Programming / Poetry.
This is a present. A present for the birthday of my new and incredible uncle. A present for you, who come to read me and give me some of your time.
You all know the story of Tristan and Isolde – Isolde the beautiful – Isolde with white hands.
Marie’s version is rooted in this story – she won’t tell you everything – on the contrary.
You will avoid the forced marriage of the beautiful Isolde – you will avoid the potion that makes these young people crazy in love – you will avoid guilt and deception.
Mary’s lovers are true lovers, young, enchanted, separated and sad to death – but they are not ashamed to love each other and they do not give up.
As for the forced husband, the King who is an uncle (and it is understandable that he is not young enough to be that husband) – he is much greater than what the other versions say.
So here is my uncle, the story of an uncle who knew how to let lovers love each other. I have chosen it for you.
I like it very much and it is my desire to tell you the true story of this poem called Honeysuckle, why it was composed and where it comes from.
More than one person has told it to me and I have written it about Tristan and the Queen, about their perfect love for each other (…).
The King Mark was angry and angry at his nephew, Tristan.
He had driven him out of his kingdom because of his love for the queen.
Tristan had returned to his country. He stayed a whole year without ever being able to return to South Wales where he was born.
Then he faced death and annihilation. Do not be surprised, for he who loves very faithfully is filled with sadness and worry when he cannot satisfy his desires.
Tristan was distressed and anxious. That is why he left his country and returned to his heart country, Cornwall where the Queen lived. (…) Tristan returns to their forest.
On the path that the (Queen’s) procession was to take, he cut a branch in the middle and squared it off. When the stick is ready, he carved his name into it with a knife.
If the Queen notices him – for she was very careful; she had already been able to find Tristan in a similar way before, she will recognize perfectly, as soon as she sees it, the staff of her friend.
It was like honeysuckle to them.
which was wrapped around the elbow piece;
once he embraced it.
and that it has attached itself to the trunk,
they can live together for a long time.
But then, if we try to separate them,
the courier dies immediately
and honeysuckle as well.
Beautiful friend, so it is with us:
neither you without me, nor me without you.
The Queen rode forward on horseback.
She scanned the embankment, saw the staff, recognized it and distinguished the inscriptions.
(…) In the forest, she found the one she loved more than anything else in the world.
They both let their joy burst forth.
He speaks to her at leisure and she tells him what she wants. Then she explains to him how he can be reconciled with the king who regrets having exiled him:
he was abused by slanders.
Tristan returned to Wales until his uncle made him come back.
For the joy he felt at seeing his friend again and to remember the queen’s words that he had written down, Tristan, who could play the harp well, had composed a new poem. I will name it briefly: in English it is called Gotelef, the French call it Chèvrefeuille.
I have just told you the true story of the poem I have told here.
Marie de France
And here we are tonight, it didn’t look like anything, but it was still a small miracle in the life of this thing I called Altair.
Today, I wasn’t supposed to write. Today, it was the ‘too much day’. Our theatres in France will stay closed for weeks and weeks. January ? when ? … maybe, they’ll see. I spent the afternoon with a crying lady on the phone, and yes, I didn’t know what to do or what to say, it’s so sad when artists die. I told myself that it was too much – that you don’t fight against forces so much stronger than yourself.
And then I remembered that anniversary. Of you reading to me, and I don’t really know why, but it’s no so important – it’s precious for me, that’s enough. I remembered the fairies of Broceliande and the voice of Mary that still resounds, a voice from the 12th century translated in any way – but with love – and I wrote this article, instead of taking out my famous “duck feathers”, which I adorn myself with when I stop fighting and wait for “it to pass“, the rain, the cold, the bad news that accumulates. It will pass – I keep writing – dreaming. 🙂 Even tonight.
❤ Happy Birthday Uncle, and may Mary’s voice help to enchant your year and your beautiful skies. ❤
Featured Image : Tristan, Isolde, the Tree of Life and maybe, Altair.