The Lovers’ Chronicle 12 July – full woman – art by Eugène Boudin, Max Jacob & Modigliani – verse by Jacob & Pablo Neruda

Dear Zazie,  Here is today’s Lovers’ Almanac from Mac Tag to his muse.  Be sure and read the Modigliani-Hébuterne love story below.  It is literally, to die for.  Follow us on twitter @cowboycoleridge.  Best, Rhett

The Lover’s Almanac

Dear Muse,

this should be easy
i just need to read the title
and ride the inspiration
for you are that and more
everything i have written
over the past ten years
has come from you
the level of devotion
i espouse is well considered
and i will not take for granted
that which you have allowed

© copyright 2020 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

after, long months later,
the beauty and sorrow
of havin’ (do i still)

after you in me
and me in you

hold your arms between
mine and my body
on your body

you are even
more than before

i see how much
without knowin’
i am there

here i am,
and you

© copyright 2019 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

what brilliance
between two as one
this full woman
and this lucky man

on a journey
not taken lightly
a journey charged
with findin’
and followin’
and exceedin’
their dreams

© copyright 2018 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

The followin’ poem was inspired by Pablo Neruda’s “Full Woman, Fleshy Apple, Hot Moon”:

Full Woman

Full woman, supple flesh, hot moon
Thick smell of pine trees down by the river
What obscure brilliance opens between two lovers
What ancient need does a woman touch with her senses

Lovin’ this full woman is a journey not taken lightly
A journey frought with charged passion and sudden storms
With clashes of dreams and desires and lightnin’ strikes
That can leave you defeated with a single touch of her lips

© Cowboy Coleridge mac tag copyright 2012 all rights reserved

 

Today is the birthday of Eugène Boudin (Eugène Louis Boudin; Honfleur 12 July 1824 – 8 August 1898 Deauville); painter and one of the first French landscape painters to paint outdoors.  Boudin was a marine painter, rendering of all that goes upon the sea and along its shores.  His pastels, garnered the eulogy of Baudelaire.  Corot called him the “king of the skies”.

Gallery

Boudin, c. 1890s

Boudin, c. 1890s

Honfleur, la plage

Honfleur, la plage

 One of Boudin’s “Brittany” paintings

 Le Havre, The Port (1884) Brooklyn Museum

Sailboats at Trouville, 1884, Yale University Art Gallery, Collection of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Mellon.

Venice-Seascape at the Giudecca, 1895, Princeton University Art Museum

Today is the birthday of Max Jacob (Quimper, Finistère, Brittany 12 July 1876 – 5 March 1944 Drancy Deportation Camp); poet, painter, writer, and critic.  Max Jacob is regarded as an important link between the symbolists and the surrealists, as can be seen in his prose poems Le cornet à dés (The Dice Box, 1917 – the 1948 Gallimard edition was illustrated by Jean Hugo) and in his paintings.  His writings include the novel Saint Matorel (1911), the verses Le laboratoire central (1921), and Le défense de Tartuffe (1919), which expounds his philosophical and religious attitudes.

Having moved outside of Paris in May, 1936, to settle in Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire, Loiret, Max Jacob was arrested on 24 February 1944 by the Gestapo, and interned at Orléans prison.  Jewish by birth, Jacob’s brother Gaston had been previously arrested in January, 1944, deported to Auschwitz concentration camp, and gassed upon arrival with his sister Myrthe-Lea.  Following his incarceration at Orléans, Max was then transferred to Drancy internment camp from where he was to be transported in the next convoy to Auschwitz in Poland.  However, said to be suffering from bronchial pneumonia, Max Jacob died in the infirmary.  First interred in Ivry, after the war ended in 1949 his remains were transferred by his artist friends Jean Cassou and René Iché (who sculpted the tomb of the poet) to the cemetery at Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire in the Loiret department.

