Sanglots

 "Poetry," said somebody clever, "is what gets lost in translation."

This morning I've got Verlaine rapping at the window, like the ghost of Catherine Earnshaw, asking to be let in.

"Come in, come in to where it's warm" I say.

But he's a miserable cove.

"Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l' 'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'un langeur
Monotone...."

"What's that in English?" I ask.

But it can't be done. It's not just about the meaning of the words it's about the vowel sounds. The deep, resonant bass of all those "o"s. Render "sanglots" as "sobs" or "sighs" and you've already lost the essence of what he's telling us. The thing he has to say is trite, the sound of it in French- but only in French- is profound.

So off he goes again into the chill and the damp, hands in pockets. slouch hat pulled down over his eyes, weaving about in his wild and melancholic French way.

The man who makes self-pity beautiful......

Picture Diary 110

 Picture Diary 110

1. Fishermen



2. Come, join the dance



3. Come, join the dance



4. Dorian Gray



5. If the sun fell to Earth



6. Red and Blue