The end of a month….

But not the end of the problem.

In these trying times we find ourselves reaching out, reaching out first of all to family and friends, then also to all those former friends, colleagues, acquaintances.

We often say “how would we have managed without modern tech and the ability to connect”. I say we have always connected, perhaps less knowingly and less consistently, but connect we do.

We find ourselves mulling over days gone by, learning about former pandemics and in general going back, as if we were afraid to project into the future.

I won’t address that problem, but these past days have had one poem running through my head with great insistence so I went and re-read Rudyard Kipling’s….

By Rudyard Kipling

(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

So here’s to hoping that there will be many men and women “made” during this

Apocalypse or Coronalypse.

In a “French” mood

Although I tend to write mostly in English, my moods can be anything but: German if I’m feeling organized and business-like or French if I’m feeling melancholy.

The latter sure prevailed in my mountain village today: everyone that I know or ran into complained of lethargy, of not being able to do anything, of sadness. Well, we all know who to blame – the weather!

And melancholy – at least in poetry – has never been done better than by the French.

I was just 19 when I arrived in France the first time, had a crush on someone during the first two weeks of the bus tour of Europe before the start of school: as he went to another school I got over that one fast and when asked me for a date back in California I really couldn’t figure out what I had ever seen in him – didn’t even accept the date.  I also experienced my first more serious love that school year – one that wasn’t necessarily happy nor good for me. I learned enough French to start reading the poetry and discovered that whilst the literature wasn’t to my taste (I’m sorry I still can’t finish the “Red and the Black” and Proust’s descriptions of the famous “madelaines” is enough to make me never want to eat one), the poetry really was me. To this day the poems that I remember best are in French and I tend myself to only write poetry in French.

So when the day was so miserable what did I find myself thinking of a poem I learned over 50 years ago…

“il pleut dans mon coeur,

Comme Il pleut sur la ville,

Quelle est cette langueur qui

Envahit mon coeur?”

Turns out that my memory wasn’t all that bad – here is Verlaine’s “Romance without words” written in 1874 but one which still suits.

Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville,
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur?

O bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits!
Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie
O le chant de la pluie!

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure.
Quoi! nulle trahison?
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi,
Sans amour et sans haine,
Mon coeur a tant de peine!

Loosely translated (very loosely but probably more correct than Google !)

It rains in my heart

As it rains on the town,

What is this languor

Which penetrates my heart ?

Oh soft sound of the rain

On the earth as on the roof !

For a heart that is bored

Oh the song of the rain !

It rains without reason

In this sickened heart

What ! No treason ?

This mourning is with reason.

It is the worst grief

To not know why

Without love nor hate

My heart aches so !

early morning fog along the Danube

“Gather ye rosebuds whilst ye may” or…

In my case – wildflowers.

The quote of the title is very well known (but who knows to whom it should be attributed?)

Urging us in general to not waste time, but to do that for which tomorrow may be too late.

Usually whoever quotes it is trying to get someone else to “get on with it” and they are probably not thinking much of nature.

However, all philosophy aside, I gathered photos of wildflowers today: there is that magic few days in late spring, early summer when almost all the wildflowers are in bloom in my little corner of the Swiss alps. It is a short period – thus the link to the quote. It was a joy to see each one – however, I actually did resist taking photos of the dandelions, the clover buds and the thistle balls – I also add NO cultivated flowers although many are coming along nicely besides the chalets and barns. But I couldn't resist the one lilac tree in someone's yard - and the "fuzzy chicken" - they're back!

And in order to not stretch your brain cells too much on this glorious Sunday, the quote isn’t Shakespeare nor any of the well known and oft quoted poets. In fact I bet that most of this poet’s works are better known for their phrases than for his name: Robert Herrick – a 17^th poet and cleric.