Most popular?

But the thing that surprised me most was that the most popular poem I've published - so far - is this one.

Explanations on a postcard.

And of course...

... the reason why a couple of the recent pomes were in French was the strange desire that came over me while we were down on the Loire to start reading French poetry.  And I just happened to have a book with me (an historical anthology of French poems). 

However there was the immense barrier of my poor French to overcome (a weak 'O' level long  ago). 

So I had ...  to ... translate ... every ... word ... with ... a ... dictionary ... in ... my ... hand.  And then try to work out the colloquial meaning.  I'm sure it was good for me.  And it doubtless explains oddities in some of the translations this month.

Last Poem: Why Ernest Dowson?

The last Poem of the Week was chosen not only because it was an attempt to echo Verlaine in English - a pastiche, if you like, of the previous POTW.

Ernest Dowson was born locally (Lee) and is best remembered for phrases like "Days of Wine and Roses" and "Gone with the Wind."   He's buried in Brockley and Ladywell Cemetery, and a few weeks back there was a small ceremony by his restored grave (see Brockley Central).

Poem of the Week

After Paul Verlaine-I
Ernest Dowson

Tears fall within mine heart,
As rain upon the town:
Whence does this languor start,
Possessing all mine heart?

O sweet fall of the rain
Upon the earth and roofs!
Unto an heart in pain,
O music of the rain!

Tears that have no reason
Fall in my sorry heart:
What! there was no treason?
This grief hath no reason.

Nay! the more desolate,
Because, I know not why,
(Neither for love nor hate)
Mine heart is desolate.

Poem of the Week

Mon Rêve Familier
Paul Verlaine

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
D'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime,
Et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même
Ni tout à fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend.
Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur transparent
Pour elle seule, hélas! cesse d'être un problème
Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême,
Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant.

Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse? Je l'ignore.
Son nom? Je me souviens qu'il est doux et sonore,
Comme ceux des aimés que la vie exila.
Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,
Et, pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a
L'inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.

(Broad translation:
I often have this strange and penetrating dream
Of an unknown woman, whom I love and who loves me,
and who, each time, is never quite the same
nor completely another, and who loves and understands me.

For she understands me; my heart, transparent
to her alone, alas, is no longer a problem,
at least not to her; and when my pale brow is clammy
she alone knows how to refresh it, with her tears.

Is she brunette, blonde or redheaded? I don't know.
Her name? I recall that it's sweet and sonorous
like the names of lovers whom Life sent into exile.
Her gaze is like the gaze of a statue,
and her voice,  distant, calm and deep ,
has the inflection of beloved voices that have died).