Wednesday
Feb082012
Snow Day(s)
02.8.2012 
We've had two snow days this week, one Sunday, one Wednesday.
It's amazing how snow tamps down all of the normal city noise, which is probably halved anyway, because fewer people venture out when it's this cold and wet and slippery. But for Paris Play flâneurs and photographers, it's heaven.
News reports tell us the snow's been worse across Northern Europe, and into Russia and the Ukraine, so our joy at being in this beautiful city under such fairyland conditions is tempered somewhat by the severity of these storms elsewhere. We are grateful to return to a warm apartment.
tagged flaneurs, noise, snow in Paris Life
flaneurs, noise, snow in Paris Life
Reader Comments (25)
The shot of the bicycles, and the man walking alone....she eeez ze postcard!
And of course the heart that says it all.....
P.S. Saw photos of people building snowmen outside the Coliseum (snow Romans?)
Dear Parisian ones and others:
On the first day of snow I usually read out this amazing poem by Mexican poet, Xavier Villauruttia, which is gorgeous in Spanish, and I've attempted an English translation (any corrections or suggestions welcome!). It certainly expresses that silence you mention. OH AND BY THE WAY, the photos (as always) are excruciatingly beautiful!
CEMENTERIO EN LA NIEVE
por Xavier Villauruttia
A nada puede compararse un cementerio en la nieve.
¿Qué nombre dar a la blancura sobre lo blanco?
El cielo ha dejado caer insensibles piedras de nieve
sobre las tumbas,
y ya no queda sino la nieve sobre la nieve
como la mano sobre sí misma eternamente posada.
Los pájaros prefieren atravesar el cielo,
herir los invisibles corredores del aire
para dejar sola la nieve,
que es como dejarla intacta,
que es como dejarla nieve.
Porque no basta decir que un cementerio en la nieve
es como un sueño sin sueños
ni como unos ojos en blanco.
Si algo tiene de un cuerpo insensible y dormido,
de la caída de un silencio sobre otro
y de la blanca persistencia del olvido,
¡a nada puede compararse un cementerio en la nieve!
Porque la nieve es sobre todo silenciosa,
más silenciosa aún sobre las losas exangües:
labios que ya no pueden decir una palabra.
CEMETERY IN THE SNOW
Nothing can be compared to a cemetery in the snow.
What name can be given to whiteness on top of white?
The sky has dropped indifferent stones of snow
on tombs,
and now all that’s left is snow on snow
like a hand resting on itself for all eternity.
Birds choose to slice through the sky,
wounding invisible corridors in the air
in order to leave the snow alone,
which is like leaving it virgin,
which is like leaving it snow.
Because it is just not enough to say that a cemetery in the snow
is like dreamless sleep
nor eyes left blank.
If something has a sleeping insensible body
from the fall of one silence over another
and from the white persistence of oblivion,
then there’s nothing that can be compared
to a cemetery in the snow!
Because above all snow is silence,
made even more silent on top of bloodless gravestones:
lips made wordless.
Anna!
Thank you! Before long YOU'LL be building Snow Romans outside the Coliseum.
Waiting to hear from you about that series.
Much love,
Kaaren & Richard
Daniel,
Thank you so much for posting this Snow Poem. We love it in Spanish and in English. It reminds me of the epitaph on Rilke's gravestone in Raron, Switzerland. He, of course, wrote it.
"Rose, oh reiner Widerspruch, Lust,
Niemandes Schlaf zu sein unter soviel
Lidern.
Rose, oh pure contradiction, delight
of being no one's sleep under so
many lids."
Lips, lids, silence, sleep.
Long live Apollo, Hermes and Orpheus, and all singers in verse.
Richard thanks you for the compliment on his photos. And we both send love to you and Malika!
Kaaren & Richard
"...noise, which is probably halved anyway," -- it felt so quiet to me!
