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The Château de Monte-Cristo and the Panthéon, Paris

The Château de Monte-Cristo

Alexandre Dumas, père, had the Château de Monte-Cristo and the Château d’If – this his writing studio – built in 1846, in the midst of vast grounds with grottos, rockeries, and waterfalls which were once full of monkeys and parrots and even a vulture called Jugurtha! When the architect Hippolyte Durand pointed out that what Dumas hand in mind would be extremely expensive, Dumas coolly relied, “I certainly hope so!” Balzac described it as “one of the most delicious follies ever created!. However, only two years later, the extravagant spendthrift had run short of money and was forced to sell it, and over the ensuing years it fell into a state of disrepair. It was until over a century later, threatened with demolition, that the three local communes and La Société des amis d’Alexandre Dumas came to its rescue and restored it, the Moorish room with the support of King Hassan II of Morocco, and then turned it into a museum.

The Panthéon, Paris

Dumas died on 5 December 1870 at the age of 68 in Puys and was laid to rest in Villers-Cotterêts, but in 2002 his body was moved to the Pantheon in Paris, the resting place of the likes of Voltaire, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Victor Hugo, and Emile Zola, with the then president Jacques Chirac saying that an injustice was being corrected with the proper honouring of one of France’s greatest authors.

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/11/02/449/

Weekly Rhymes (by Paul T. M. Jackson)

 

Rainbows (in Wales) (For Yarisel)

Though snowflakes fall down throughout the squall,

The sun still comes a-shining through,

Though clouds gather and rain pitter-patters,

A rainbow comes arching through the blue.

 

From hedge to hedge, and across the sedge,

It straddles this murky meadow,

And as we move on into the next one,

It follows us over there in tow.

 

You cross the lea, and away it flees,

But you have found your pot of gold,

For it was full o’ life, and cut through all strife,

With you whenever the gloom takes hold.

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/10/11/431/

Launch of Impressions at the English Book Centre, Valbonne

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/06/03/336/

Some More Words on Poetry

“If you listen carefully you will hear that the words are underneath the water”, says Norman Maclean, who was the William Rainey Harper Professor of English at the University of Chicago and author of A River Runs Through It. “The water runs over the words…under the rocks are the words”.

 

Like Maclean’s father, I think that’s right. We don’t form poems out of what we see; poetry is already there, an intrinsic part of the cosmos, woven into the fabric of things and linking it together. We just need to be aware of it, to open our eyes to it, to look for it, to see it, and to enjoy it. It is there for everyone to share in. We all have a ‘poetic eye’; we just need to train it on the poetry of things, the essential nature of things, for ‘Within all dwelleth poesie’!

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/05/19/319/

The English Book Centre

 

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/05/14/314/

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/05/12/303/

Bussana Vecchia

Bussana Vecchia, or Old Bussana, in the Italian region of Liguria is perhaps one of the strangest places you could ever happen upon, with one of the saddest and yet most surprising of stories.

Like so many hilltop towns and villages along the Mediterranean coast, Bussana Vecchia came about in response to the Saracen invasions of the late ninth century. The town continued to grow and most of the buildings we can see there today date back to the fifteenth century.

Liguria, however, is a region of moderate seismicity, and though the people of Bussana Vecchia were able to keep the Saracens at bay, they found themselves defenceless at 6.21 on February 23, 1887, when an especially big earthquake hit. Ironically, February 23rd was Ash Wednesday, and the large part of the community happened to be in church, in the Chiesa di Sant’Egidio. As it happens, this was also the first earthquake recorded by a true seismograph. The quake lasted over 20 seconds, killing more than 2,000 people, many of whom were in church. Most of Bussana Vecchia’s buildings were severely damaged and all of its buildings declared dangerous, and so the survivors abandoned Bussana Vecchia, thinking the place cursed and disowned by God like Sodom and Gomorrah, and rebuilt their town at the foot of the hill, calling it Bussana Nuova, or New Bussana.

And yet Bussana Vecchia’s story, which had accounted for a millennium already, wasn’t over just yet. Some 50 years or so later, immigrants from Southern Italy started settling – illegally – in this ghost town. The authorities evicted them, destroying all first floor stairways and rooftops in order to dissuade anyone else from doing likewise in the future. But this didn’t dissuade people. In the Swinging Sixties a group of artists calling themselves the Community of International Artists moved in. Despite the state of the town, and despite there being no electricity, running water, or sanitation, the community grew, with hippy artists from all over Europe coming here to join them, to live simply and work artistically. The authorities returned but found themselves unable to remove this new community, and so the International Artists’ Village was truly born. The residents have tried hard to renovate the town, though the authorities continue to insist that all buildings are the property of the Italian government, and they sell their produce to tourists who happen upon this unusual, unique even, place. Though these people have kept Bussana Vecchia alive, the new Bussanesi still face opposition from the authorities and live their lives from one day to the next not knowing whether they are going to lose their homes.

