WesterlyMagazine

Three Poems by Clément Marot (1496–1544), translated by Randolph Stow

Since 1956, Westerly has been publishing lively fiction and poetry as well as intelligent articles. With the Magazine now in its seventieth year, we want to celebrate that legacy by regularly sharing works from across the long timeline of Westerly’s history with our readers. We’re excited to dive into our vast archive with new work from a past issue every week, beginning with a collection of three poems by Clément Marot, translated by Randolph Stow, from the very first issue of Westerly Magazine published in 1956 under founding editor Robert ‘Bob’ Smith.

Clément Marot (23 November 1496–12 September 1544) was a French Renaissance poet.

Randolph Stow (28 November 1935–29 May 2010) was born in Geraldton, Western Australia, in 1935. He majored in French and English at The University of Western Australia, and went on to become one of Western Australia’s most noted writers. By the time these poems were published, Stow had already served as editor of The Winthrop Review (which preceded Westerly); his first novel, A Haunted Land, was also published in 1956. In a tribute to Stow in Westerly 55.2, Bruce Bennett sums up some of Stow’s contributions to Australian letters: ‘Stow’s autobiographical novel, The Merry-go-Round in the Sea (1964), is a classic of Australian literature, as is To the Islands (1958), written when he was only 23. His poetry, especially A Counterfeit Silence (1969) has been highly praised’ (150). A broader tribute to Stow was offered in Issue 55.2 of Westerly, and it can be read in full here. Westerly is proud to support the annual Randolph Stow Memorial Lecture.

The cover of Westerly 1.1 was designed by John Wilson.

Of Anne, Who Threw Snow at Him

 Anne, in her sport, threw me a dart of snow,
Which I thought cold—who would think differently?—
But it was fire; as to my grief I know,
For all my being was kindled instantly.
 Oh, if the fire is lodging secretly
Even in snow, where shall I find a place
Where I am safe from burning? Anne, your grace
Can quench this fire I feel, your grace alone;
And not by water, not by snow or ice,
But by admitting fire strong as my own.

To Anne, Scolded for Marot’s Sake

Since these rhymes which for you, Anne, I compose
Have caused you to be scolded, sister, friend,
Then just it is my hand should now repose.
This I have done: my pen’s work I suspend;
Ink, paper, and my pale and wasted hand,
Repose all three by your authority;
But never shall my soul so patient stand,
For you have wounded it too grievously;
Forgive my verses, then, the injury
That they have caused; I say in their defense
That they shall make you live eternally—
And could you ask for fairer recompense?

Of the Month of May, and of Anne

May, who was gowned in robes of bright new green
Sown with sweet flowers, one day took her place,
And when she saw my love, with great chagrin
At such fresh beauty, coloured her green face,
Saying to me: ‘You think her to efface
The flowers that I bear, when she comes by’;
I answered her: ‘All of your flowers die
Incontinent, when winter’s hand comes hither;
But for all time shall flourish bright and high
My lady’s virtues; them Death cannot wither’.

Did you know you can read past issues of Westerly Magazine online for free? Read Westerly 1.1 in its entirety here.

Comments are closed.