#mon bel amor

[sawa-soon]

Mon Bel Amour

[mcu-coworkers]

Sick days

Summary: Nursing your sick boyfriend back to health.

Pairings: Kylian Mbappe x reader

Warnings: N/A

A/n: Not a request this one was just something small and short that came to mind! Thank you guys for all of the love and I hope you guys like this one!xx

You felt something was off when you woke up that morning and didn't have your usual text from Kylian before he left for his gym session.

He never missed a day, even when he traveled and was in a completely different time zone.

You were filled with more worry than anything else given he never forgets on purpose.

You’d texted him that morning instead but to no avail, there was no response.

After an hour with no response you decided to go check his home and make sure everything was okay.

As you were walking up to his door your phone began to ring.

“Ney” reading across the screen.

“Hey Ney, what’s up?” you said hoping he’d mention something Kylian did at practice and you worried for nothing.

“Hola bella, have you heard from Kylian? He was a no show in practice. The coach is looking for him. I just wanted to give him the heads up before he gets fined.” he chuckled, it wouldn't be the first time PSG fined him.

Sighing, you looked at the door once again.

“Nope,  I   was hoping he was at practice. I'm outside his house right now. Give me a sec  I‘ll call you back yeah?” you said reaching for the key he’d given you.

“Sale, thank you!” He said before hanging up.

Quietly you opened the door, you felt sneaky opening his door without telling him you were coming.

You know he wouldn't mind but still, you always gave a heads up.

“Ky?” you called out from the hallway.

You walked through his home looking for any signs of him until you made it to his bedroom door.

Opening it you came face to face with your sleeping boyfriend.

Your sick, sleeping boyfriend surrounded by tissues.

“Oh my love.” you chuckled relieved he didn't go missing.

Cleaning up the tissues you went into his pantry to pull out the medicine he’d need and some ingredients for soup and tea.

Once you finished you put everything in a tray and walked back up to Kylians room.

After setting everything down on the nightstand you pondered waking him up or letting him sleep more but the decision was made for you when he began tossing and turning.

“Ky, baby it's me.” you whispered gently, rubbing his back.

“Mon amour what are you doing here? What time is it?” he said, realizing the sun was out.

“You’re sick Kylian lay back down.” you chuckled,  pushing him down.

“But I have practice coach is gonna kill me.” he said looking for his phone.

“No he's not because Neymar  told him you were sick in bed and that makes the penalty fine void.” you said matter of factly.

Looking at you he smiled and fell back into his mountain of pillows.

“Bless my lawyer girlfriend.” He said, smiling at you.

“Now here drink this please.” you said, handing him the tea.

You took the chance to open his windows and unstuff his room and hopefully his nose too.

Kylian took the tea and the soup eventually beginning to feel like himself again.

“Mon ange  I   could kiss you all day for this, I'm sorry  you didn't wake up to a message from me.” he said reaching for you.

Pulling back  you smiled at your sick boyfriend, “While  I   love you with all my heart  I   do not want to get whatever it is you have amor.” you said collecting the empty dishes.

“I'm gonna go get you some orange slices.” you said picking up the tray.

“Okay but when  I‘m better I'm thanking you the right way.” he said, reaching over quickly to spank your butt.

Gasping you smiled, “Mbappé!” blush rising to your cheeks.

“Je t’aime mon bel ange!” he yelled from his room.

Yup, he was definitely feeling better alright.

[turangalila]

Folquet de Marseilla (ca. 1155-1231) Tant m’abellis l’amoros pesamens [(p. 1-2) Français 1749. Chansonnier provençal E. Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des Manuscrits, Paris.]

Tant m'abellis l'amoros pessamens / Que s'es vengutz e mon fin cor assire / Per que no.i pot nuills autre pes caber / Ni mais negus no m'es dous ni plazens, / Qu'adonc viu sas quan m'aucizo.l cossire / E fin’ amors aleuja.m mo martire / Que.m promet joi, mas trop lo.m dona len, / Qu'ap bel semblan m'a trainat longamen. // Be sai que tot quan faz es dreiz niens / Eu qu'en puesc mais s'Amors mi vol aucire / Qu'az escien m'a donat tal voler / Que ja non er vencutz ni el no vens! / Vencutz si er, qu'aucir m'an li sospire, / Tot soavet, quar de liey cui dezire / Non ai socors, ni d'allors no l'aten, / Ni d'autr’ amor no puesc aver talen. // Bona dona, si.us platz, siatz sufrens / Del ben qu'ie.us vuel qu'ieu sui del mal sufrire, / E pueis lo mals no.m poira dan tener / Ans m'er semblan que.l partam egalmens! / Pero, si.us platz qu'az autra part me vire, / Ostatz de vos la beutat e.l dous rire / E.l bel semblan que m'afollis mon sen: / Pueis partir m'ai de vos, mon escien. // A totz jorns m'etz plus bel’ e plus plazens! / Per qu'ie.n vuel mal als huels ab que.us remire, / Quar a mon pro no.us poirian vezer / Et a mon dan vezon trop sotilmens! / Mos dans non es, sivals pos no.m n'azire, / Ans es mos pros, dona, per qu'ieu m'albire, / Si m'aucisetz, que no.us estara gen, / Quar lo mieus dans vostres er eissamen. // Per so, dona, no.us am saviamens / Qu'a vos sui fis et a mos ops trayre: / E vos cug perdr’ e mi no puesc aver, / E.us cug nozer et a mi sui nozens! / Pero, no.us aus mon mal mostrar ni dire, / Mas a l'esgart podetz mon cor devire, / Qu'ar lo.us cuich dir et aras m'en repen / Et port n'als huels vergonh’ e ardimen. // Trop vos am mais, dona, qu'ieu no sai dire, / E quar anc jorn aic d'autr’ amor desire / No m'en penet, ans vos am per un cen, / Car ai proat l'autrui captenemen. // Vas Nems t'en vai, chanssos, qui qe.s n'azire, /Que gauch n'auran, per lo meu escien, / Las tres donnas a cui ieu te presen. //// 