A visit to Bussana Vecchia is a must. You will find a town such as you have never seen before, half in ruins with buildings standing precariously, the roofless church never having been repaired and its bells standing silent, and yet filled with interesting folk with their little workshops and abodes squeezed into every nook and cranny. You can even stay the night and dine there at the Bed and Breakfast Li or visit the more bohemian community at the back of the village who will invite you into their premises – which is a really just a hotchpotch of antiques and bric-à-brac – and feed you the fare of their barbecue and the produce of their kegs, and show you around their quarters where they all live together in bunkbeds. There is even a jazz bar you can visit in the evening, where the music, and beer, is surprisingly good!

Bussana Vecchia is no longer a ghost town. Let’s keep it that way, and prevent the present Bussanesi from being displaced by ghosts. As for me, my own season in Bussana Vecchia awaits, and you will hear more from me afterwards…

Bussana Vecchia Website

Bussana Vecchia Google Street View

Bussana Vecchia Google Street View 2

The Earthquake of 1887

Artists Fight for Bussana Vecchia

 

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/05/04/235/

Weekly Roams (from Roman France, Germany, and Sardinia)

Roman Trier

Trier, formerly known as Treves and Triers, was founded by the Celts in the late fourth century BC as Treuorum and later conquered by the Romans in 16 BC and renamed Trevorum or Augusta Treverorum, ‘The City of Augustus in the land of the Treveri’. It became the capital of the province of Belgic Gaul, and after the Diocletian Reforms the capital of the prefecture of the Gauls, overseeing much of the Western Roman Empire. In the fourth century AD, it was one of the largest cities in the Roman Empire, and the largest north of the Alps, with a population of somewhere between 75,000 – 100,000. From AD 367 it was also the residence of Valentinian the Great, and later Theodosius I until his death in AD 395. In AD 407 the Roman administration moved the staff of the Praetorian Prefecture to Arles, however Trier continued to be inhabited, though it was never as prosperous as before, though remaining the seat of a governor and continuing to have state factories for the production of ballistae, armour, uniforms for troops, clothing for the civil service, and high quality garments for the court.

The Porta Negra

The Porta Negra is the best-preserved and largest Roman city gate north of the Alps. The name originates in the Middle Ages, due to a darkening of the original colour of its grey sandstone, and the original name remains unknown. Constructed sometime after AD 170, it originally consisted of two four-storied towers projecting as near semicircles on the outer side, and a narrow courtyard separated the two gate openings. However, for reasons unknown, the gate remained incomplete. For example, the stones at the northern (or outer) side of the gate were never abraded, and the protruding stones would have made it quite impossible for the installation of moveable gates. Nonetheless, the case remained in use for several centuries, until the end of the Roman period in Trier, and served as an entrance to the town. It was also originally only one of four gates, one on each side of a roughly rectangular city plan, with the Porta Negra to the north, the Porta Alba­, or ‘White Gate’, to the east, the Porta Media, or ‘Middle Gate’, to the south, and the Porta Inclita, or ‘Famous Gate’, to the west, next to the bridge across the Moselle. The gates stood at the ends of the two main roads through Trier, one going north-south and the other east-west. Only the Porta Negraremans, and to its south side stand remains of Roman columns lining the last 100m of this road leading up to it.

Roman Baths

The ruins of three baths lie in Trier, among them the largest remaining Roman baths outside of Rome – the second century Barbara Baths, which was begun by Constantine but completed in about AD 314 – and the fourth century Trier Imperial Baths.

Constantine Basilica, or Aula Palatina

The huge Constantine Basilica, or Aula Palatina, was the 220-foot throne room of the Emperor Constantine. It was built in around AD 310 by Constantine as part of a palace complex, and originally was not a freestanding building but had other smaller ones – a fore hall, vestibule, and service buildings – attached to it, plus it was equipped with a floor-and-wall hypocaust system. The hall itself, measuring 67m (l) x 26m (w) x 33m (h), is the largest extant hall from antiquity!

Roman Bridge

The Roman bridge over the Moselle is the oldest standing bridge in Germany, with nine pillars dating from the second century AD!

Elsewhere

There was an amphitheatre in Triers, built shortly before AD 100, a stadium, and a circus was constructed in the first half of the second century. Constantine also added a mint, the principal mint of the Roman West.