Après la mort de mon amour, oh ! de longs mois après, la douleur et la joie d’avoir aimé (t’aimè-je encore ?) après l’obscur charnier des ruptures sanglantes, et morte et mort et toi en moi et moi en toi, et morte et mort, moi que voici et toi là-bas, je te parlai, ô l’angélique, je te parlai de cette visite dans la neige à la porte de ta maison en ce Paris de velours blanc, pierre de lune, ombre et lumière en chaque rue.
« Je savais que vous êtes fou, car tous les médecins vous le diront, les plus vrais fous sont les plus calmes. »
Et morte et mort, et toi en moi et moi en toi, et morte et mort, moi que voici, et toi là-bas
Ballade de la visite nocturne,
un des plus célèbres poèmes de Max Jacob.
La « femme » en question est René Dulsou.
[…] mon Dieu joli. Je tiens tes bras entre mes bras et mon corps sur ton corps. […] Tu es encore plus beau qu’auparavant, chéri […]. J’aime à sentir ton corps dans mes bras […]. Ton ventre est dur aussi. […] Je suis amoureux de ton cadavre et je vois combien je t’aimais sans le savoir […] jeune homme plus que charmant, plus que séduisant […].
Mise au tombeau,
hymne amoureux de Max Jacob
au corps du Christ descendu de la croix.
Ah! L’envie me démange
De te faire un ange,
De te faire un ange
En fourrageant ton sein,
Marie Laurencin,
Marie Laurencin!
Chansonnette galante
de Max Jacob, vers 1908.
Marianne avait un cheval blanc
Rouge par derrière noir par devant
Il avait une crinière
Comme une crémaillère
Il avait une étoile au front
Du crin sur les boulons
Il avait des sabots grenats
De la même couleur que vos bas
Où allez vous Marianne
Avec votre alezane
(…)
La Chanson de Marianne, mise en musique et chantée après guerre par Jacques Douai, est un des dix huit poèmes publiés en 1925
A Paris
Sur un cheval gris
A Nevers
Sur un cheval vert
A Issoire
Sur un cheval noir
Ah! Qu’il est beau, qu’il est beau!
Ah! Qu’il est beau, qu’il est beau!
Tiou!
(…)
« Pour les enfants et les raffinés »,
Œuvres Burlesques et Mystiques
de Frère Matorel
1912

Gallery 

photographed by Carl van Vechten

photographed by Carl van Vechten

Today is the birthday of Amedeo Modigliani (Amedeo Clemente Modigliani; Livorno, Tuscany 12 July 1884 – 24 January 1920 Paris); painter and sculptor who worked mainly in France.  He is known for portraits and nudes in a modern style characterized by elongation of faces and figures, that were not received well during his lifetime, but later found acceptance.  Modigliani spent his youth in Italy, where he studied the art of antiquity and the Renaissance, until he moved to Paris in 1906.  Modigliani’s œuvre includes paintings and drawings.  From 1909 to 1914, however, he devoted himself mainly to sculpture.  During his life, Amedeo Modigliani had little success, but after his death he achieved greater popularity.  He died at age 35 in Paris of tubercular meningitis.

He met the first serious love of his life, Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, in 1910, when he was 26.  They had studios in the same building, and although 21-year-old Anna was recently married, they began an affair.  Anna was tall (as Modigliani was only 5 foot 5 inches) with dark hair (like Modigliani’s), pale skin and grey-green eyes, she embodied Modigliani’s aesthetic ideal and the pair became engrossed in each other.  After a year, however, Anna returned to her husband.

In the spring of 1917, the Russian sculptor Chana Orloff introduced him to a beautiful 19-year-old art student named Jeanne Hébuterne.  From a conservative bourgeois background, Hébuterne was renounced by her devout Roman Catholic family for her liaison with Modigliani, whom they saw as little more than a debauched derelict.  Despite her family’s objections, soon they were living together.  Modigliani ended his relationship with the English poet and art critic Beatrice Hastings and a short time later Hebuterne and Modigliani moved together into a studio on the Rue de la Grande Chaumière. Jeanne began to pose for him and appears in several of his paintings.  Hébuterne became a principal subject for Modigliani’s art.  Towards the end of the First World War, early in 1918, Modigliani left Paris with Hébuterne to escape from the war and travelled to Nice and Cagnes-sur-Mer.  They would spend a year in France.  In May 1919 they returned to Paris with their infant daughter and moved into an apartment on the rue de la Grande Chaumière.  After Hébuterne became pregnant again, Modigliani got engaged to her, but Jeanne’s parents were against the marriage, especially because of Modigliani’s reputation as an alcoholic and drug user.  The wedding plans were shattered independently of Jeanne’s parents’ resistance when Modigliani discovered he had a severe form of tuberculosis.

After not hearing from him for several days, a neighbour checked on the family and found Modigliani in bed delirious and holding onto Hébuterne. A doctor was summoned, but little could be done because Modigliani was in the final stage of his disease.  He died at the Hôpital de la Charité.  There was an enormous funeral, attended by many from the artistic communities in Montmartre and Montparnasse.  When Modigliani died, twenty-one-year-old Hébuterne was eight months pregnant with their second child.  A day later, Hébuterne was taken to her parents’ home.  There, inconsolable, she threw herself out of a fifth-floor window, a day after Modigliani’s death, killing herself and her unborn child.  Modigliani was buried in Père Lachaise Cemetery.  Hébuterne was buried at the Cimetière de Bagneux near Paris, and it was not until 1930 that her embittered family allowed her body to be moved to rest beside Modigliani.  A single tombstone honors them both.  His epitaph reads: “Struck down by Death at the moment of glory”.  Hers reads: “Devoted companion to the extreme sacrifice”.  Managing only one solo exhibition in his life and giving his work away in exchange for meals in restaurants, Modigliani died destitute.

