show up, I think we can safely assume the tribute has ended,” he said.
