Que reste-t-il de nos amours?

Dear Reader,

If you aren't much good at french translation: 

Que reste-t-il de nos amours?  Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours? 

 I thought of this poem after watching a film with Iris Murdoch and another actress dancing in their kitchen but the title could apply to anyone.

It roughly means: What is left of our love? Where have all those beautiful days gone?   

Quite so.  I send a lot of time at night awake these days and obviously think about my life.  Why did I do this thing or that? Why didn't my marriage work out? Why did I send someone to prison when I was a magistrate, when I don't believe in prisons as they are?  Why did I send my children to boarding school when I was so unhappy at the ones I went to?  These are the sort of questions I ask myself but have come to the conclusion it is much better not to.  We did what we did, presumably at the time we thought it was for the best and really that is an end to it.  Looking forward is the best way to be happy now I think.  

I have just started to put some of my poems on a Poetry Group page and it has been uplifting and fun.  I was very welcomed by Tony Church, the administrator, and others and I am very much enjoying being part of it.  I have always been a bit of a recluse and loner but have found much to entertain me as one of the group. Thank you Poets Corner.

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My chimp has been very quiet this week, sitting in his box peacefully. I saw photos of real chimps in the wild this week with some information about them. As I remember it, it said that chimps reactions to each other are very much the same as ours to each other. I don't think that news came as a surprise.  I would remind anyone who has forgotten that my chimp lives in my head and was introduced to me by Prof. Steve Peters in his book: The Chimp Paradox. 

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From Samuel Pepys, January 29th, 1661Surrey

'To Southwark, and so over the fields to Lambeth, and there drank, it being a  most glorious and warm day, even to amazement, for this time of year.'

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Que reste-t-il de nos amours?

 

 

 

 

A kitchen somewhere in France,

a candle alight on a small round table

remains of supper not yet cleared,

two old women sitting silently,

listening to soft music.

 

‘Que reste-t-il de nos amours?

Que reste-t-il de ses beaux jours?’

 

The two old women rise slowly,

start to dance,

gently holding each other close

crumpled hand in crumpled hand,

cheek brushing cheek,

no words spoken.

 

Is it of the once vibrant love

they had had together

that they are thinking,

or of other loves, or that life is short,

and each of us only have one turn at it,

that life is only made of moments

and they have had their share?

 

‘Que reste-t-il de tout cela

   Dites le moi?’

 

The two old women dance on, 

quietly swaying,

to soft music no longer playing.......

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia