Marie Marshall

Author. Poet. Editor.

Tag: French

‘Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres’ – critique par Thierry Guinhut.

‘At Jenners, Edinburgh’ (detail) © Paul Thompson

‘At Jenners, Edinburgh’ (detail) © Paul Thompson

For my Francophone readers, here is a review of the sonnet anthology The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes, of which I was Deputy Editor. The review is by Thierry Guinhut, a well-regarded reviewer in France. The image above is detailed from one which contributes to the visual layout of the anthology. Thierry’s review is glowing; most reviews have been good so far, with the exception of one ‘critic’ who seems to imagine some kind of Corsican vendetta exists between him and the Editor-in-Chief. The anthology is one of the many published items you can find under the ‘Works‘ tab on this web site.

Seulement dans le Vieux Carré

Decatur St., New Orleans, by Russell Lee.

Decatur St., New Orleans, by Russell Lee.

Seulement dans le Vieux Carré

Seulement dans le Vieux Carré
tombe mon coeur au trottoir,
là-bas où les maqueraux crient
  “Hé, chère!”.

Il me faut regarder de nouveau,
peut-être avec les yeux
d’un oiseau de printemps,
douces, à la teinte parme;
ou comme les Acadiennes
pendant la semaine sainte…

En cheminant à la Rue Bourbon
– en plein soleil
ou à la tombée bruyante de la nuit –
je le ramasserai, mon coeur,
qui nage sur
  un flot de jazz…

  et ça suffit pour vivre.


Only in the Quarter
does my heart fall to the sidewalk –
down there, where the pimps call out
“Hey, honey!”

I need to take another look,
maybe with the eyes of a spring bird,
soft, violet-hued;
Or like the Cajun girls
at Easter time…

Making my way along Bourbon Street
– in full sunlight,
or around clamorous nightfall –
I’ll pick it up, my heart
that’s floating on
a tide of jazz… 

and that’ll do to live on.

Les hommes volants

Detail from ‘Golconde’ by René Magritte.

Detail from ‘Golconde’ by René Magritte.

           Les hommes volants 

En haut les manteaux noirs et les chapeaux boules –
Ça va, ça marche, ça roule!
Regarde ces types aux visages gris, devant ma fenêtre;
Ils montent, peut-être,
Un escalier de vent, de soleil, ou des rèves.
“Evidemment ils s’élèvent
Chaque jour, tou près de nos bâtiments?”
Non, pas si souvent!

Vive la pomme, les amants aux têtes couvertes,
Et aux bouches ouvertes;
Vive quand-même le chapeau melon. Mais maintenant –
Zut! – les homes volants.

The flying men 

Up go the black coats, the bowlers too –
   Jolly good, okay, tickety-boo!
Look at these grey-faced blokes at my window;
   They’re climbing – maybe so –
A stairway of breezes, sunshine, or dreams.
   “They rise, so it seems,
Daily, right by our flats?”
   No, not as often as that.

Long live the apple, the lovers, heads under a shroud,
   And open-mouthed.
Moreover, long live the bowler hat. But now
   See the flying men – holy cow!