Dante And The Troubadours Sequentia, Benjamin Bagby. (1995, Deutsche Harmonia Mundi – 82876 601632)

[lyssismagical]

I love your stories, but i kinda wanna see something from you: whatever lingual Peter. Also Parkner because why not. Do whatever you want just tag me if you do end up doing it💕🌼

 {Idk if this is what you meant, but this ft Peter who can speak like six languages but specifically French!Peter bcs I’m kinda bilingual}

*

Coming from a small town like Rose Hill, they barely even offered a decent English class, let alone any foreign language classes. Harley still doesn’t even know how to use commas or spell most words longer than six letters. But he knows how to fix a car up, he knows tons about biology and engineering and chemistry, he just couldn’t write an essay to save his life.

Which is why meeting Peter is so strange. He goes to a school that teaches three foreign languages, all of which Peter had taken, and he’d learned Italian from May, not to mention that Delmar kept him sharp in Spanish.

It was strange for him to meet someone so linguistically intelligent.

Peter was capable of writing essays without a second thought, able to formulate ideas not only in English but in six other languages as well.

Harley normally stumbled over everything he tried to say, getting excited and tripping over his words, and mumbling. But Peter was a wizard with words when he was trying, as long as he wasn’t too excited or tired.

When he was trying, Peter could string together sentences Harley couldn’t even begin to understand, and it just made him fall head over heels even faster in love with him.

“Je t’aime, mon amour,” Peter will murmur into his chest late at night.

“Ti vedrò stasera,” he’ll tell May when they’re leaving his apartment.

“¿Cómo est��s?” he’ll say to Delmar at lunch.

It makes Harley’s heart swell, despite only knowing some of the things he says.

Sometimes, of course, it makes him feel left out, confused, like an outsider. May and Peter will argue in Italian, Peter will converse with Delmar and other Queens friends he has in Spanish, he’ll murmur French endearments, he’ll talk to Ned in quick Filipino, he’ll whisper in Russian to himself under his breath. And Harley can sometimes barely hold an English conversation.

It sometimes makes him feel stupid, like he’d never be smart enough to understand Peter, never be able to catch up with him intellectually.

But Peter’s never once talked down to him, never once skipped a beat when repeating phrases in English or when editing his papers, fixing all his grammar without blinking an eye.

“It’s not like it’s a big deal. It’s all just because of people I know. May taught me Italian, Natasha taught me Russian, Ned taught me Filipino. I’m sure if you had family from elsewhere, you would’ve learned to communicate with them too,” Peter says, always simple and easy in his solutions.

“But I know you,” Harley points out. “You’re like family, I love you, why haven’t I learned all these languages so I can communicate with you?”

Peter shakes his head, curling a little bit closer to Harley on the couch where they’d just finished watching a movie. “It’s not like that. You can communicate with me just fine.”

“I know, I just can’t help but feel a little stupid when I can’t understand half the things you say.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more conscious of it. It doesn’t make you stupid, either, you’re the smartest person I know, Harls. And if it really makes you feel bad, I’ll teach you, alright?”

And it’s dropped from there, pushed aside, forgotten.

It takes until a simple Friday night that Harley really realizes his feelings about Peter’s fluency in other languages.

Peter had barely slept all week, worked himself half to death between university classes and homework, his internship with Tony, patrolling as Spider-Man, and ending the week off with a gruelling thirty-six-hour long mission out of country. He was clearly exhausted, slurring his words, eyes half-shut.

“C’mon, honey, let’s get some food in you before you pass out for the night,” Harley murmurs, one arm keeping Peter upright as they head to their cramped kitchen.

Peter smiles sleepily, “Tu m’as tellement manqué. Je ne pouvais pas arrêter de penser à toi et à notre vie ensemble.”

Harley has no idea what that means but he smiles anyway because Peter, voice all rough and sweet as honey, murmuring all these French words to him, it makes his chest feel all tight and warm with love.

