The voice of the Lobster

  

Tis the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare
"You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair."
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark;
But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.

I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie:
The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.
When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon;
While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
And concluded the banquet by ---
 

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Once more it's evident that this parody of Lewis Carroll from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is not only amusing, it's also a far better poem than the original, parsimonious effort that it parodies. Isaac Watts' poem has deservedly passed into oblivion whilst Lewis Carroll's parody lives on. Ironically, thanks to the parodies of Lewis Carroll, the turgid original poems continue to survive as pious, mediocre curiosities of their epoch. The original, 'Tis the voice of the Sluggard' (1715) follows.

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again."
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number,
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find
That he took better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me,"
This man's but a picture of what I might be:
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.'

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Father William
 

Illustration © Mirino (PW) from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (Carroll . Weevers).

The Voice of the Lobster, parody by Lewis Carroll. Original poem, The Sluggard, by Isaac Watts, with thanks.                                       May, 2014 

Il mare

Pensavo al mare mentre andavamo in barca a Sainte Marguerite, un'isola vicino a Cannes. C'era il sole, molto vento, quindi delle onde forti. Sentir questa forza è sempre impressionante, anche nel Mediterraneo.

Nel nord da giovani passavamo le vacanze in famiglia in un luogo in Inghilterra che si chiama Clacton-on-Sea. Pronunciare questo nome oggi mi fa sempre sorridere perché rispetto ad allora i tempi sono molto cambiati. Nondimeno quelle vacanze resteranno indimenticabili, magiche. Furono periodi essenziali della nostra giovinezza.

Naturalmente il mare mediterraneo è un po' come un lago rispetto al mare del nord. Quest'ultimo non sembra mai scaldarsi durante i mesi estivali in confronto al Mediterraneo, ma malgrado questo non avevamo mai esitato ad andare a nuotarci. Il mare lassù è sempre grigio, molto salato, con correnti forti. Dopo aver nuotato sentivamo il vento, che a volte sembrava glaciale e faceva sempre volare la sabbia. Si tremava per il freddo, battendo i denti, le nostre labbra viola e tremanti mentre il papà ci asciuga troppo vigorosamente con un telo da bagno pieno dei granelli di sabbia.

Credo di aver già raccontato questo aneddoto, il miracolo compiuto dalla mamma durante un pomeriggio sulla spiaggia sabbiosa di Clacton. Proverò a raccontarlo in italiano.
Uno zio, fratello di mia madre, dimenticando che aveva messo le chiavi della macchina nella piccola tasca del costume da bagno, era sortito dal mare dopo avervi nuotato. Qualche minuto più tardi lo zio, ricordando vagamente dove aveva messo le chiavi, non le trovava più e le cercava disperatamente fra le sue cose nella speranza che non fosse vero che le aveva messe nella tasca del costume da bagno.

Più tardi, nel pomeriggio, dopo che la marea era cambiata, tutti si stavano preparando per partire e lo zio voleva chiamare un garage per la sua macchina. Mia madre gli chiese in modo disinvolto dove aveva nuotato. Occorre aggiungere che la mamma era una che quando si metteva in testa di fare qualcosa, nessuno e nulla glielo poteva impedire.
Tutti cominciavano a ridere e lo zio non ne voleva sapere, ma mia madre insisteva fino a che lo zio indicò vagamente dove aveva nuotato. Ma allora la spiaggia era liscia, piatta ed umida. Il mare sembrava lontano. Nondimeno mia madre partì nella direzione indicata. Nessuno le prestò attenzione.

Dopo aver camminato verso il mare, prima un po' a destra e successivamente a un po' a sinistra mia madre fissò un punto preciso nella sabbia, si piegò per farvi un piccolo buco ... e naturalmente trovò chiave. Sì, questa storia incredibile è proprio vera.

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Ma tale nostalgia personale, nondimeno preziosa, ci porta comunque ai problemi marittimi sempre più seri del giorno d'oggi.
Sappiamo che più del 70% del pianeta è coperto dal mare, e che forse milioni di anni fa il mare ricopriva quasi tutta la superficie della Terra. Beninteso è anche il mare con l'aiuto delle forze naturali che determina e forma i continenti della Terra. Le maree sono la conseguenza della rotazione della Terra e l'effetto gravitazionale della luna. È probabile che tutti gli organismi viventi del 'nostro' pianeta abbiano avuto origine dal mare, ed ora, a causa dell'accumulazione dell'anidride carbonica, anche assorbita dal mare, i sistemi ecologici sono sempre più in pericolo.

