NOBLE SPIRITS
Cognac’s Golden Ratio
April 23 is the birthday of Epicurean author, sculptor and political activist Elisabeth de Gramont (1875-1954), who made the first French translations of poems by John Keats.
Somebody once asked Lily de Gramont how to translate literature. She said that the artistry’s in imagining how the author would express herself, were she speaking in one’s own language. Translating Francesco Rapazzini’s biography of Lily, I like to keep that in mind.
And so today in memoriam I offer a poem of my own. It’s one that refreshes Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn, much beloved by young Lily de Gramont. A poem about the power of inspiration for a modern Epicurean who appreciates a timeless recipe. In seventeenth century France, Cognac was distilled from six parts wine and eleven parts water.
“Claret is the liquor for boys, port for men,” said Samuel Johnson, “but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.” Here’s raising a glass to Elisabeth de Gramont on her 139th birthday. Many happy returns, Madame.
Proof (6:11)
He’s gone and she’s proof
that nothing ever really ends.
Just gets turned over in the soil
between her toes: radiance in her smile
warming the field she walks in.
Turns over in the soil
season after season: proof of life
to those tilling behind her,
furrows so full of it all.
She’s proof and she knows
that she’s a love child.
He’s gone and he never went
anywhere. She knows it for sure
cause she’s proof.
Proof of his generosity.
He’s her breath of air and fire,
he’s her long tall drink of water,
and when she’s on his good footing
he’s the she she’s always
steadied her life upon.
Yep, she’s proof enough
of the golden ratio.
Of new roots spreading
and new shoots sprouting.
Of fusty old poems aerating
and lost rivers refreshing.
‘Ere she walks, the sweet grapes grow.
Beauty’s truth and truth beauty.
That’s all she knows in this life
and all she needs to know.
[…] snowy peaks reserved to poets; up there, each fresh snowfall awaits the imprint of news steps.” At 34 in 1909, she was the first to translate Keats into French. She used to carry the poems of Stéphane Mallarmé stuffed in her handbag; when she learned of his […]