“Il n’y a rien que je ne ferais pas pour toi. J’espère que tu sais. Tu est mon univers. Je veux t’épouser assez tôt. J’aimerais pouvoir être ici toujours, dans tes bras, ressentir ton amour. J’aurais aimé que nous n’ayons aucune responsabilités. Qu’il n’y avait que toi et moi, ici, toujours. Seulement nous.”

“I don’t know what you just said, but I love you,” Harley says in response. “I forgot the last time we talked about it, but French is a love language and god, I love it when you speak French like that.”

Peter grins a little brighter, leaning tiredly against the counters. “Parfois, je ne peux pas croire que tu m’as choisi.”

“C’mon, I can’t even guess what you’re saying to me.”

“C’est le but, mon cher.”

Harley passes over the dinner he’d left in the microwave while awaiting Peter’s return and he grins, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. You could be telling me that I’m a dumbass, and I’d be over here complimenting you and saying I love you.”

“Je t’aime, chéri.”

“I know that one!” Harley exclaims, planting a kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead. “You taught me that! I love you too.”

Harley wraps his arms around Peter, and he sways them while Peter eats up quickly, and when he finishes, they leave the dishes for the morning.

They head to bed, Peter just collapsing into the mattress and letting Harley peel the suit off him and tuck him in, staying limp and pliant.

Harley tucks Peter into his chest, peppering kisses over his face and shoulders and hands, murmuring soft endearments to him.

“Je ne sais pas si je pourrais te le dire sit u comprendrais mais je t’aime plus que les mots ne peuvent le décrire. Je mourrias pour toi. Je tuerais pour toi. Je ferais n’importe quoi pour toi. J’aimerais pouvoir expliquer à quel point vous comptez pour moi. Je t’aime, Harley, plus que tout.”

“Sweetheart-”

Peter smiles, eyes already closed, looking like an angel with his curls a mess around his pale face, freckles splattered across his cheekbones, mouth curved up into a smile. God, Harley loves him.

“I just love you is all,” he whispers, voice so vulnerable and gentle. “So much. More than words in any language could describe.”

Harley kisses him, pulling the blanket tighter around them, their little safe haven. “Imagine how I feel. I only know one language, and trust me, English doesn’t have the words.”

“Mon amour,” Peter responds quietly, baby browns gazing up at Harley. He curls just a little closer, letting Harley protect him from the world. “Il mio amore. Mi amor. Mahal ko. моя любовь. Iubirea mea. Min elskede. My love.”

“Je t’aime,” Harley says, nearly stumbling over the pronunciation. “Beaucoup.”

Peter lights up, pressing a kiss to Harley’s collarbone. “Goodnight, mon bel ange.”

“Night, darling.”

Taglist: @littlemissagrafina  @fancyxparker  @romeoandjulietyouwish @c-artara @shadedrose01 @likeaphoenix13 @misskirkstark @you-get-killed-walk-it-off @kitkatwinchester  @emo-girl10  @hold-our-destiny @imalivebecauseirondad @spiderman-peterman @dykeragee @maryserrao @heeeyitskay @parknerandirondad @lilacsandlilies4 @loveliestdisappointment @joyful-soul-collector @genderfluid-and-confuzled @fallenstar07 @gyurolls @sdottkrames {Lemme know if you wanna be added or removed}

[ochoislas]

SINFONÍA DE SEPTIEMBRE

II

¡Soledad, madre mía, repásame mi vida! ¡Héte el muro sin cruz, y la mesa y el libro cerrado! Si quimera tanto tiempo esperada, como el pardal helado, llamara a la ventana,

¿quién se levantaría para abrirle? Reclamo de montero rezago por lívido pantano, muere grito postrero de mocedad: aterra mudo seno del bosque caer de única hoja.

¿Cuál eres, mi alma triste? ¿Tal cuarto amodorrado donde un pródigo hijo, de codos sobre el libro cerrado, oye zumbar mosca azul de la infancia? ¿O espejo que recuerda? ¿Bostezo de sepulcro?

¡Dichas que lleva lejos vesperal brisa, nubes de oro, naves cargadas de maná por los ángeles! ¿Todos sin falta habéis cesado ya de amarme? ¿Ya no os volveré a ver a través del cristal

de la infancia? Las voces, tintas y amores míos, todo, valió lo mismo que el resol de la avispa en el viento, que el eco de lágrima en cajón, mero engaño, latido de mi pecho entre sueños?

¡Solo ante los heleros mudos de la vejez! ¡ante el eco de un nombre! ¡Sendos miedos gemelos del día y de la noche, que la desdicha avino, sobre el puente del sueño cambian visos y señas!

Y como la pobre piedra, del lago negro al fondo, que otrora lanzó mano crüel de niño malo: tal reposa en rincón desolado del alma, del recuerdo en el légamo, dormido, grave amor.

*

SYMPHONIE DE SEPTEMBRE

II

Solitude, ma mère, redites-moi ma vie ! voici Le mur sans crucifix et la table et le livre Fermé! si l’impossible attendu si longtemps Frappait à la fenêtre, comme le rouge-gorge au cœur gelé,

Qui donc se lèverait ici pour lui ouvrir? Appel Du chasseur attardé dans les marais livides, Le dernier cri de la jeunesse faiblit et meurt: la chute d’une seule feuille Remplit d’effroi le cœur muet de la forêt.