Questa ricchezza, in tutti i suoi aspetti, sembra essere data per scontata dall'umanità, come se non ci importasse troppo inclusa l'ultra-abusata ricchezza della fauna e della flora marina. È vero che a volte nuotando nel mare guardando i peschi colorati si ha l'impressione che tutto va bene, che la forza della vita, la forza naturale anche del mare, è indomabile, ma i fatti dimostrano che all'orizzonte ci sono nuvole scure, e quelle nuvole sono anche ben riflesse nel mare.

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Text and image © Mirino (with many thanks to Rob). May, 2014

Tastes of Italy

It's there, in the market of Sanremo where one starts to feel really in Italy. That delicious smell of basilica, dried tomatoes and ripe melons. And the various sized cuore di bue tomatoes, of course. The vendors smile as they offer plates of little squares of bread daubed with delicious sources such as pesto alla salvia, pesto Ligure or clever concoctions of pomodori con funghi or con acciughe saturated with olive oil. They know how to sell to tourists, and they do so with such charm that one not only feels fortunate to have bought such tasty prizes, one also feels blest. The Sanremo market is always a treat.

During this brief but determining trip to Italy, we were above all enchanted by three places that we had never visited before. Apricale, which when you see this monumental medieval village for the first time as you approach it from the south, takes your breath away. It was founded in the tenth century and prides community statutes considered to be the oldest in Liguria. They were established in 1267. 

In the main plaza there's a good restaurant. All the more palatable because surprisingly it doesn't exploit it's privileged location. It's very reasonable indeed. This is a banal summary of a beautiful, historical village, but it was a short visit, and the pleasure of seeing such a place is bound to be enhanced by a good meal there. In fact whilst eating one can easily imagine the square during the Renaissance with groups of habitants in their exquisite costumes elegantly strolling by the walls, gesturing as they converse.

The waiter poured a little Piemonte frisante into my glass to taste. I nosed it's bouquet as one does, and felt a fine thread of cobweb attach itself to my nostrils, which made me roar with laughter. The poor waiter must have thought I was mad, or that the sparkling wine caused an immediate hysterical reaction. But such a trattoria in this féerique, medieval village certainly deserves more customers during the month of May, than money spiders.

Then we passed by Dolceacqua, founded in the twelfth century. It has a splendid bridge spanning the river below the castello ruins dominating the old original village. I conti di Ventimiglia (the Counts of Ventimiglia) were responsible for beginning the construction of the castle which later in 1270 was acquired by the Genovese, Oberto Doria, hence its name il Castello dei Doria. During the successive centuries the Castello was improved upon, but the conflicts between the factions of Guelfes and Ghibellines, and the rivalry between the families Doria and Grimaldi during the 16th century led to Dolceacqua being part of the protectorate of the Casa Savoia (1524).

We also visited Balestrino, in the Provence of Savona. Sadly the old, original and far more picturesque town on its hill, is now a ghost town. It was abandoned in 1953 due to hydrogeological instability. In fact its instability is considered too dangerous to allow anyone access to explore the ancient town.
Compared certainly to the new Church built in the more modern replacement town of Balestrino below, it's far more interesting and pleasing to the eye, which is hardly surprising. However, it would be fair to add that the interior of the new Church is more to its credit than its exterior.

The third surprise was Cenova, Rezzo, of the province of Imperior, still in the region of Liguria. The village of stone where all the roofs are made with what seems to be large, thin, slabs of stone, rather than slate. Cenova is also a medieval village. It's a monument in itself, and perhaps more so in view of its meagre population of less than sixty people.
It faces south and one imagines the village to be much higher than the mere 558 metres above sea level than it actually is.
Hopefully I shall have more to write about Cenova in the future, depending on the evolution of circumstances and events.

