Speechless the Magazine

 To render. Be rendered. Awestruck. Awesome.
A magazine of poetry and related arts straight from L.A.

 

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NORA MAY FRENCH

Nora May French was born in 1881 and if mood-stabilizing prescriptives had been available back then she might not have died quite so soon thereafter, in 1907. And even without them she might have lived past age 27 if those latter-day Victorian Romantics she consorted with—George Sterling and the San Francisco Bohemians—had not been so eager to glorify the idea of suicide, and to keep the option close at hand. Nora May French became the first among them to crack open her vial and taste the essence of bitter almonds, cyanide.

Though French is now associated with early 20th century artistic circles in Carmel and San Francisco, the arts community in the Arroyo Seco area, now Northeast L.A., embraced her first, and it’s here she published her earliest poems. French moved from her native New York to Southern California and soon joined the Arroyo Seco literary gatherings held at El Alisal.  Her work appeared in Out West, in its day an important publication for national political commentary and Western arts and culture. Mary Austin, an occasional participant in the El Alisal activities, declared that she knew of two women whose talent equaled Jack London’s: Nora May French and, of course, Austin herself.

Had French carried on another dozen years or so she might have the caught that gusty Trade Wind from the literary end of the Modernist movement, with its injunctions Make it new! and Go in fear of abstractions. Even so, her small body of work has not aged as badly as the offerings from other more celebrated poets of her day. Some unaccountable melancholy laces nearly all her poems, and its very frailty seems to erect an invisible barrier against false sentimentality, preciousness, and inflated grandiose gestures. — S. Lummis

Ave Atque Vale

 It gathers where the moody sky is bending,
    It stirs the air along familiar ways—
A sigh for strange things forever ending,
     For beauty shrinking in thee alien days.

 Now nothing is the same; old visions move me:
     I wander silent through the waning land,
And find for youth and little leaves to love me
     The old, old lichen crumbling in my hand.

What shifting films of distance fold you, blind you,
     The windy eve of dreams, I cannot tell.
I know they grope through some strange mist to find you,
     My hands that give you Greeting and Farewell.

The Mourner

Because my love has wave and foam for speech,
     And never words, and yearns as water grieves,
with white arms curving on a listless beach,
     And murmurs inarticulate as leaves—

I am become beloved of the night—
     Her huge sea-lands ineffable and far
Hold crouched and splendid Sorrow, eyed with light,
     And Pain who beads his forehead with a star. 

(from California Poetry from the Gold Rush to the Present, Heyday Books)


Speechless Spring 2007
Copyright © 2007 Published by
Tebot Bach