The Journey

This is written on a wall in Den Bosch. There is something of a tradition of writing poetry on house walls in Holland. It’s called,

 

ghe Quetste

 

Ben ic van binnen,

Doorwont mijn hert so seer,

Van uwer ganschen minnen

Ghe Quest so lanc so meer.

Waer ic mi wend, waer ic mi keer,

Ic en can gherusten dach noch nachte;

Waer ic mi wend, waer ic mi keer,

Ghi sijt alleen in mijn ghedachte.

 

Google tells me that it is a 14C anonymous poem but its translation left something to be desired.

 

I’m from inside,

Does my deer so hurt,

Of your goose memories

Ghe Quest so lanc so much more.

Waer ic mi wend, waer ic mi keer,

Ic and can regret either neither nor nor;

Waer ic mi wend, waer ic mi keer,

Ghi sits alone in my ghetachte.

 

So I had a go basing it mostly on English Homophones and looking up individual words sometimes removing the “h”. “Lanc” was a killer. Perhaps someone can translate in properly but here is my go.

 

The Journey

 

I am like ice inside

My heart is sore

From memories of you.

This journey is long and gets more so

Wherever I go, for how many times,

I feel regret, day and night

Wherever I go and for however many times,

I sit alone with my regrets.

 

Or more freely (with no attempt at the rhyme scheme)

 

My heart is sore and icy

From memories of you.

This journey, long and longer,

Provides no other view.

The powers of time and distance

Cannot ease our divorce,

Nor novelty, nor friendship

Decrease my self-remorse.

 

I have to admit my version achieves its polish mainly by also being “avec banalite”

 

         

            A Vilanelle for the British Nation

With a reflection on the contribution of Anthony Charles Lynton Blair

We are the cowards who have cut and run

And left the ruins that remain.

We won’t admit the damage we have done.

.

Did we believe this outing would be fun?

The coffins came back, man by man.

We are the cowards who have cut and run.

.

And bodies lay and rotted in the sun.

What did we think we could attain ?

We won’t admit the damage we have done.

.

Statements and dossiers: fears and lies were spun.

Trust, squandered, does not come again.

We are the cowards who have cut and run.

.

Law we despised. Instead, we chose the gun,

And though the consequence is plain,

We won’t admit the damage we have done.

.

And now we gobble up Blair’s blood-stained bung:

His subtle slick legerdemain.

We are the cowards who have cut and run.

We won’t admit the damage we have done.