Qu’es-tu donc, triste cœur? une chambre assoupie Où, les coudes sur le livre fermé, le fils prodigue Écoute sonner la vieille mouche bleue de l’enfance? Ou un miroir qui se souvient? ou un tombeau que le voleur a réveillé?

Lointains heureux portés par le soupir du soir, nuages d’or, Beaux navires chargés de manne par les anges! est-ce vrai Que tous, tous vous avez cessé de m’aimer, que jamais, Jamais je ne vous verrai plus à travers le cristal

De l’enfance? que vos couleurs, vos voix et mon amour, Que tout cela fut moins que l’éclair de la guêpe Dans le vent, que le son de la larme tombée sur le cercueil, Un pur mensonge, un battement de mon cœur entendu en rêve?

Seul devant les glaciers muets de la vieillesse! seul Avec l’écho d’un nom! et la peur du jour et la peur de la nuit Comme deux sœurs réconciliées dans le malheur Debout sur le pont du sommeil se font signe, se font signe!

Et comme au fond du lac obscur la pauvre pierre Des mains d’un bel enfant cruel jadis tombée: Ainsi repose au plus triste du cœur, Dans le limon dormant du souvenir, le lourd amour.

Oscar Venceslas de Lubicz Milosz

di-versión©ochoislas

[historic-old-guard-lover]

Historically Booker’s native language would be Occitan and not French . He would also probably deeply resent standard / Parisian French since the government did their damnest to erase regional languages and still do it today .

Agreed! There was another post about this, but since I got an ask (I love you, anon) I’ll elaborate. Buckle up for a primer on the evolution of the French language with a brief aside for troubadours, traveling musician-poets you wish were still a career option. No, being a rock star is not quite the same.

In the early medieval period (as early as ~900CE), the country we now call France had a language divide between the northern and southern regions. In the north, they spoke langues d'oïl which is what eventually became modern standard French. In the south, they spoke Occitan or lenga d'òc and a modern form of this language is known as Provençal. Looking at the regional sub-dialects, the more northern Occitan begins to sound like a langue d’oil and the more southern dialects begin to sound like Spanish.

As I touched upon in a previous post, this is because they all share similar roots as a romance language. Even though modern standard French is a langue d’oil, occitan managed to sneak a few things into the language. If you’ve learned French as a second language, you’ll know that when you respond yes (oui) to a negative question (you don’t like cheese? / tu n’aimes pas le fromage?) that you use a different yes (si). This is a skeleton of Occitan! 

The why of the invention of “standard French” is, as most “standard” things are, a detour into nationalism. In 1635, Cardinal Richelieu (under Louis XIII) founded the Académie Française (French Academy) which was tasked with standardizing the French language so that it could be exported to the rest of Europe and used to gain further prestige of the role of French philosophers during the Enlightenment. During the French Revolution, it was disregarded, but Napoleon Bonaparte restored it as part of the Institut de France (Institute of France) in 1803. To this day, the Académie is tasked with publishing the French dictionary and inventing new words for things such as “e-mails” so that the French needn’t stoop to using English loan-words.

Another part of this was the Toubon Law (August 1994) which required French (the standard French from the Académie) to be used in all official documents and advertising. It required all advertising to use French and even set a certain percentage of music on the radio that must be French. This law was literally the government going “let’s make the French french again.” If a school doesn’t instruct in French (modern, standard French of course), then they can’t receive government funds. The only exception is Breton-language schools (Breton is as north as it gets and is a langue d’oil so it still helps crush Occitan).

Since the previous paragraph probably made you mad as heck, let me give you some irony to laugh at: some French people refer to this as the loi Allgood (“law” Allgood). To explain this joke, it helps to know that Toubon is the last name of the Minister of Culture at the time the law was passed. If you break down his last name, it sounds like “tout bon” in French which translates to “all good.” People took this law saying make everything French, goddammit and replied, sure thing Minister All-Good. I love it.

Now, for the troubadours! I learned standard modern French in high school, but at university I came across Occitan because of those romantic poets. I’ll put this aside below the break so you can continue on with your day if for some reason you’re not interested in medieval French rock star-poets...

Let me begin by quoting the Wikipedia definition:

A troubadour was a composer and performer of Old Occitan lyric poetry during the High Middle Ages (1100–1350). Since the word troubadour is etymologically masculine, a female troubadour is usually called a trobairitz.

Right away you may notice a few things: 1) they wrote and sang in Occitan; 2) it was an equal-opportunity field (though it was rare for a woman to be one). The first Troubadours were mostly noblemen, but later ones could come from any social class. Yes, you read that correctly: egalitarian travelling poets! If that doesn’t sell you on these performers, I don’t know what will. The troubadours spread their tradition throughout Europe and the only thing that could stop them was the Black Plague.

