The Lovers’ Chronicle 20 July – extinguish – verse by Petrarch

The Lovers’ Chronicle 20 July – extinguish – verse by Petrarch – art by Max Lieberman

20 July 2023 By Rhett 0 In Love, Poems, Random, Songs

Dear Zazie, Howzit goin’? Same here. Git some early porch time in before the day heats up. Tend to the chores. Maybe go down to the swimmin’ hole. Cook up somethin’ good. Drink some mezcal. Do some readin’ and writin’. The life of a cowboy poet. Here is today’s Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag to his muse. Follow us on twitter @cowboycoleridge. Well, the last line, “For he makes a fine end who dies loving well.”, certainly makes me pause to reflect. What do you think? And, I love the song of the day; even if, even if I am no good at forgiveness! Be good, Rhett

The Lover’s Chronicle

Dear Muse,

one could argue

that my entire

output of verse

is an “Il Canzoniere”

for you

it has been enough

for it must be

this vision

this pursuit

these words for you

brings to my thoughts,

comfort, understandin’

sufferin’, solace

this can be counted on

and not taken away

the breeze, blowin’ your hair

stirrin’, bein’ stirred in turn,

scatterin’ then gatherin’ again

linger ’round, pierces till i feel

and i seem to find you, then

i realise how far away you are

now comforted, now despair,

now longin’, now seein’

“And you,
how do you survive?”
i take pleasure
in great beauty

now in the twilight
this is enough
for it must be
this vision
this pursuit
these words for you

this can be counted on
and not taken away

“Have you known
unrequited love?”
oh yes, several
one might say
it is my speciality
it is perhaps
the best of all
the loves for me

one could argue
that my entire
output of verse
is an “Il Canzoniere”
for the Laura’s
i have known

in my youth
i struggled constantly
with the notion that the one
was out there waitin’ for me

i would still be strugglin’
had not repeated heartbreak,
bitter but salutary for me,
extinguished the coolin’ flames

Petrarch

Today is the birthday of Francesco Petrarca (Arezzo; July 20, 1304 – July 19, 1374 Arquà), commonly anglicized as Petrarch; Italian scholar and poet in Renaissance Italy, and one of the earliest humanists. Petrarch’s rediscovery of Cicero’s letters is often credited for initiating the 14th-century Renaissance. Petrarch is often considered the founder of Humanism. In the 16th century, Pietro Bembo created the model for the modern Italian language based on Petrarch’s works, as well as those of Giovanni Boccaccio, and, to a lesser extent, Dante Alighieri. Petrarch would be later endorsed as a model for Italian style by the Accademia della Crusca. Petrarch’s sonnets were admired and imitated throughout Europe during the Renaissance and became a model for lyrical poetry. He is also known for being the first to develop the concept of the “Dark Ages.”

On 6 April 1327, after Petrarch gave up his vocation as a priest, the sight of a woman called “Laura” in the church of Sainte-Claire d’Avignon awoke in him a lasting passion, celebrated in the Rime sparse (“Scattered rhymes”). Later, Renaissance poets who copied Petrarch’s style named this collection of 366 poems Il Canzoniere (“Song Book”). Laura may have been Laura de Noves, the wife of Count Hugues de Sade (an ancestor of the Marquis de Sade). There is little definite information in Petrarch’s work concerning Laura, except that she is lovely to look at, fair-haired, with a modest, dignified bearing. Laura and Petrarch had little or no personal contact. According to his “Secretum”, she refused him because she was already married. He channeled his feelings into love poems that were exclamatory rather than persuasive, and wrote prose that showed his contempt for men who pursue women. Upon her death in 1348, the poet found that his grief was as difficult to live with as was his former despair. Later in his “Letter to Posterity”, Petrarch wrote: “In my younger days I struggled constantly with an overwhelming but pure love affair – my only one, and I would have struggled with it longer had not premature death, bitter but salutary for me, extinguished the cooling flames. I certainly wish I could say that I have always been entirely free from desires of the flesh, but I would be lying if I did”.

Laura

Sonnet 227

Original Italian	English translation by A. S. Kline
Aura che quelle chiome bionde et crespe cercondi et movi, et se’ mossa da loro, soavemente, et spargi quel dolce oro, et poi ’l raccogli, e ’n bei nodi il rincrespe, tu stai nelli occhi ond’amorose vespe mi pungon sí, che ’nfin qua il sento et ploro, et vacillando cerco il mio thesoro, come animal che spesso adombre e ’ncespe: ch’or me ’l par ritrovar, et or m’accorgo ch’i’ ne son lunge, or mi sollievo or caggio, ch’or quel ch’i’ bramo, or quel ch’è vero scorgo. Aër felice, col bel vivo raggio rimanti; et tu corrente et chiaro gorgo, ché non poss’io cangiar teco vïaggio?	Breeze, blowing that blonde curling hair, stirring it, and being softly stirred in turn, scattering that sweet gold about, then gathering it, in a lovely knot of curls again, you linger around bright eyes whose loving sting pierces me so, till I feel it and weep, and I wander searching for my treasure, like a creature that often shies and kicks: now I seem to find her, now I realise she’s far away, now I’m comforted, now despair, now longing for her, now truly seeing her. Happy air, remain here with your living rays: and you, clear running stream, why can’t I exchange my path for yours?

Original Italian

English translation by A. S. Kline

Aura che quelle chiome bionde et crespe
cercondi et movi, et se’ mossa da loro,
soavemente, et spargi quel dolce oro,
et poi ’l raccogli, e ’n bei nodi il rincrespe,

tu stai nelli occhi ond’amorose vespe
mi pungon sí, che ’nfin qua il sento et ploro,
et vacillando cerco il mio thesoro,
come animal che spesso adombre e ’ncespe:

ch’or me ’l par ritrovar, et or m’accorgo
ch’i’ ne son lunge, or mi sollievo or caggio,
ch’or quel ch’i’ bramo, or quel ch’è vero scorgo.

Aër felice, col bel vivo raggio
rimanti; et tu corrente et chiaro gorgo,
ché non poss’io cangiar teco vïaggio?

Breeze, blowing that blonde curling hair,
stirring it, and being softly stirred in turn,
scattering that sweet gold about, then
gathering it, in a lovely knot of curls again,

you linger around bright eyes whose loving sting
pierces me so, till I feel it and weep,
and I wander searching for my treasure,
like a creature that often shies and kicks:

now I seem to find her, now I realise
she’s far away, now I’m comforted, now despair,
now longing for her, now truly seeing her.

Happy air, remain here with your
living rays: and you, clear running stream,
why can’t I exchange my path for yours?

Love, who lives and reigns in my thought and keeps his principal seat in my heart, comes like an armed warrior into my forehead, there places himself and there sets up his banner. She who teaches me to love and to suffer and who wishes that reason, modesty and reverence should restrain my great desire and burning hope, thrusts aside and disdains our ardour. Wherefore Love in terror flies to my heart, abandoning all his enterprise, and laments and trembles; there he hides himself and no more appears without. What can I do, when my lord is afraid, except stay with him until the last hour? For he makes a fine end who dies loving well.

Today is the birthday of Max Liebermann (Berlin 20 July 1847 – 8 February 1935 Berlin); painter and printmaker, and one of the leading proponents of Impressionism in Germany. He was married in 1884 to Martha Marckwald (1857–1943).