THIS IS THE END FOR WHICH WE TWAIN ARE MET

FOR DENISE TRACEY (1967-2009 R.I.P
Old and New…ancient Gaelic melody and Jewish-American genius….



BERNSTEIN's SOMEWHERE




This is the end for which we twain are met. (VILLON)

In memory I hear the ghost of a tune…

“We were made to love another
For man was made to go two by two
I’ll stand by you and be your lover
We will work to make life anew….”


Cianalas is the only word for it which reminds us that the greatest distance between two points is time…..for some joy and sadness will be forever mingled…they cannot forget but neither can they return…

The Greek word for amber was êléktron, "resplendent thing", because of its colour (the sun was poetically called êléktôr); because of its ability to attract dust once rubbed, the name gave the word electricity.

Nowadays (in Modern Greek) it is berenikis in reference to the blonde hair of Berenice II, mother of Ptolemy Philopator.

In one legend, Phaeton, son of Helios the Sun asked to drive his father's chariot for one day.

But his awkwardness caused disastrous fires and Zeus struck him with a lightning bolt.

His sisters the Electrides wept and wept over his body until the gods in pity turned them into poplar trees on the shores of the Eridan river; but inconsolable they wept still, and their tears were now of amber.

According to Sophocles, amber was the petrified tears of the sisters of the hero Meleagres, who were changed into birds and weep the death of their brother:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXswgSpBy7w

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9BIVUe8cTz4’

Say a prayer for my cousin Paul who is weeping just now and embracing his son Andrew Tracey ; they lost the love of their lives last week and it was not a natural death but a heinous and brutal and senseless murder by person who was more beast than man…there is a thing –do not doubt it- as the ancient blood lust…the mire catha….which craves violence and is not sated until it tastes warm human blood…

…”blunt my spear and slack my bow like an empty ghost I go…
Death the only hope I know,
Since they tore me from they breast…O Maiden of Morven…”

“S mor mo mhulad, ‘S mor! GREAT IS MY SORROW, GREAT goes the auld orain.

Aye, there are inconsolable sorrows and aye there is amber still , amber tears…..petrified tears…

Dictes moy ou n'en quel pays
Est Flora le belle Romaine
Archipiades, ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant ruyt ou maire
Dessus riviè ou sus estan,
Que beaultè ot trop plus qu'humaine.
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?"
Tell me from where I could entice
Flora the famous Roman whore,
or Archipiada or Thaïs
who they say was just as fair;
or Echo answering everywhere
across stream and pool and mere,
whose beauty was like none before -
where are the snows of yesteryear ?
http://theotherpages.org/poems/part2/villon01.html#ballad

http://globegate.utm.edu/french/globegate_mirror/villon.html





At daybreak, when the falcon claps his wings,
No whit for grief, but noble heart and high,
With loud glad noise he stirs himself and sprigs,
And takes his meat and toward his lure draws nigh;
Such good I wish you! Yea, and heartily
I am fired with hope of true love's meed to get;
Know that Love writes it in his book; for why,
This is the end for which we twain are met.


Mine own heart's lady with no gainsayings
You shall be always wholly till I die;
And in my right against all bitter things
Sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try;
Seeing reason wills not that I cast love by
(Nor here with reason shall I chide or fret)
Nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly;
This is the end for which we twain are met.


And, which is more, when grief about me clings
Through Fortune's fit or fume of jealousy,
You sweet kind eye beats down her threatenings
As wind doth smoke; such power sits in your eye.
Thus in your field my seed of harvestry
Thrives, for the fruit is like me that I set;
God bids me tend it with good husbandry;
This is the end for which we twain are met.