As you’d expect, they mostly sang about love. A lot of their poems were about courtly love and chivalry, but they could also get bawdy. The especially good performers would be sought after by courts like famous painters. Troubadours are essentially the apex bards: romantic, witty, charming, talented, and able to make serious bank.

To finish this, I will leave you with one of the bawdiest troubadour poems I know of, Farai un vers, pos mi somelh (The Ladies with the Cat) by Guillem de Peiteus. It’s essentially the story of a dude who has sex with these women who pick up a knight on a pilgrimage (though it plays with reality and this guy’s fantasies). I’ll include it in the original Occitan, and then a translation by Robert Kehew (I believe), verse-by-verse. Forgive me for my commentary in between, but I just want you to understand how freaking clever this poem is!

Farei un vers, pos mi somelh Em vauc e m’estauc al solelh. Domnas i a de mal conselh,    E sai dir cals: Cellas c’amor de cavalier    Tornon a mals.

While sound asleep I’ll walk along In sunshine, making up my song. Some ladies get the rules all wrong;    I’ll tell you who: The ones that turn a knight’s love down    And scorn it, too.

The singer is establishing himself as a troubadour. The protagonist is dreaming, so we should be careful about what is real and imagined. He’s also invoking the trope of the philandering knight constantly falling in love and breaking his heart.

Domna fai gran pechat mortal Qe no ama cavalier leal; Mas si es monge o clergal,    Non a raizo: Per dreg la deuri’hom cremar    Ab un tezo.

Grave mortal sins such ladies make Who won’t make love for a knight’s sake; And they’re far worse, the ones who’ll take    A monk or priest-- They ought to get burned at the stake    At the very least.

The Middle Ages were not at all chaste; yes, monks and priests were having sex. This isn’t as sexist as it may come across on a first reading however. He’s not saying women shouldn’t have sex (he’s actually saying that it’s a sin not to being having sex), he’s just upset that women who are clearly willing to have sex are turning *him* down. He’s not going to get any awards for feminist of the year, but he’s not the worst. I’m sure this would rouse cheers from a tavern.

En Alvernhe, part Lemozi, M’en aniey totz sols a tapi: Trobei la moller d’en Guari    E d’en Bernart; Saluderon mi simplamentz    Per sant Launart.

Down in Auvergne, past Limousin, Out wandering on the sly I ran Into the wives of Sir Guarin    And Sir Bernard; They spoke a poper welcome then    By St. Leonard.

These are recognizable locations along a pilgrimage route. There’s a good chance that these names are replaceable (Bernard can be replaced with any last name that rhymes with a saint) and this song could be used to goad the audience. And no, he hasn’t had sex with these ladies yet. They’re just saying hello (for now).

La unam diz en son latin: “E Dieus vos salf, don pelerin; Mout mi semblatz de bel aizin,    Mon escient; Mas trop vezem anar pel mon    De folla gent.”

One said in her dialect, “Sir Pilgrim, may the Lord protect Men so sweet-manned, so correct,    With such fine ways; This whole world’s full of lunatics    And rogues, these days.”

I think most would agree that this is happening in the knight’s sex-dream because she’s just sweet talking him. The awesome part is that the “dialect” reflects the singer actually adopting a Northern French language (they’re mutually intelligible). Guillem didn’t have to go that hardcore, but he did.

Ar auzires qu’ai respondut; Anc no li diz bat ni but, Ni fer ni fust no ai mentaugut,    Mas sol aitan: “Barbariol, babariol,    Babarian.”

For my reply--I’ll swear to you I didn’t tell them Bah or Boo, I answered nothing false of true;    I just said, then, “Babario, babariew,    Babarian.”

This guy just mocks their accents as a reply. Wildin’.

So diz n’Agnes a n’Ermessen: “Trobat avem que anam queren. Sor, per amor Deu, l’alberguem,    Qe ben es mutz, E ja per lui nostre conselh    Non er saubutz.”

So Agnes said to Ermaline, “Let’s take him home, quick; don’t waste time. He’s just the thing we’d hoped to find:    Mute as a stone. No matter what we’ve got in mind,    It won’t get known.”

In this stanza we see two repeats and a new thing. First, the names are easy to replace (Agnes doesn’t even have to rhyme with anything) so that this can be done to call out a specific woman’s name. Second, the language skills are being flaunted again as this Occitan-speaker is just casually showcasing that he can sing about sex in other languages too, thankyouverymuch. Lastly, this is WOMEN voicing their desire, not men. The man is silent, they think he’s incapable of speech. This is two women in a poem/song getting to steer the story how they please. Stepping back, this is a guy’s sex-dream so you could argue he’s just got a kink for dominant women, but regardless that’s a pretty cool way to turn masculinity on its head.

La unam pres sotz son mantel Menet m’en sa cambra, al fornel. Sapchatz qu’a mi fo bon a bel,    El focs fo bos, Et eu calfei me volentiers    Als gros carbos.

Under her cloak, one let me hide; We slipped up to her room’s fireside. By now I thought one could abide    To play this role-- Right willingly I warmed myself    At their live coals.

