Denise age about 20
Poésie et mémoire de Denise de Chazal
Born on November 28, 1909 in Curepipe, Mauritius, Denise de Chazal was a woman of intellectual and creative depth, a world traveller who radiated a great zest for life. Schooled at home, she developed a radical curiosity about the world, literature, music and the arts. French was her first language, which, in addition to her facility in Latin and English, provided her with an enviable and extensive vocabulary.
Denise age about 35
Denise leaves a legacy of her skill as a poet in her book of poems, Ombres et Clartés, published in 1934 and which her youngest daughter, Jannie, has translated from French into English. In addition, she leaves a memoir entitled One Moment in the Well of Time, where she eloquently describes her childhood in Mauritius. In 1934, Denise left Mauritius for London to marry Stafford George Mayer, (also born in Mauritius), where Stafford was completing his education as a physician and surgeon.
Denise survived the war in England with two small daughters, Moonyeen and Marilyx, while Stafford served in the Royal Army Medical Corps in Malta, Egypt and the Middle East. After the war, the family moved to Durban, South Africa, where Stafford’s father had established The Stafford-Mayer Company, and where Stafford set up his medical practice. In Durban, two more children were born, Rodney and Jannie, and in 1957, the family emigrated to Alberta, Canada. Denise made significant contributions to each community where she lived, including the establishment of a children’s playground and a historical village.
Denise age about 25
In 1976, Denise and Stafford retired to Denman Island in the Strait of Georgia, and bought a house overlooking a small bay where blue herons nested. Denise was happy to have come full circle back to the sea — from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific. She died in September, 1976.
POEMS In french and English
Translation in English by Jannie Edwards, daughter of Denise :
What is lost in translation is form and rhyme — Denise was a formalist poet and her careful, inventive rhymes are so interesting. But I have tried to capture the spirit and moods in the poems.
| A Beethoven
Sur les touches d’ivoire poli, Deux mains très pâles, Et du grand Beethoven, le génie, L’âme s’exhale. La sonate du beau clair de lune, En fluide. Arpèges chante dans la nuit brune Et languide. Gémissements qui tuent, râles ivres, Désespoirs. La douloureuse cantate vibre Dans le soir. La plainte désespérée monte En sanglots, Et s’agite, s’enlève et monte Tel le flot. Farouche musique où palpitent, Comme du sang. Toutes les grandes douleurs écrites L’’âme en sang. Ame large d’humanité, Où pleurèrent Les immenses cris irrités Des cœurs fiers. Ame somptueuse de Beethoven, Je t’adore. Ce soir où les mauves cyclamens En accord. De lourds parfums, tendent leur chair, Pour mieux entendre Les sons aux ailes de chimère Dans la nuit tendre |
| To Beethoven
On the polished ivory keys Two hands, pale, And the soul of the great Beethoven, genius, Exhales. The sonata of beautiful moonlight, Arpeggios sing in the night, dusky And languid. Intoxicated sighs, moans of Grief sings, vibrating In the night. A desperate lament rises In sobs, Comes alive and is called out As the tide climbs. Wild throbbing music Like blood. All the great sorrows written In blood in the soul. Humanity’s large soul In which weeps The immense cries Of proud hearts. Beethoven, I adore you Your sumptuous soul. This night the mauve cyclamens Agree. Heavy perfumes stretch their flesh To better hear The sound of winged chimera In the tender night. . . |
| SOIR
Le clair de lune rôde Et se glisse en maraude Le long des toits Au fond des bois. Il luit mille diamants Sur les branches où, lents, Les vers luisants Glissent, gluants. Il met une caresse Sur la terre qui paresse, Et se pare De son phare. Il pose un long baiser Sur les lys irisés Où, frêle chanterelle, Dort une coccinelle. Il plisse l’eau endormie De rides infinies, Et met au fond Son gros œil rond. Le mystère de l’ombre Se fait encore plus sombre A la fleur pâle Qui, triste, râle . . . |
| EVENING Moonlight prowls Marauds Over eaves And deep in trees. A thousand diamonds Light branches where Fireflies slowly Slide and glide. It caresses The indolent land And outshines The lighthouse. It plants a long kiss On the shimmering lilies Where a ladybird sleeps On a frail toadstool. It creases the sleeping water With endless wrinkles, And plants its huge round eye On the depths. The shadow’s mystery Makes still more solemn The pale flower Which gasps and dies in sorrow. |
Bertie Mayer with Denise de Chazal
| SIRèNE Brune et somptueuse Belle statue heureuse Cambrant ses lourds reins fiers, Elle passe, altière. Ses longs cheveux de nuit Ondulent, tous enduits D’un parfum lancinant, Où l’opium se sent. Ses sourcils, arcs hardis, Marquent son front qui dit L‘orgueil d‘être très belle, Ardente et rebelle. Ses yeux sont abîmes Et son regard décime, Profondeur d’océan Où l’on se noie tremblant. Ses narines palpitent Aspirent la vie vite Au rythme accéléré D’une âme exaltée. Sa bouche, fleur de sang, S’entrouvre sur ses dents D’un rire ensorcelant Qui prend le plus défiant. Son beau corps est sculpté Dans sa chair passionnée, Et ses siens opulents Attirent les yeux lents. Elle s’étire et s’enroule Comme une souple houle Et telle une panthère, Elle fixe l’adversaire. Une odeur émane d elle, Et troublante, se mêle A la puissante odeur De la sève qui meurt. Brune et somptueuse Belle statue heureuse Cambrant ses lourds reins fiers, Elle passe, altière. Et son oeil de gazelle, Et sa bouche sensuelle, Rejettent avec mépris Le désir qui la suit.
