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Memorial created 04-29-2006 by
A Friend
Maureen Bridget Cavanaugh
January 7 1955 - April 4 2005

Poetry & Maureen

 

 

by Charles D’Orleans.

 

Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent de froidure et de pluie,
Et s'est vêtu de broderie,
De soleil luisant clair et beau.
 
Il n'y a bête ni oiseau
Qu'en son jargon ne chante ou crie:
"Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent de froidure et de pluie".
 
Rivière, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent en livrée jolie
Gouttes d'argent d'orfèvrerie
Chacun s'habille de nouveau.

 

English Translation:

 

The season has laid its mantle by
Of wind and cold and rain
And donned embroidered garments
Of radiant sunshine, clear and fair.
 
There is no beast nor bird
That in its own tongue does not sing or cry:
The season has laid its mantle by
Of wind and cold and rain".
 
River, fountain and brook
Wear, as pretty livery,
Drops of silver jewellery.
Each thing clads itself anew.

 

 

Apology to a Silent Break
by Dane Sorensen
May 1971

 

Underneath a great tide has stilled
And no longer seeks the moon.
Alone and unsatisfied it draws back
Waiting and hoping for another soon.
 
From the same still sea
A wave moves for shore
And caresses the land again
With new love that quickly soars.
 
The moon shall return a silence
That understands his way
All power thins by distance
As tides to a yellow setting maid.
 
He was once beneath a moon shadow
And yet, may hear her again.
Slowly rising to seek his eyes,
To catch the tide he'd send.

 


L'Idéal

 

Ce ne seront jamais ces beautés de vignettes,
Produits avariés, nés d'un siècle vaurien,
Ces pieds à brodequins, ces doigts à castagnettes,
Qui sauront satisfaire un coeur comme le mien.
Je laisse à Gavarni, poète des chloroses,
Son troupeau gazouillant de beautés d'hôpital,
Car je ne puis trouver parmi ces pâles roses
Une fleur qui ressemble à mon rouge idéal.
Ce qu'il faut à ce coeur profond comme un abîme,
C'est vous, Lady Macbeth, âme puissante au crime,
Rêve d'Eschyle éclos au climat des autans;
Ou bien toi, grande Nuit, fille de Michel-Ange,
Qui tors paisiblement dans une pose étrange
Tes appas façonnés aux bouches des Titans!
                                          —Charles Baudelaire

 

The Ideal (in English)

 

It will never be the beauties that vignettes show,
Those damaged products of a good-for-nothing age,
Their feet shod with high shoes, hands holding castanets,
Who can ever satisfy any heart like mine.
I leave to Gavarni, poet of chlorosis,
His prattling troop of consumptive beauties,
For I cannot find among those pale roses
 
A flower that is like my red ideal.
The real need of my heart, profound as an abyss,
Is you, Lady Macbeth, soul so potent in crime,
The dream of Aeschylus, born in the land of storms;
Or you, great Night, daughter of Michelangelo,
Who calmly contort, reclining in a strange pose
Your charms molded by the mouths of Titans!

 

Translation by William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

 

 

Maureen felt a kinship with the luckless Queen Anne Boleyn.  Below is a poem written by Boleyn shortly before her execution in 1536.

 

O Death! rocke me asleep;

Bringe me to quiet reste;
let pass my weary, guiltles ghost
out of my carefull brest.
Toll on, the passinge-bell;
ring out my dolefull knell;
let thy sounde my death tell.
Death dothe drawe ny;
there is no remedie.

My paynes, who can expres?

Alas! they are so stronge
my dolor will not suffer strength
my lyfe for to prolonge.
Toll on, the passinge-bell;
ring out my dolefull knell;
let thy sounde my death tell.
for I must dye;
there is no remedie.

Alone, in prison stronge,

I wayte my destenye.
Wo worth this cruel hap, that I
should taste this miserie!
Toll on, the passinge-bell;
ring out my dolefull knell;
let thy sounde my death tell.
Death dothe drawe ny;
there is no remedie.

Farewell! my pleasures past;

welcum! my present payne.
I fele my tormentes so increse
that lyfe cannot remayne.
Toll on, the passinge-bell;
rong is my dolefull knell;
for the sound my dethe doth tell.
Death dothe drawe ny;
there is no remedie.

Sound my end dolefully

for now I dye.

 

 

 

 

 

J'inspire et mes poumons retiennent et donnent
bien plus que l'air à l'intérieur de mes côtes;
J'inspire et ils sont tous proches de mon cœur
A chaque respiration, on se retrouve et on se sépare.

                                                                            - by a friend

 

 

 

 

 

 Music from Soundtrack of Pride and Prejudice, "Liz on top of the World", by Dario Marianelli, 2005

 

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