Zum Domstein

No trip to Triers is complete without a visit to the ‘Roman Restaurant’, Zum Domstein, which serves dishes from Marcus Gavius Apicius’ De Re Coquinaria. During construction works in its basement, an upright column was found, which turned out to be the south-western pillar of the basilica, and many other artefacts, many of which are now featured in the restaurant, including tiling, hypocausts, glass from between AD 150 and AD 350, cookware, amphorae, and food remains and bones in pots!

 

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/05/04/233/

Weekly Rhymes (by Paul T. M. Jackson)

 

O Mia Bambina Cara

Your little arms and little legs,

Those little limbs like little pegs,

So delicate and small you are.

And your little toes and little nails,

As brittle as little shells of snails,

So delicate and small you are.

Your little nose and little lobes,

Your little eyes, those little globes,

So delicate and small you are.

And your little brow and little lashes,

Those very fine, ashen flashes,

So delicate and small you are.

And your sweep of hair and silv’ry stare,

As absorbing as a Gorgon’s glare,

Absolutely perfect you are,

And your little lips and slender hips,

You’re nothing but a little slip,

Absolutely perfect you are.

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/05/04/231/

Weekly Recipes (from The Epicurean Cookbooks)

Lamprey à la Bordelaise

1 lamprey

8 leaks

2l of wine

1 onion

2 cloves

2 cloves of garlic

2 shallots

4 spoons of flour

Thyme, laurel, and quatre épices

1 or 2 squares of chocolate

2 slices of Bayonne Ham

5cl of Armagnac

Salt and pepper

Butter

Olive oil

 

• The night before, clean the leeks, only keeping the white parts, and chop them up
• Place them in a mixture of butter and oil, sprinkle the flour over, and brown off. Soften them with a litre of wine, add the onion studded with cloves, the garlic, a pinch of the quatre épices, the thyme and laurel, seasoning, and a cube of chocolate, and leave to reduce for a couple of hours
• In a fish kettle, bring water to the boil and poach the lamprey for a few seconds, then scrape off the mucus with a knife, but don’t peel off the skin. Open it up and clean it out, and then wash it completely under the tap
• Chop up the lamprey and marinate in half a bottle of wine, herbs, and seasoning in the refrigerator for 2 hours
• Warm up 2 diced shallots with 2 slices of ham in some olive oil, add the lamprey, and it there over a lively heat, and flambé with Armagnac at the end
• Add this to the other pan and simmer the whole lot through for 20 minutes

 

About Lampreys…

Lampreys have long been used as food for humans, highly appreciated by the Romans and enjoyed during the Middle Ages by upper classes across Europe, especially during Lent when meat is forbidden, for the lamprey is especially ‘meaty’. King Henry of England was particularly fond of them and, despite medical advice regarding their richness, continued to eat them late into life and is said to have died from a surfeit of lampreys!

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/05/04/weekly-recipes/

Some Words on Poetry

Chekhov, whilst writing his lesser-known work A Journey to Sakhalin, is said to have confessed that he just felt compelled to write about the things that he saw. A little earlier, though far, far away, the little-known Dorset poet William Barnes coined the term the poetic eye. Some people like to put what they experience into words, or rather, feel they have to; some people see things, and they see a poem, and they like to – no, they feel they have to – try and express what they have seen in the form of a poem. The dream for these is to write something that, when read, evokes what was seen, as when pastoral music somehow evokes the rolling, green hills of the countryside. Poetry is but another form of art, and can be as evocative as an impressionist painting. If you don’t believe me, just read some Robert Frost and find yourself transported to rural New England, or the aforementioned William Barnes, and find yourself in the company of peasants from nineteenth century Dorset!

 

But why poetry, the hoi polloi cry out? Well, poetry can of course be therapeutic, to help one work through emotions that have been welling deep inside, to get them out rather than keep them in, and to make sense of them, but there is more to it than this. Surely poetry is one of those things that separate us from every other creature on the planet. Too often we find ourselves caught up in the ‘realities’ of life – work, family, and problems– and have little time for anything else, and we think that these ‘realities’ are what are important. But I tell you this: we have it the wrong way round, and that it is poetry and her playmates that really matter. These are the things that make the world beautiful, and these are the things that make us human! Sometimes we are scared of poetry, sometimes we are embarrassed by it, but we shouldn’t be, and we mustn’t be, for it is just too important!