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| SIREN Dusky and sumptuous Glorious happy statue Arching her sultry proud back, She passes by, haughty. Her long black hair Waves, imbued With haunting perfume, An essence of opium. Fearless arched eyebrows Mark her forehead which declares The pride of being so beautiful, Blazing and rebellious. Her eyes are gulfs And her gaze decimates The depths of the ocean Where we drown, trembling. Her nostrils flare Breathing in quick life With the racing pulse Of a fevered soul. Her mouth, blood flower, Half open, shows her teeth With an enchanting laugh Which defies all challenge. Her beautiful body is sculpted In passionate flesh And her opulent breasts Attract slow eyes. She stretches and winds Like an ocean swell. A panther, She stalks her prey. Her heady perfume mingles With the powerful scent Of dying sap. Dusky and sumptuous Glorious happy statue Arching her sultry proud back, She passes, haughty. Her gazelle eyes And sensual mouth Spurn the desire Which follows her |
Stafford George Mayer
| Fantômes Je suis environnée ce soir d’une nuée De fantômes épars tout au long des années, Ils dansent au rythme d’une vielle pavane, Tandis que al nuit bleue s’alanguit et se fane. Mon enfance est là. Candides matins tenders Qui rient de la joie de vivre et ont l’air d’attendre On ne sait quel étrange et prodigieux bonheur De la ronde éperdue des années et des heures. Matins lumineux où tout vie, où tout est clair, Où l’on sent son âme, en fulgurant éclair, Monter dans l’éclatant soleil et s’y noyer Eperdu, embrasé dans cet ardent foyer. Matins où l`on croit que vous appartient le monde Où les rires puérils balbutient une ronde, Matins où l`on ne sait pas encor que tout meurt Et que la vie n’est qu`un poignant tissu de leurres. Fantômes pales qui dansez, vous voici vous, Les belles heures de ma jeunesse aux jours fous, Aux ailes éployées pour longues années De la vie, voyage escales hasardées. Dans l`air bleu s`envolent les illusions heureuses, Elles chantent, folles dans la brise jaseuse, Chansons d`amour que l`on chante dans le printemps A l`heure unique qui sonne au cadran du temps. Renouveaux, frais espoirs, rêves flous, imprécis, On croit que montent vers vous les bonheurs promis. Viens, ô ma jeunesse en robe de tulle rose, Penche-toi vers moi ce soir où tout est morose, Redis-moi les très beaux contes qui me berçaient, Tandis que dans l`ombre, les roses défaillaient. Berce-moi, jeunesse, dans tes brans parfumés. Redis, sans te lasser, les contes que tu sais. Chante, sur le mode mineur, la symphonie Aux tons lumineux, aux doux airs que fut ma vie. Berce moi, et tandis que les jets d`eau sanglotent Dans le jardin blanc de lune où les ombres flottent. Les ombres fantômes qui m`entourent ce soir, Endors moi, ma jeunesse, en me versant à boire, L`enivrante liqueur de la vie magnifique Qui met dan mon sang de grands désirs nostalgiques. |
| Ghosts I am encircled tonight by a swarm Of scattered ghosts as long as years. They dance to the rhythm of an old pavane, While the blue night languishes and fades. My childhood is there. Innocent tender mornings That laugh with the joy of life and anticipation Of who knows what strange and wonderful happiness In the frantic cycle of years and hours. Luminous mornings where all is alive and clear, Where one feels one s soul, with vivid clarity, Climb in the brilliant sunlight and plunge, Bewildered, embraced in this fervent hearth. Mornings where one believes one owns the world Where childish laughter murmurs a roundelay, Mornings where one forgets that all is mortal And that life is not a web of lures. Pale specters who dance, here you are you, The beautiful hours and days of my mad youth, With outspread wings for the many years Of life, until the adventure stops. Happy illusions fly through the blue air, They sing, playful, in the chattering breeze, Songs of love that one sings in spring At the specific hour that rings the clock dial. Revive, fresh hopes, dreams hazy and blurred, Believe that you mount toward promised happiness. Come, o my youth, dressed in rose tulle, Bend toward me this night where all is gloomy. Tell me again the beautiful tales that cradle me, While in the shadows, roses fade away. Soothe me, youth, in your perfumed arms. Tell me again, without weariness, the tales you know. Sing, in a minor key, the symphony In luminous tones, the soft airs that was my life. Cradle me, while the fountains weep In the moonlit garden where shadows flutter. Phantom shadows that surround me tonight, Send me to sleep, my youth, pour me a drink, The strong liquor of magnificent life That stirs in my blood grand nostalgic desires. |
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