My favorite shots: the cleavage of snow against the chess board; the fluff on the seats of identical bicycles; the second-to last photo, because there is such movement with the steps, the white lines, and the people protecting their faces. It made me remember the beauty of snow when I lived on the east coast, and the way I also had to brace myself for it.
Thanks for bundling up to bring us Paris snow.
xoj
Love the photos and poem. Here's a favorite of mine. "The Horses" by Pablo Neruda and translated by Alistair Reid (my favorite of Neruda's translators). You can find the poem in "Extravagaria." When I think of poems and winter, I think of this one. Enjoy.
The Horses
From the window I saw the horses.
I was in Berlin, in winter. The light
had no light, the sky had no heaven.
The air was white like wet bread.
And from my window a vacant arena,
bitten by the teeth of winter.
Suddenly driven out by a man,
ten horses surged through the mist.
Like waves of fire, they flared forward
and to my eyes filled the whole world,
empty till then. Perfect, ablaze,
they were like ten gods with pure white hoofs,
with manes like a dream of salt.
Their rumps were worlds and oranges.
Their color was honey, amber, fire.
Their necks were towers
cut from the stone of pride,
and behind their transparent eyes
energy raged, like a prisoner.
There, in silence, at mid-day,
in that dirty, disordered winter,
those intense horses were the blood
the rhythm, the inciting treasure of life.
I looked. I looked and was reborn:
for there, unknowing, was the fountain,
the dance of gold, heaven
and the fire that lives in beauty.
I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter.
I will not forget the light of the horses.
Danka, Kaaren and Richard:
The thing is, it's snowing right now in Philadelphia too... so Señor Villauruttia is right on time, even from his tomb. All covered in snow! Tiddly pom!
How absolutely beautiful. Stay warm. xox
Dear Jennifer,
Now "cleavage" in that context is only a word a writer would use. "Fluff" on the bicycle seats, too. You East Coasters remember snow. We West Coasters are floored by it, over and over again.
Much love and thank you,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Deb,
That is a knockout poem by Neruda. We're also happy to hear the name of your favorite of his translators, from you who lived in Chile for so long. This is one poem I hadn't heard of his, and might be my favorite of all. It captures the divine magic of horses so precisely.
Leapin' Pegasus!
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Daniel,
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! Dig the message from Bruce below!
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Chere Tara,
Merci! Nous sommes heureux d'etre chez nous ce soir.
Bisous,
Kaaren & Richard
Dear Kaaren and Richard,
Scarring invisible corridors in the air might work better than Wounding invisible corridors in the air.
Do thank your friend for that lovely and incisive poem.
And thank you for these lovely and incisive pictures. They bring me great pleasure of more than one kind. The memory of the snows of yesteryear, is one. I do not go where the snow is now and it does not go where I am now. Being one of the cold ones of this earth, I rejoice in the melting brethren, and you have given me, with your beautiful and telling pictures, a smile.
How generous you both are!
Thank you.
Bruce
Dear Bruce,
We thank you, and we'll let Daniel thank you himself.
I'm not sure my Spanish is good enough to weigh in but I wondered if the line "Nothing can be compared to a cemetery in the snow." might be just as well translated as "Nothing compares to a cemetery in the snow." simply for the rhythm. (And then Sinead O'Connor could come in on the chorus, "Nothing compares to youuuuu.")
We have generous family and friends who inspire and deserve generosity!
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
May I prevail, on this global snowy night, to offer a just baked new translation of the poem earlier posted? It was an oldish translation, and thanks to Bruce and Kaaren's input I've taken another look at it. I'm keeping "wound" for "herir", thinking you must have mean't "scarring," but I think an open wound a bird flies through is better... not scarred over yet... And knowing the poet's work, an open wound makes more sense... he was kind of a walking wound.
But I've made the poem a bit snappier I think... my only problem, for which I invite any further suggestions, is in the third stanza... that "si algo tiene de un cuerpo," etc. I almost want to make it, "If something hangs from an insensitive and sleeping body," but that seems to be totally wrong...