Yes, this dude is saying he’s more than happy to let the women take charge. Don’t kink-shame him.

A manjar mi deron capos, E sapchatz agui mais de dos, E noi ac cog ni cogastros,    Mas sol nos tres, El pans fo blancs el vins fo bos    El pebr’ espes.

They served fat capons for our fare-- I didn’t stop at just one pair; We had no cook or cook’s boy there,    But just us three. The bread was white, the pepper hot,    The wine flowed free.

A capon is a castrated rooster, fattened for eating. He’s being fattened (and emasculated by letting them take control) before the women get down to their  fun with him.

“Sor, aquest hom es enginhos, E laissa lo parlar per nos: Nos aportem nostre gat ros    De mantenent, Qel fara parlar az estros,    Si de renz ment.”

N’Agnes anet per l’enujos, E fo granz et ac loncz guinhos: E eu, can lo vi entre nos,    Aig n’espavent, Q’a pauc non perdei la valor    E l’ardiment.

“Wait, sister, this could be a fake; He might play dumb just for our sake. See if our big red cat’s awake    And fetch him, quick. Right here’s one silence we should break    If it’s a trick.”

So Agnes brought that wicked beast, Mustachioed, huge, and full of yeast; To see him sitting at our feast--    Seemed less than good; I very nearly lost my nerve    And hardihood.

So yes, he’s joking about almost loosing his boner and there’s that language play again. The big part of the ending, however, is the imagery of the red cat. Cats are typically associated with women, and the color red tempts the mind into thinking of it as female passion or some kind of prowling sexuality (with undertones of evil). The subtext here is that they’re going to test him by letting this cat scratch him up to see if he’ll cry out. If he can keep his mouth shut and allow the womens’ passions, he can stay. If he can’t, he’s out. Ultimately, I’m going to say that this poem is subtly for women’s empowerment. Go scratch up your knights, ladies.

[tiberiusmadhouse]

@rcliicta​ said: 22. for sex after a near death experience :: ezio

     Her heart was pounding so hard it was a miracle the guards chasing them hadn’t heard the sound as they ran past the rooftop garden. Fingers still clutching the front of Ezio’s tunic, she stared up at him, and pulled when he tried to straighten to look over the half wall they’d taken refuge behind. 

“Bella, it’s fine. Rilassare.’ -relax

     A part of her knew that, but she could still see the knife that had been flying towards his back. The cut on her arm was still bleeding, albeit sluggishly, but if it had hit its mark… Not that she was doubting his skills, he moved like a demonic creature when fighting, but that had been too close. He’d only turned when he felt her shoulder force him to, the blade cutting her upper arm, the sound of Ezio’s curse in her ear as he’d returned the favour. 

“You arrogant hijo de puta! Shut up!’ She hissed up at him. -son of a bitch

     Only then did he really look at her, seeing her eyes that were too wide, her pallor pale as she stared up at him. 

“Mi amore… are you hurt?’ -my love

“Shh!’

     Yanking him down, she focused on her breathing, slowing her racing heart and felt the guard’s feet before she heard it. Ezio opened his mouth, and she kissed him, unwilling to let go of his tunic because she didn’t trust him not to pull away. When the guard passed she sighed, the grumbling had been unintelligible but the meaning of it was enough. They’d given up searching. Letting go of his tunic with one hand she smacked his chest, even knowing it hurt her more than it did him. 

“Que estabas pensado, stupido ragazzo!’ She seethed, pushing around him until he moved, rolling to her feet. -spanish What were you thinking -Italian stupid boy

     Only to have him wrap an arm around her waist and pull her back down onto his lap. Keeping her voice low Selina continued chewing him out in a mixture of Spanish and Italian, squirming as she tried to get loose. When she finally stilled, arms crossed over her stomach, resting on his, Ezio slowly loosened his grip. 

“Do you feel better?’

“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Auditore! I will claw your eyes out.’ She warned him though the heat that had been so scathing a moment ago in her tone was gone. 

“Never.’ Feeling a kiss pressed to her shoulder, Selina turned her face offering her cheek. “Now, answer me. Are you hurt?’

“A little.’ 

     Selina rolled her eyes when she was unceremoniously dumped off his lap, shifting to show him the cut on her arm, and let him wrap it. But she couldn’t stop the rush of warm affection that rolled through her when he kissed the bandaged spot, threading her fingers through his hair. And she was too slow to hide the smile when he pulled her hand to his mouth to kiss each fingertip, and then her palm. 

“You are a ridiculous boy.’ 

     Too busy enjoying the tingles his kisses had left raising goosebumps up her arm, Selina didn’t see the look in his eyes as he gave a tug on her arm. Falling against him, she flinched at the tight grip on her wrist, looking first to it and then his face. 

