Alleluia, alleluia!

The Junior Paper is finished! In celebration, here is a rather joyful picture, taken the day before Easter.

Now I have two exams and a recommendation letter to write; when these are over, I'll able to take more adventures, which means I'll have more adventures to tell you about.

Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord!

My heart is young and preoccupied with Max and Jules.

Yes that's right, it's JP Crunch Time! And not like crunchy granola ("croustillante aux coupeaux de chocolat!") or like crunchy matzoh ("Bonne Paques!"). This is eyes-to-the-notebook-and-regulated-caffeine time.

I have stories and photo essays percolating in the back of my mind, but until 22 April, Max and Jules will be getting any and all "free time" that I have. So here are some pictures to tide you over!



I am still in love with this house.


















One of the first bright and warm(ish) days of spring! I played tourist in Petite France.
























One of my most favorite churches, which bears the unfortunate name of Eglise Saint-Paul. I love it because I get to see it every day, in every kind of weather and light, and it's always there, it's just the day and my eyes that change. (It's like the liturgy!)






Male saint on the far left : "Look! I found an apple! I am so good!"
Female saint on the far right : *exasperated sigh*

A Poem for Lent

The more I read of Jules Supervielle (one of my Junior Paper poets), the more I love him, in particular his collection La Fable du Monde. I love him not just for his beautiful rhythms and his very pictorial style, but also for his theology. One commentator described it as “a lively Franciscan dialogue”; I see in him an attention to the sacramental quality of creation, an eye waiting to see God in the world. This untitled poem below has become one of my favorites.


Derrière trois murs et deux portes,
Vous ne pensez jamais à moi,
Mais la pierre, le chaud, le froid,
Et vous ne m'empêcherez pas
De vous défaire, et vous refaire,
À ma guise, au fond de moi-même
Comme les saisons font des bois
À la surface de la terre.


I heard the poem echoed this past Sunday in the cathedral, when the priest spoke about living sous la regard de l’Évangile (in the eyes, or in the sight of, the Gospel), about letting la parole de Dieu nous interprète (the Word of God interpret us), about Lent as a time when we ask the Spirit of God to change us and help us change.

For all y'all non-French-speaking friends, here is my own translation of the poem; it preserves, I hope, the speed and syllabic pattern, but not the end rhymes (which are ABBBCDBC).


Behind three walls and two doors,
You never think of me,
But stone, the cold, the heat
And you don’t stop me as I
Unmake you and remake you,
As I like, deep in myself
Like seasons make the woods
On the surface of the earth.

A Poem by Max Jacob

Here’s another poem which I keep returning to. Last night at a bar/café called L’Artichaut, I read almost the entirety of his collection Derniers poèmes en vers et en prose. Before him, I had never read anyone who played with French rhythm and rhyme in this way, a little bit like Gerard Manley Hopkins.


Présence de Dieu

Une nuit je parcourais le ciel amour
une nuit de douce mère
où les étoiles étaient les feux du retour
et diaprées comme l’arc-en-ciel
une nuit que les étoiles disaient : « Je reviens ! »
Leur pitié saignait de mon sans repos
Car le malheur a percé mes pieds et mes mains
O résignation, c’est toi qui chantes le laus
Une nuit que les étoiles couvaient mon vol
j’aperçus un astre qui m’approchait
et il me versait un opium qui rend fol
et l’astre me séduisait avec son œil épais.
Tes caresses désenchevêtrent mes membres.
L’amour n’attend pas, il n’attend pas.
Il est astre et je suis plante : nous sommes ensemble
Tu me feras pousser comme un panorama.
Et quand je fus près de l’astre-événement,
je vis que c’était le Beau Dieu, le Concepteur
du monde, le Seigneur, le Génie-Gentleman.
Alors il m’absorba comme une liqueur :
c’est un secret et il n’y a pas de mots pour dire
que mon sang en Lui Dieu se retire
comme en un seul cœur.

A Poem by Jules Supervielle

For my second JP (“junior paper”, 30pp for the Comp Lit Dept) I’m going to work with French poetry and “thematics”, i.e. something which shows up in the particular poet(s) I’ve picked. Since I’m a monomaniac [cf Prof van Z’s book], I’ll be talking about religion—for example, how the image of baptism is used, how God is addressed, the relationship between God and the earth, etc. I’ve narrowed my poets to three choices : the ecstatic Paul Claudel, the convert Max Jacob, and the “Franciscan” Jules Supervielle. All are French poets, all are Roman Catholic.
I’ve been reading their work, trying to decide; here’s one of my favorites, by Jules Supervielle.

Haute mer

Parmi les oiseaux et les lunes
Qui hantent le dessous des mers
Et qu’on devine à la surface
Aux folles phases de l’écume,

Parmi l’aveugle témoignage
Et les sillages sous-marins
De mille poissons sans visage
Qui cachent en eux leur chemin,

Le noyé cherche la chanson
Où s’était formé son jeune âge,
Ecoute en vain les coquillages
Et les fait choir au sombre fond.