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L'INCONNUE DE LA SEINE



"Le Seine parle tout le temps, tout le temps du suicide"
(Louis Aragon)


September 1906. When living in Paris the poet Rainer Maria Rilke used to stop over the shop of the mouleur Lorenzi, in the quartier de l'Odeon.
There hung on the display window death masks of Mozart, Cromwell, Dante, Keats, Napoleon... But the brooding poet was rather obssessed on contemplating just one: the mask of a girl with no name, a Jane Doe smiling "as if she knew". It is well known the Rilke's fascination for women from the Madonnas painted by the Venetian masters to the greengrocers in the street market on the Giudecca. Rilke, by then, was  still outlining the Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge where he bestowed on the girl-mask an halo of mystery, " because she was so beautiful deceitfully smiling, as if she knew..."

Who was that girl? Nobody knows so far and probably we'll never know. Legend has it that, by the close of the XIX century, a young woman was found dead floating in the Seine near the quay of Louvre. She was taken to the Paris Morgue, behind Notre-Dame, where a coroner, smitten with her smiling face, decided to cast it in plaster as a death mask. Some people recognised in her hairstyle a peasant or a tramp. Others assured she was a Hungarian star of music hall, murdered by her Parisian lover. The Lorenzi's heirs-who still run the business- affirm that the mask was taken from a beautiful model in some atelier, and it is technically impossible to mould it from the face of a drown person.

And so the myth of this Parisian Ophelia was born. It didn't take long to be worshipped as a post-romantic muse, giving rise to a massive amount of novels, poems, plays, movies, photography books.
The first time she became a literary character was in "The Worshipper of the Image(1900) by Richard Le Gallienne, a decandent British novelist. The last time, in the Guillaume Musso' s novel L'inconnue de la Seine(2021).

Albert Camus called her "the Giaconde of Suicide" , and according to Al Alvarez, during the roaring twenties and the dawning of the thirties almost all the students in Europe had a copy of the death mask as a kind of pin-up girl. A whole generation of German women became inspired by "la Inconnue de la Seine" as the archetypical model of beauty. Even Nabokov, in 1934, wrote an exquisite poem morphing her into a kind of the 'neznakomka' of Blok and the Shakesperean Ophelia. Anais Nin recalled her briefly in "Houseboat"(1944), and Jules Supervielle clearly drew inspiration from this drowned muse to write his dreamlike story 'L'enfant de la haute mer".
For the publishing of his comedy, L'Eglise(1933), Celine sent not his photo required for the editor but a snapshot of 'L'inconnue de la Seine'. The editor got so incensed that nearly cancelled the contract.

But the best book ever written about this subject is Aurélien by Louis Aragon, a long novel appeared in 1944. A beautiful love story and a cultural kaleidoscope of those years amidst the carnage of WWI. Aurélien is a young womanizer, freshly demobbed, who fell in love with Bérénice, a provincial girl married with a pharmacist, despite she's not his type, not even a beauty. Charles Swann, in the Proust's novel, fell head over heels in love with Odette de Crécy because she reminded him of Botticelli. Aurélien fell madly in love with Berenice when she closed her eyes and her face reminded him of the smiling mask of L'inconnue... He also hung a copy of the famous mask in his room.
Bérénice, in a fit of jealousy, tore the mask into pieces trying to break something else: the enchantment, the malignant attraction this unknown woman is able to spell from death. 

Nowadays, 'l'Inconnue de la Seine' is the most kissed woman in the world, because her face was taken as the model for Resusci Anne, the mannequin normally used for CPR, that is, cardiopulmonary resuscitation.




©Jeanne Moreau et L'inconnue de la Seine





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SEIJAKU

 



Standing at the revolving belt

of a Japanese buffet

he picked out a teriyaki bowl.


Soon the bowl is empty soon

full of gleaming tears. A tiger-moth

flitting over the gleam.


A mug of coffee steamed up

the windows of his mutism

where suddenly someone smiled.


Someone who loved him the most

but never existed.




.                    Mizuumi Japanese bowl

                     ©Osara New York


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SUMMER LOVE

 



A trysting couple 

about to kiss each other

by an opalized light of June

bathing the seaside promenade.


Van dwellers dance to a gypsy

accordion like dogs barking

around a bonfire.


The sea hushed and aglitter.


A solitary poet at a pub bench sips

a glass of frothing Guinness

and waxes lyrics on a serviette

about the couple the squeezebox.


The moon waxing full

over the twilighted promenade

regardless the sigh-lorn poet

and the lovers now parting

gloomy without a word.


In a red and white puppet booth

Judy takes a swipe at Punch.


The van dwellers still dance wildly

under the spell of gypsy tunes.






    ©Aric S. Queen




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POEM

 



Just now the sun proffers to me 

a glass of elderberry wine.

Then a glass of mead.


I shut the eyes and sip.

I open the eyes: the world ain't there anymore,

not even my books and the sea.

Circe and Helen smirked

staring at my solitude. 


I bit a golden apple.


And the vast Time gets distorted 

and dwindles

to become a blade of grass.


Time small as a pebble.





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MELAMPYGE

 



Once upon a time there was

 a tabby cat called Melampyge

(so named after Casanova's dog)


 he was the only deceased 

when the San Marco's campanile

was doomed to collapse in 1902


Last night I dreamt myself petting

Its harlequin-fur at sunset just before

the tragedy came across la Serenissima


Rilke the poet -a black Homburg in hand-

was walking past me at a seraphic pace.

He whispered with a broad smile his last elegy

to some kind of elegant Comtesse

attired in blue organza and yellow gloves


Both blended slowly into the foggy backstreets.

 Melampyge (podgy but nimble)

with tigerish paws

followed their ambling shadows

that scent the canals with violet hues.

I followed Melampyge toward the hidden

alleys off the beaten paths in Dorsoduro.


Suddenly Rilke looked back

and frosted his countenance 

with exactly the same blue eyes

of the cat glinting at me

just before running away

rightwards la Piazza San Marco...











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TITANIC'S COAL STOKERS

 


What were they singing the Titanic's coal stokers?

What did they choir along in the steam engine

 while shoveling coal on end amid screams, 

expletives and sailor jokes?

What were they humming larksome soaked

 in rills of sweat, ale and eating beef stew, plum

pudding like ravenous gannets?

Were they guided finally by Virgil as a lodestar

while walking through the last and eternal

flames of their lives?

What did they ever sing somewhere

 in the waiting room to the other side

 through the pearly gates? 


I hear their hobnail boots tapping

a rag-time on the flooded floor.




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REPARTO SUEÑO, 1975

 


A child is


(still not an exile

not a failed bard not 

a kind of eternal castaway)


 skipping ropes at sunset

in his native home patch

 called Sueño 

 

Reparto Sueño 


a child 

collecting silver caps 

of milk bottles earthworms

 blue marbles pick-up sticks 

like coins to pay for daydreaming..


another kid in the shade

of a flowering mango tree

still expects his father

from a far-off war

like a dog mourning

its master by his grave


A red sun hangs

on the sea-scented horizon

glittering like a goldfish

in a plastic bag.






                   ©,Celia Washington, 1983

Licencia de Creative Commons
POEMAS DE ERROR Y MISTERIO is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at habaneroerrante.blogspot.com.