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Text and images © Mirino. (top- Apricale, 2nd- Dolceacqua, 3rd- old Balestrino, 4th- a view southwest from the village of Cenova).            May, 2014

6th May

That special date again. (Absolutely nothing to do with the anniversary of the French Presidential elections). It's also the day before we take a little break, not a Badalucco one. Hopefully a good luck one, but in any case even short stays in Italy are always enjoyable, come what may. Indeed during the month of May in the particular region where we'll be staying, it can't be bad. A few days to practice peculier one way conversations in Italian.

So this will be brief, devoid of opinions of the abysmal situation made worse by uninspired choices of heads of State, incompetent or over abused ministers and Eurocrats, etc. Those who pretend to represent us. But then it's just as well. Because of the continuously bleak state of affairs, one also tends to repeat oneself. It would be nice to believe that the status quo can't last, but it seems determined to drag on endlessly.
Getting away from it all is, of course, an illusion, but such a pleasant one, even when it's only for a few days.

The photograph above was taken nine or ten years ago. A homely little corner in Sanremo. It's still one of my favourites, mostly because it brings back sweet memories.
I shall try to come back with more of both.

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Text and photograph © Mirino. May 6th, 2014

Lily of the Valley

 

Le muguet, la fleur de mai, Lily of the Valley en anglais, était la fleur préférée de ma mère, donc cette fleur poétique et parfumée a aussi une signification personnelle pour moi.
Sans doute cette petite fleur du printemps est généralement symbolique en Europe, sinon aussi aux Etats Unis et ailleurs. C'est une fleur d'amour.

Particulièrement en France on donne un brin de muguet le premier mai. Il y a donc un contraste incongru entre cette vieille tradition douce et romantique, et la Fête du Travail célébrée par les syndicats français en guise de soutien pour tous les salariés ou 'travailleurs'. Ces premiers maintiennent stoïquement l'illusion (et ainsi leur raison d'être) que ces derniers souffrent pitoyablement sous le joug honteux des entreprises tyranniques. Mais ironiquement aujourd'hui en France c'est plutôt les entreprises qui souffrent sous le joug honteux du gouvernement actuel qui se borne à les étouffer pour la cause brumeuse de la justice sociale.

Mais retournons au parfum plus agréable du muguet. Ce porte bonheur a aussi une signification religieuse. Les larmes de la Madonna au pied de la croix devenaient les clochettes blanches du muguet, par exemple.
La tradition d'offrir un brin du muguet date de la renaissance, sinon bien avant. Le jeune roi Charles IX de France fut enchanté par le geste du chevalier Louis de Girard qui lui eut offert un brin de muguet de son jardin. Le roi alors adopta la pratique d'offrir un brin de muguet aux dames de la cour, en proclamant 'qu'il soit fait ainsi chaque année'. La coutume n'a pas tardé à être pratiquée à travers tout le pays.

Dès 1793, le calendrier républicain français de Fabre d’Églantine initia une Fête du Travail en associant le muguet au jour républicain, non pas du 1er mai, mais du 26 avril, rompant ainsi avec cette tradition royale, cause révolutionnaire oblige.

Pendant la Belle Epoque la tradition originale revenait, soutenue par les grands couturiers français en offrant le muguet à leurs clients. Christian Dior a même utilisé cette fleur comme emblème de sa Maison de couture. Paris toute entière ré-adoptait la tradition de la fête à la gloire du muguet, fleur du premier mai.

Mais une fois de plus, au 20° siècle la Fête du Travail revenait à la charge (1889). Sous Pétain la Fête des Travailleurs engendrait encore la Fête du Travail symbolisée par l'églantine rouge pour substituer assez insensiblment le muguet, et mettre en avant la gauche, ou plutôt le Marxisme.

N'empêche que inévitablement et fidèlement le muguet revient toujours, comme un reflet d'espoir, une promesse délicieusement parfumée. Un petit sourire modeste, rappelant un passé que l'on ne peut jamais effacer de l'histoire. Une petite fleur royale et religieuse dont le règne se perpétue infiniment n'en déplaise aux idéologues qui s'accrochent à leurs illusions aspirant toujours à assumer le pouvoir vaniteux de changer la nature des choses, y compris la nature humaine.
 

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Text and image © Mirino. Source Wikipedia with thanks. May, 2014