{"id":2605,"date":"2014-09-27T16:48:02","date_gmt":"2014-09-27T23:48:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=2605"},"modified":"2015-05-25T14:33:03","modified_gmt":"2015-05-25T21:33:03","slug":"still-life-en-plein-air","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alteritas.net\/GXL\/?p=2605","title":{"rendered":"Still Life en Plein Air"},"content":{"rendered":"

As they thrash in the breeze the maples moan. <\/span>
\n One that I know stands not quite alone<\/span><\/p>\n

on a slope where gloom and silence cloak<\/span>
\n a footpath running beside an ancient oak.<\/span><\/p>\n

From its broad boughs splashes of scarlet flow<\/span>
\n to the fresh sound of water burbling below.<\/span><\/p>\n

An open slash in the limbs makes a frame<\/span>
\n through which a beam pierces, igniting a flame.<\/span><\/p>\n

The fabric of its swaying summit seems spun<\/span>
\n from the dying fires of the crimson sun.<\/span><\/p>\n

Among golden leaves below in a bed<\/span>
\n there is one which flashes bright blood-red.<\/span><\/p>\n

Twilight then mutes the luster of things, throws<\/span>
\n ambient shadows shading to rose.<\/span><\/p>\n

The blue-white moon heaves into sight,<\/span>
\n spills trickles of silver into vast, pure night,<\/span><\/p>\n

transparent splendor nothing can rival:<\/span>
\n after setting sun, night autumnal.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Last week I flew into Ottawa for the first time in almost five years. It was late afternoon and the sun had slipped behind a veil of cirrus off to the west. As the little Embraer cut a slow arc east, there was a splendid view of the confluence of the Rideau River and, on the opposite shore in Qu<\/em>\u00e9<\/em>bec, the Gatineau, both emptying into the Ottawa itself, once the main conduit for the<\/em>\u00a0<\/em>canoe-driven<\/em>\u00a0<\/em>fur trade from Montreal to the Upper Country, indeed across the entire continent. It was a week too early for most leaves to turn, but a few\u00a0<\/em>trees<\/em> were touched with<\/em> scarlet. <\/em>For me, these sere tokens of memory were enough to evoke realms of blazing experience left far behind, though the season’s full radiance was yet to come. <\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The Canadian poet\u00a0<\/em>Albert Lozeau<\/em><\/a> (1878-1924) lived a life too short and painful to have rivalled the great <\/em>\u00c9<\/em>mile Nelligan<\/em><\/a> (1879-1941), who has been often likened to Arthur Rimbaud, and who bore sufferings of his own. I was delighted in 1987 when the Sherbrooke-based poetry review <\/em>Ellipse asked me to translate two of his poems. The first, above, was renewing itself in my mind as the plane touched down.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The French text<\/em><\/a> \/ On translation<\/a>. Earlier version published in <\/em>Ellipse 38 (1987), 113-114.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

As they thrash in the breeze the maples moan. One that I know stands not quite alone on a slope where gloom and silence cloak a footpath running beside an ancient oak. From its broad boughs splashes of scarlet flow to the fresh sound of water burbling below. An open slash in the limbs makes … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Still Life en Plein Air”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n

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