The Priere du Petit Ane (in English!) was where I began when I was looking for for yesterday's poem. I've got an old copy of Runer Godden's English transactions, but here's the original French as well. My French is nowhere near good enough to read it without the help of the English version.
Priere du Petit Ane / The Prayer of the Donkey by Carmen Bernos de Gasztold
Mon Dieu, qui m’avez cree
pour que je marche sur la route
toujours,
et que je porte de lourds fardeaux
toujours,
et que je sois battu,
toujours!
Donnez-moi beaucoup de courage et de douceur.
Faites qu’un jour on me comprenne
et que je n’aie plus envie de pleurer,
parce que je m’exprime mal
et qu’on se moque de moi.
Faites que je trouve un beau chardon
et qu’on me laisse le temps de le cueillir.
Faites que je rejoigne un jour
mon petit frere de la Creche.
O God, who made me
to trudge along the road
always,
to carry heavy loads
always,
and to be beaten
always!
Give me great courage and gentleness.
One day let somebody understand me –
that I may no longer want to weep
because I can never say what I mean
and they make fun of me.
Let me find a juicy thistle –
and make them give me time to pick it.
And, Lord, one day, let me find again
my little brother of the Christmas crib.
Amen.
From Prayers from the Ark by Carmen Bernos de Gasztold, translated by Rumer Godden.
I downloaded a cheap kindle book of the King James Bible which is in French/English, the verses repeated in both languages, in the hope that it might inspire me to improve my French. I do sometimes go back to it.
Beth, in the comments yesterday introduced me to this poem;
THE POET THINKS ABOUT THE DONKEY -Mary Oliver
On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited.
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.
How horses, turned out into the meadow,
leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages,
clatter away, splashed with sunlight.
But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.
Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen.
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.
I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him,
as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped, as he had to, forward.
There is plenty to think about in both poems.
Meanwhile, I have dared to reach for
I think, with the garden full of daffodils and tulips, and the forget-me-nots about to flower, we can say Spring is here!
