The Raven

November 24, 2012 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Edgar Allan Poe (born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more.'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as 'Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked,
'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!


Je l'ai promis

November 23, 2012 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Tu me reprends ton amitié :
Je n'ai donc plus rien dans le monde,
Rien que ma tristesse profonde.
N'en souffris-tu que la moitié,
Toi, dans ta mobile amitié,
Va ! Je plaindrai ta vie amère.
Que Dieu pour l'amour de sa mère,
Ou pour moi, te prenne en pitié !

On ne commande pas l'amour :
Il n'obéit pas, il se donne ;
Voilà pourquoi je te pardonne :
Mais tu m'as tant aimée un jour
Que j'en demeurai tout amour.
Pour une autre as-tu fait de même ?
Aime donc longtemps, si l'on t'aime :
C'est mortel quand ce n'est qu'un jour.

Et ma part de bonheur promis,
Comme aux plus humbles de la terre,
Bonheur qu'avec un saint mystère
Entre tes mains j'avais remis,
Dans l'abandon d'un coeur soumis ;
Si j'en résigne le partage,
C'est pour t'en laisser davantage :
Rien pour moi, rien ! Je l'ai promis.

Marceline DESBORDES-VALMORE (1786-1859)


Son et Lumière

November 07, 2012 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

England's petite nautical Norman church, St Nicholas.
A high altar apex oasis, green Uphill downs
Sound swept by howling savanna winds.
Wondrous panoramic views, fluttering Chalkhill Blues.
A time out of time, sweet Aromatic Thyme.
Dark Viking hours, treading on Yellow Rock Rose.
From the flame, to the crest;
The returning rambling robin constructs her nest.

Seafaring limestone pavement floor, exulting standing tall.
The spirit of the seas, the swashbuckling Weston breeze.
Nature's propellant pulse, ascending a marine shell sorrow.
Nay, the morrow embraces thick round twig hedges
Spaced in abandonment, like a lonely glacier lake
Awaiting the caressing dance of Easter's green wake.

Anthony Keyes 
With the kind permission of the author

from the book "Poetic Realms: Including the Weston-super-Mare Seashore "

Published by Atlantique (3 May 1999)

Photo: St Nicholas Church

(Source: Private)




November 02, 2012 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Il me parle faussement détaché
d’angoisse et de bitume qui colle
il tourne autour de son cou
deux fois sa longue écharpe

ses lunettes solaires réfléchissantes
aveuglent son regard blanc
même au plus clair du jour
et il fait maintenant nuit pleine

il lui faut un casque pour son blues
et les néons gueulards de la rue
ne lui suffisent pas
pour saisir son tempo :
il vit à contre-jour
il respire à contretemps

il n’a jamais vu la vie
autrement qu’en ancien voyou
trop lâche pour la prison :
il n’en serait jamais revenu

c’est une sorte de taulard
enfermé hors les murs
et qui puise son courage
dans le son de sa voix
et de ses propres mensonges

ses mythes ont fait long feu :
le ghetto qu’il s’est créé
limite à jamais son imagination
même entre ses deux mains ouvertes
il ne voit qu’un mur

lorsqu’on croirait qu’il danse
ce sont ses parasites mentaux
qui s’agitent en lui en tous sens

la valeur de son monde
se trouve dans la sueur
de ces mains qu’il étreint
et qui sous les lumières du carrefour
projettent toutes la même ombre

Jean-Marie Flémal