“Call me a boy one more time, tesoro…’ Voice low, Ezio stared down at her, waiting.  -darling/treasure

     It was hard to tell if he was being threatening or not, if he was actually offended or not, moving to straddle his lap. Pushing the hood off his head, Selina moved the hair away from his forehead, neatly combing it into place. His eyes narrowed slightly, but the frown lessened as she cupped his face, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Another to the bridge of his nose, one of her thumbs stroking his cheek as the other threaded through his hair again. When his eyes fell half shut, she nuzzled her cheek against his, lips close to his ear.

“Va bene bel ragazzo.’ -okay pretty boy 

     She felt him stiffen, the hands that had been resting on her thighs and slowly moving up to her hips going still. Biting her lip to stifle a laugh, Selina felt his hand swat her backside. 

“Mocciosa!’ -brat

“Si.’ Nipping his ear, earned her a curse, and a shove backwards that left her sprawled on her back on empty sacks. “But you adore me!’ -yes

“God help me, but I do.’

     If she thought he meant that, it would have hurt. But Ezio looked at her as if her very breath were the most important thing to happen in the world. Each one. Watching him begin peeling off his armor, she raised an eyebrow, and then looked around at the small shelter. Surely not. But he was muttering curses under his breath as he tugged at a particularly stubborn buckle, Selina watching this new evening entertainment. 

“You’re still dressed.’ 

     As if she hadn’t known already, Selina smiling as she began undoing the front of the black silk shirt she wore. Slowly. Ezio’s eyes watching, his own falling still as she finished tugging the laces and then pulled at the fabric to expose skin bit by bit. When she stopped, Ezio let out a disappointed groan that thrilled her. One of the most dangerous men in Florence, and she owned him, down to his very soul. 

     Sliding her hands up, she cupped her breasts and arched with a soft sigh, before moving them back down, walking her fingers along her belt to undo it and leave the ends hanging down her hips. Lifting them, she began to untuck the shirt, with soft tugs until the skin of her stomach was exposed. Selina could hear his breathing, the way it hitched as she scratched her way up under the shirt squirming to get it up and over her head, before moving back down to begin working the pants over her hips. 

“Ezio?’ She had to say his name twice more before he looked away from where the waist of the pants just hid her mons pubis. “Help me with my boots?’

     He blinked, and shook his head before looking to where she’d lifted her right leg. Honestly she hadn’t really thought it through completely, watching him unlace the footwear and tug it off. Ezio has power too, but Selina’s arrogance didn’t allow for it when he looked at her like he did. Like she was a goddess. A shiver ran up the length of her body feeling his hand on her calf, his palm hot, and rough even though the fabric. She tried to keep the feeling from her face, not that it mattered, he was busy working on the other boot. Pulling her dagger out first, he put it within reach of her hand, and then unlaced it and tugged that one off as well. 

     With an almost eager expression, his gaze shifted back to where it had been before, waiting, and she slowly sat up to push the article of clothing down her thighs, closing her knees and bending them so her ankles rested against her backside to block his view, making him groan. 

“You are a cruel woman, mi amore…’ his fingers moved to rest on her knees, lightly tugging in an attempt to part them. 

“It is cold and you are still very much dressed, il mio bel ragazzo…’ Selina cooed, twisting at the waist to rest her legs on the ground, keeping her shoulders flat as she covered her breasts with her arms. -my pretty boy

     He looked down at himself with bemusement, and then back to the picture she’d made of herself as if torn. 

“The sooner you undress, the sooner I let you touch me, mi corazon.’ Slowly moving her arms down, she cupped her breasts again with a soft cry. “Or I’ll just have to do it all myself…’ -my heart

     Selina was pretty sure she heard something tear, laughing at the haste he showed removing his clothing, and the grunts when things caught before he was able to yank his clothing over his head. It was actually chilly, but Selina couldn’t muster the ability to be annoyed seeing his bare chest, impatiently squirming as she looked at scarred skin. 

     When Ezio tucked his legs beneath himself, and straightened, Selina had to bite back a sound as the moonlight and shadow played across his skin. She had never been a religious person, but on occasion, Selina was certain there must be one. The fact that Ezio existed, and was hers alone was proof enough, watching him yank with poorly concealed frustration at his belt. She’d been blessed. 

     His sword belt finally came loose, and he undid his pants only far enough to roughly shove them down his hips. Reaching out for her legs and her body jerked, letting out a soft amused noise as he finished pulling off her pants, a hand gently cupping her ankle to open her legs. 

“Bellisima…’ he whispered in an awed voice, looking at her from the thatch of dark curls between her legs, up to where her arms slowly lifted from her chest to her face. -beautiful

     Leaning down, Selina wrapping her other leg around him, Ezio ran his hand down the length of the other as she bent it to hook her knee over his shoulder. If Selina were a lesser woman who doubted her charms, the look on Ezio’s face would be enough to make her feel like the most beautiful woman alive. But she knew them, her hands reaching for him even as he kissed her inner thigh, and it only confirmed what she already knew without his saying so. She was a goddess among women. 

     It took her a moment too long to realize he still had one of his gloves on, feeling the rough beginnings of a beard scraping against her skin as he kissed her hip, above her belly button, fingers threading through his hair as she sighed. But when she did notice, she gave his hair a tug, making him briefly raise his head with a smirk that made her heart trip, stop, and then race.