 

And so we come to the how. Well, most of us come to poetry late, and there are many reasons for this. One is that, as youths, we haven’t really experienced much of the world and what it has to offer. There just hasn’t been an awful lot to write about yet. Secondly, there is also that fear and embarrassment which the word poetry is loaded with. And then there is the education system. With terms like metaphor, and anaphora, and alliteration almost drilled into our heads, there can be no surprise that we flee from poetry as fast as we can. We are just so focused on style, on minutiae, and we miss the actual meaning, the real essence of a poem. This is all wrong. We should write, about what we see, about what we experience, about what we feel, things that really matter to us. And we should keep it simple, and we should keep it precise.

 

So go away and write, and then write some more, knowing this, that you will never get it wrong – and how many things can that be said about – for there is nothing to get wrong, and that you will always improve, with every single poem you write. Write about what you want to write about – and you needn’t show it to anyone else – but I promise you this: things will never be the same again; you will never see the world in the same light again; everything will seem so much more beautiful than before. And you will breathe. For the first time, you will breathe, and the air that you will breathe will be the breath of poetry. Fill yourself with it, and it will warm your soul. It might not keep you alive, but while you are alive, you will really be alive.

 

The Young Rhymer Snubbed

by William Barnes

 

To meäke up rhymes, my mind wer zoo a-vire
‘Twer idle work to try to keep me quiet,
O’ meäken rhymes my heart did never tire;
Though I should never be a gainer by it.
“You meäke up rhyme!” vo’k zaid, “why who would buy it?
Could you write fine enough to please a squire?
An’ rhyme’s what plain vo’k woudden much require;
You’d vind your rhymes would eärn but scanty diet,
An’ if I’d any cure vor it, I’m sure I’d try it.”

 

An’ father too, in learnen noo great crammer,
Zaid rhymen wer a treäde but vew got fat in;
That men wi’ neämes a-ringen wi’ a clamour
Did live in holes not fit to put a cat in,
An’ sleep on locks o’ straw, or bits o’ matten;
An’ mother zaid she’d sooner hear me stammer
Than gauk about a-gabblen rhymes an’ Latin.
I’d better crack my noddle wi’ her patten,
She used to zay, or crack en wi’ a hammer,
Than vill en up wi’ rhymes, an’ silly stuff o’ grammar.

 

My father didden rhymy. He knew better.
Bezides his business, an’ to buy an’ zell,
He only learnt to write a friend a letter,
That always went a hopen he wer well;
Or in a ledger, or a bill, to tell
Vor what an’ when a man became his debtor;
An’ mother too, I never shall vorget her,
Wer only just a-taught to read an’ spell,
An’ mark a teäble-cloth or napkin pretty well.

 

An’ zoo I vound my friends think all the seäme o’t,
That rhyme won’t vill the pocket over tight,
But then my heart did kindle wi’ the fleäme o’t,
Whenever I did zee a touchen zight,
An’ I did all but lose my wits there-right.
‘Tis likely I shall meäke a losen geäme o’t,
But still, ageän, to lighten off the bleäme o’t,
Vor all do keep me poor, it still will bring
My heart a pleasure that do leäve noo sting.

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/05/04/blog/

Impressions

Some people see things in a certain way. Some people, when they see something, just feel compelled to somehow capture it, whether that be by a sketch, a painting, or even a symphony. Chekhov, for instance, while writing A Journey to Sakhalin, admitted to this compulsion. The poet William Barnes coined the term, the poetic eye. In one of his poems, The Young Rhymer Snubbed, he writes, “But then my heart did kindle wi’ the fleäme o’t, // Whenever I did zee a touchen zight, // An’ I did all but lose my wits there-right.” Barnes would be so moved by the things he saw that he just had to put pen to paper and capture it in a poem. I know how he feels. I am one of these people. I see things and I see a poem. I want to somehow capture, not so much the scene, but the moment, what I felt and thought in that moment, and what that moment meant to me.

 

Impressions is a small collection of poems inspired by such moments, whether they occurred while cycling through Provence, rambling in Wales, trekking through Galicia, hunting for castles in Corsica, or even on a pirogue in the Amazon. I hope you enjoy sharing these moments with me, and I hope that they help you find your own poetic eye.

 

 

An’ zoo I vound my friends think all the seäme o’t,
That rhyme won’t vill the pocket over tight,
But then my heart did kindle wi’ the fleäme o’t,
Whenever I did zee a touchen zight,
An’ I did all but lose my wits there-right.
‘Tis likely I shall meäke a losen geäme o’t,
But still, ageän, to lighten off the bleäme o’t,
Vor all do keep me poor, it still will bring
My heart a pleasure that do leäve noo sting.

 

From William Barnes’ The Young Rhymer Snubbed

https://paultmjackson.com/2018/04/20/hello-world/