Bewildering Stories welcomes...

Willie Smith

Willie says something about his philosophy of life in the prologue to “Another Story of the Myth of Eve,” in this issue. And there’s more in Willie’s bio sketch. To that we add: Don’t go, Willie! Don’t go!

But not so soon yet. The coming issues will bring us two more stories that Willie has sent us, and we’re looking forward to them. Welcome to Bewildering Stories, Willie. We hope to hear from you again soon and often.

Willie is especially fond of an elegy by Ronsard. Well, who wouldn’t admire one of the greatest poems ever written?! And any fan of Ronsard is a friend of ours. Herewith a present to Willie and our readers:

Comme on voit sur la branche au mois de mai la rose,
En sa belle jeunesse, en sa première fleur,
Rendre le ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur,
Quand l’Aube de ses pleurs au point du jour l’arrose ;

La grace dans sa feuille, et l’amour se repose,
Embaumant les jardins et les arbres d’odeur ;
Mais battue ou de pluie, ou d’excessive ardeur,
Languissante elle meurt, feuille à feuille déclose.

Ainsi en ta première et jeune nouveauté,
Quand la Terre et le Ciel honoraient ta beauté,
La Parque t’a tuée, et cendre tu reposes.

Pour obsèques reçois mes larmes et mes pleurs,
Ce vase plein de lait, ce panier plein de fleurs,
Afin que vif et mort ton corps ne soit que roses.

— Pierre Ronsard (1524-1585)

Just as one sees, come May, on every bush a rose
So beautiful in her earliest, freshest bloom,
Makes even the sky alongside seem in gloom,
And, watered by daybreak’s shower of tears, she vivid shows;

Both Grace and Love himself live in her leaf,
Transfusing gardens, trees, with her perfume;
And yet, whether from rain or too much heat, her doom
Is but to languish, die, each petal come to grief;

Thus, in your first, initial flourishing
When earth and heaven acclaimed your nourishing,
Killed by the Parque, to ash your body goes.

Laments and tears I send as obsequies,
This jug of milk, this basket full of flowers now is
To ensure, alive and dead, your body be all rose.

— tr. by Peter Dean

As in May month, on its stem we see the rose
In its sweet youthfulness, in its freshest flower,
Making the heavens jealous with living colour,
Dawn sprinkles it with tears in the morning glow:

Grace lies in all its petals, and love, I know,
Scenting the trees and scenting the garden’s bower,
But, assaulted by scorching heat or a shower,
Languishing, it dies, and petals on petals flow.

So in your freshness, so in all your first newness,
When earth and heaven both honoured your loveliness,
The Fates destroyed you, and you are but dust below.

Accept my tears and my sorrow for obsequies,
This bowl of milk, this basket of flowers from me,
So living and dead your body will still be rose.

— tr. by A. S. Kline

A permanent Challenge: Neither of these translations seems quite satisfactory. What would be? Nevertheless, Bewildering Stories aspires to greatness: our readers are invited to try their hand at it.