A poem using an old technique known as "blazon", in which the poet lists the beloved's attributes and makes elaborate comparisons with each one...
Translated from the French


Blazon

Blazon

Her brow -A stubborn rock scattering the tempest
Her bun - Braid that a sword were able to sever.
Conch of hair - do they under the fleece expect a voice?

Nose - pure (water?) and long (which king's?) -melodious
A sinuous river with a romantic name.
A music - or a chord - which this conch shall echo.
Lyre - so exiguous that it yields neither pearl nor song.
Forest - I sensed beneath your abysses the secretive blooming myrtle
Moon - shuddering reflections among restless shadows
- chaffinch scared by the smell of a starting shower
- joyful mix of laurel and shy, odorous sage
A shivering that lasts until sunset.
Peace - Her finger shall model the shape of the rapture
Her peace shall soothe the blood that is beating your side
Her breasts, haunted hillocks, shall their vases proffer
The shame of your stomach star-shape the pallid slide.
A cross shall bring blessing on the new edifice
Your fingers crossed on the blood of the sacrifice.

There, where an altar stands, one must worship some god.


BLASON

Son front - le roc têtu qui éparpille la tempête.
Sa conque - tresse que le glaive saurait trancher
Coquillage - sous la toison attendent-ils une voix?

Nez -pur (eau?) et long (quel roi?) - mélodieux
Un fleuve au cours brisé porte un nom de romance
Une musique -accord- dont la conque est écho.
Lyre - si exiguë que n'en jaillit perle ni chant.
Forêt - Je devinais sous vos abysses le secret des myrtes en fleurs
Lune - un frémissement de reflets sur les ombrages qui s'agitent
- une épouvante de pinsons aux premières odeurs de la pluis
- une allégesse de lauriers et de sauges odorantes d'angoisses.
L'ébranlement jusqu'à  la nuit.
Paix - Son doigt modèlera la forme de l'extase.
Sa paix alanguira les sang brisant tes flans.
Tes seins, massifs hantés, éléveront des vases.
La honte de ton ventre étoilera ses blancs
Et la croix bénira le nouvel édifice
De tes doigts longs croisés, le sang du sacrifice

Je ne sais d'autel qui ne reçoive de dieu.





Poetry by Michel Galiana
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Written on 2010-01-21 at 00:11

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What a fine way to express your appreciation of the one you love. I was very impressed and believe, in the right union, every description, is as it will and should be.

Stunningly beautiful work. The french version gives it Amore Amore...

Smiling at you

Tai

Language: 5
Format: 5
Mood: 5
Overall: 5
2010-01-21