Gallery

Amedeo_Modigliani_Photo

Portrait of Pablo Picasso, 1915

Portrait of Chaim Soutine, 1916

Caryatid, now at The New Art Gallery Walsall

 

Portrait of Juan Gris, 1915

 

Nu Couché au coussin Bleu, one of the finest examples of reclining nudes by Modigliani, 1916

 

Modigliani, Pablo Picasso and André Salmon, 1916

 

Portrait of Léopold Zborowski, 1918

 

Jeanne Hébuterne

Portrait of Jeanne Hébuterne, 1918

 

 in 1919, near the end of his life

Grave of Modigliani and Hébuterne in Père Lachaise Cemetery

 

Nude

Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda 1963.jpg

Pablo Neruda in 1963

Today is the birthday of Pablo Neruda (the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet-diplomat and politician Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto (JParral, Maule Region; July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973Santiago).  He derived his pen name from the Czech poet Jan Neruda.  Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971.  He wrote in a variety of styles, including surrealist poems, historical epics, overtly political manifestos, a prose autobiography, and passionate love poems.  He often wrote in green ink, which was his personal symbol for desire and hope.  The Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez once called Neruda “the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language.”  I highly recommend his erotically-charged love poems such as the ones in his 1924 collection Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair).

  • Debajo de tu piel vive la luna.
    • The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
    • Oda a la Bella Desnuda (Ode to a Beautiful Nude), from Nuevas Odas Elementales (1956), trans. Nathaniel Tarn in Selected Poems by Pablo Neruda [Houghton Mifflin, 1990, ISBN 0-395-54418-1] (p. 349).
  • Mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada
    • My love feeds on your love, beloved
      • From “Si Tu Me Olvidas” (If You Forget Me)

Es la hora, amor mío, de apartar esta rosa sombría,
cerrar las estrellas, enterrar la ceniza en la tierra:
y, en la insurrección de la luz, despertar con los que despertaron
o seguir en el sueño alcanzando la otra orilla del mar que no tiene otra orilla.

  • It is time, love, to break off that sombre rose,
    shut up the stars and bury the ash in the earth;
    and, in the rising of the light, wake with those who awoke
    or go on in the dream, reaching the other shore of the sea which has no other shore.
  • La Barcarola Termina (The Watersong Ends) (1967), trans. Anthony Kerrigan in Selected Poems by Pablo Neruda [Houghton Mifflin, 1990, ISBN 0-395-54418-1] (p. 500).

Veinte Poemas de Amor y una Canción Desesperada (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair) (1924)

trans. William S. Merwin [Penguin Classics, 1993, ISBN 0-140-18648-4]

  • ¿Quién escribe tu nombre con letras de humo entre las estrellas del sur?
    Ah déjame recordarte cómo eras entonces, cuando aún no existías.

    • Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
      Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
    • “Every Day You Play” (Juegas Todos los Días), XIV, p. 35.
  • Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.
    • I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees.
    • “Every Day You Play” (Juegas Todos las Días), XIV, p. 35.
  • Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
    y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.

    • I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
      and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
    • “I Like for You to be Still” (Me Gustas Cuando Callas), p. 37.
  • Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
    • Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
    • “Tonight I Can Write” (Puedo Escribir), XX, p. 49.
  • Es tan corto el amor y tan largo el olvido.
    • Love is so short and forgetting is so long.
    • “Tonight I Can Write” (Puedo Escribir), XX, p. 51.

Mac Tag

The song of the day goes out to The Rolling Stones who played their first gig on this day in 1962: “Angie” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXRExocnpUw

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head. – Shakespeare

Having inherited a vigorous mind / From my old fathers, I must nourish dreams / And leave a woman and a man behind / As vigorous of mind… – W.B. Yeats

I am learning how to compromise the wild dream ideals and the necessary realities without such screaming pain. – Sylvia Plath

I was just interested, endlessly interested, foolishly, unadulteratedly, with unparalleled vigor. – Gay Talese

Tonight I can write the saddest lines…Pablo Neruda

I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. – Sylvia Plath

 

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