Dear Zazie, Here is today’s Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag dedicated to his muse. Follow us on twitter @cowboycoleridge.
Rhett
The Lovers’ Chronicle
Dear Muse,
waitin’
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so many roads
walked alone
but now,
order another
french 77 and see
if i can even come close
no doubt, a connection
that speaks of a time
and place i had long
given up for dead
bring it back,
bring it back
do you know
what this means
to me
i think of you
and nothin’ beyond
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incapable of stayin’ in one place
prone to tenderness
but not a fan of,
which is to say
scared shitless,
of intimacy
a drink in hand
devoted to the moments,
recalled and placed at the altar
this is the vision, from where i wait
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awake somewhere
around three-thirty
was it a spirit,
likely not
they no longer
speak to me
as they once did
was it the moonbeam
movin’ across my bed
was it you
most likely
i arrange
my many pillows
and wait
then from afar, the music
a strange medley,
slow and mournful
beginnin’ with two or three
high notes, and descendin’
at each couplet
descendin’, almost
imperceptible
into solemnity
a smothered
enchantin’
sound
then it diminishes,
and dies away
into silence
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Be silent; Drawn through prairies by desire
Naked body shiverin’, wave on wave
Slowly, turnin’ dreamy eyes toward you
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| Manuel Maria Barbosa l’Hedois du Bocage | |
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Today is the birthday of Manuel Maria Barbosa du Bocage (Setubal, Portugal; 15 September 1765 – 21 December 1805 Lisbon); Neoclassic poet, writing at the beginning of his career under the pen name Elmano Sadino.
Verse
A self-portrait in verse…
Magro, de olhos azuis, carão moreno,
Nariz alto no meio, e não pequeno;
- Incapaz de assistir num só terreno,
- Mais propenso ao furor do que à ternura;
- Bebendo em níveas mãos, por taça escura,
- De zelos infernais letal veneno;
- Devoto incensador de mil deidades
- (Digo, de moças mil) num só memento,
- E somente no altar amando os frades,
- Eis Bocage, em quem luz algum talento;
- Saíram dele mesmo estas verdades,
- Num dia em que se achou mais pachorrento.
Translated from Portuguese:
Thin, blue eyes, tanned face,
His fair share of feet, middlin’ height,
Sad of face, the same of figure,
High nose in the middle, and not small;
- Incapable of stayin’ in just one place,
- More prone to furor than to tenderness;
- Drinkin’ in his pale hands, out of a dark cup,
- From hellish zeal lethal poison;
- Devote incense burner to a thousand deities
- (I mean, a thousand girls) in a single moment,
- Lovin’ the friars only at the altar,
- This is Bocage, in whom some talent shines;
- From himself these truths have come,
- On a day that he felt more dull.
O vento não se mexe, nem respira ;
Deixam de namorar-se os passarinhos,
Para me ouvir chorar ao som da lira.
– Soneto XXIX in “Rimas”. Tomo II
And today 15 september 1868, Arnhem. Gestorven: 17 juli 1954, Amsterdam
Mac Tag
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