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Emile Nelligan is a favorite french poet of mine. I am attracted to the beauty of the words that flowed from a boy, not a man. At age 20 Nelligan went mad and never recovered. Taking in the depth of le vaisseau, it is almost understandable. This is what I imagine as I read his words.
There was a mighty ship, of solid gold â€˜twas wrought:
Its masts reached to the sky, over oceans unknown;
The goddess Love herself, flesh bare and hair wind-blown,
Stood sculpted at its bow, in sunshine desert hot.
A treachâ€™rous shoal it struck one dark and stormy eve,
Where sailors sirensâ€™ songs unwitting sweetly lull,
And then a shipwreck dread did sink its golden hull
Into the murky depths, grave granting no reprieve!
There was a ship of gold, and through its ghostly side
Such riches it revealed, for which fell pirates vied,
Neurosis, Hate, Disgust, among themselves, those three.
Ah, what remains, now that the storm no longer teems?
What has my heart become, thus set adrift at sea?
Alas, that ship has sunk in an abyss of dreams!
A great big thanks to Ron LaFond for the photo of the week nomination.
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