"Si algo tiene de un cuerpo insensible y dormido,
de la caída de un silencio sobre otro
y de la blanca persistencia del olvido,
¡a nada puede compararse un cementerio en la nieve!
But perhaps I've left the ambiguity as is...
CEMETERY IN THE SNOW
There’s nothing like a cemetery in the snow.
What can you call white on white?
The sky’s dropped insensitive snow stones
on the tombs,
and now there’s only snow on top of snow
like a hand on top of itself
poised for all eternity.
Birds prefer slicing through the sky,
wounding invisible corridors in the air
in order to leave the snow alone,
like leaving it intact,
like leaving it snow.
Because it’s not enough to say a cemetery in the snow
is like dreamless sleep
or eyes left blank.
If something is a sleeping insensitive body
from the fall of one silence over another
and from the white persistence of oblivion —
O there’s nothing like a cemetery in the snow!
Because above all snow is silence,
even more silent over anemic gravestones —
lips that can no longer say a word.
Hi Daniel,
Great rewrite! I like your new first line better than either the first translation or my suggestion.
How about "hurt" or "hurting" instead of "wound"? When you walk through snow, your face and hands can hurt, but they're not wounded.
How about "If something has a body numb and asleep" for the rhythm?
And the last stanza:
"Because snow is mostly silent
even quieter on the bloodless gravestones--
lips that no longer speak.
Again, I'm not fluent enough to be doing this, but I love translating poems.
A translation salon! I love it!
XO,
Kaaren (& Richard)
I like your suggestions, but I think it's wound, ne'ertheless... it's visual at least... cutting through a snowy sky.
Yes, I love translation too, although in all I might prefer handling snakes in a Kentucky revival meeting... every time the poem tries to slither away, or turn and bite you... I think Virginia Wolfe said something about the instability of English... but then she weren't too stable herself, it seems. I have two other translations of this poem, one by Elliot Weinberger from his book of Villauruttia's poems, Nostalgia for Death, and another by D.M. Stroud, called, Homesick for Death... same book sounds like. But my main translation project is Saint-Pol-Roux, I think I mentioned him already? No? Just Gustave Moreau? OK, Saint-Pol-Roux, pretty ignored, was adored by the Surrealists, a Symbolist of sorts, visionary, known in his flamboyant youth as, Le Magnifique. Really interesting and inspiring poetry... baroqueish, stylized, Catholic, and saturated more and more in his home in Brittany. Check him out... and if you jump on the translation bandwagon, bienvenue. He's largely untranslated into English. No major books... Y'all come!
Dear Kaaren and Richard,
Yes, I can sense through your words and images the deep hush that has fallen over your beloved city. There is something reverent about fresh snowfall and the quiet it invites. And I totally agree with Anna ~ that solitary figure walking along the Seine is especially beautiful and evocative.
It seems, as in so many other ways, in Paris the snow is fashioned with elegance and grace... just a light dusting to cast an enchantment over the city.
Thank you for taking us along on your wintery walk... time to slip into a nice cozy cafe!
Love to you both!
dawna
It has been absolutely wonderful to follow the discussion among poets of the translation of a truly beautiful poem. And the photos are magnifique, in more ways than one, magnfying the quiet the world becomes in a blanket of snow. Living where I do in California, I do miss that incredible silence surrounding snow but not enough to wish to live in it. I'm with Bruce. I especially like the photos of the line of waiting bicycles and the students decending the stairs, with red and blue accents. Keep up the good work, both of you! I don't often respond but I have been walking with you all along the way.
Hi Daniel,
I will check out Saint-Paul-Roux. Anyone the Surrealists adored is worth investigating. And rereading your translation the next morning and hearing about the woundedness of the poet--I agree with your choice of "wounding."
To be continued,
Kaaren (& Richard)