“Brute. You’re still not undressed.’ She scolded him, though it was hard to make her voice firm when he licked his way up her stomach to between her breasts. 

 “Forgive me?’

“Perhaps…’ pausing she watched him staring down at her, arching but unable to reach him as he pulled back. “If you give me something to match my eyes.’

     His laughter made her smile, Selina had an insatiable craving for jewels, and dresses that whispered when she moved. Her fingers tangling in his hair as she felt his gloved hand smoothing along her skin, pulling him down for a kiss. She adored them, but she didn’t need them, not when Ezio tasted sweeter than wine, and made her head spin with the low groans he let out as her hips lifted to brush her groin against his. 

“You almost died,’ she murmured against his mouth, fisting her hands in his hair, before loosening one handful to stroke his face. “If you let some perro kill you, I will kill you myself.’ -dog

“I know.’ 

     She opened her mouth, ready to correct him, because he didn’t know, he didn’t understand that Selina couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. But he kissed her again, slowly rocking his hips to grind against her before she angled her hips and Ezio whispered something that could have been a prayer if it hadn’t been so blasphemous as he slid into her slowly. Her back arched, feeling him thrust inside her, stretching her, and she pleaded when he stopped moving. 

     It didn’t hurt, not compared to the way her entire life had briefly been one without him in it. Selina’s eyes filling with tears before she blinked them away, shifting restlessly beneath him. And what did she have if he were gone? Pretty baubles and memories that time would wear smooth before eroding and taking away from her. Lovely dresses that could never whisper the way he did late in the evening as they lay in bed and he told her he loved her. 

“What’s this? Did I hurt you?�� Ezio’s thumb brushed across her cheek to wipe away a tear. 

“No! I’m mad at you still.’ She snapped, wiping at her cheek, glaring up at him when he smiled. 

“Stop thinking so much, mi amore. We lived.’

     That was not the point, if Selina hadn’t been there to watch his back, there would have been a knife in it. If she hadn’t shouldered him out of the way, she’d have never felt his body against hers again. His smile slowly faded, expression serious as she slowly stroked his face with her fingertips. 

“I don’t like the mourning I see in your eyes, tesoro.’ Sliding her leg off his shoulder, he watched her expression as he placed his hands on either side of her head. “I prefer your joy. We both survived, and that’s what matters.’

     He pulled his hips back, snapping them forward and Selina arched at the sharp pleasure that shot through her. 

“I know, but-’

     Another slow motion back, an almost vicious thrust into her that made her gasp, hands moving to his shoulders as Selina stared up at him wide eyed. 

“Ezio…. I-’

     Another thrust, the words dying in her throat, and another as Selina stared up at the hard expression on his face and the tender look in his eyes. Unable to stop herself, she opened her mouth and was silenced as he thrust into again, but this time didn’t stop. It wasn’t the gentle love he usually gave to her, it was harsh and unyielding, her fingers digging into his shoulders as the thrusts demanded, they didn’t ask. And her body responded, the orgasm rising cruel and fast drawing a cry from her throat. 

     And still he didn’t stop, even as she shoved at his shoulders the pain and pleasure blurring together until she tried to pull him closer as he fucked her until her entire body shuddered beneath him, and she begged him to stop, too sensitive for the harsh snap of his hips. He only slowed when she kissed him, a sweet pleading instead of the caress that had carried a bitter taste to it. His forehead resting against hers as he rolled his hips gently, coaxing another orgasm for her that left her almost limp, vision hazy as he smiled down at her. 

“Better.’ Ezio crooned, slowly lowering himself, moving so his arms tucked under her shoulders, cradling her as he chased after his own release. 

     Afterwards, pressing lazy kisses to her cheek and jaw, Ezio rolled so she lay on top of him, fingers tucking her hair behind her ears. She was sore, but in a way she hadn’t realized she could be, and feel amazing from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. What she wanted to do was sleep, pressing her ear to his chest, smiling when she heard his soft hum of pleasure at the intimate gesture. 

“Ezio?’

“Hm?’

“I don’t want to sleep here.’ Her fingers played with a scar on his shoulder, waiting until she heard him respond with a soft grunt. “But…’

“What is it?’ He asked, catching her hand to kiss her fingertips, Selina tilting her head to watch.

“I don’t think I can walk.’ She finally admitted. 

     The laughter she’d been so enamored with not long ago, now made her turn her head and bite him, making Ezio jump, shoving at her until she stopped

“It’s not funny!’

“It is a little funny…’ 

“No, pinche cabron, it is not.’ -mother fucker

     Selina hated his stupid laugh, and the way he wrapped his arms around her pressing a kiss to her forehead. If he died tomorrow she would not be attending his funeral, instead she would find his money cache and throw the biggest party Florence has ever seen...

[haitilegends]

YVON LOUISSAINT

CHANTEUR DES FRÈRES DÉJEAN

Auteur: Adrien B. Berthaud

"De tous les temps, même dans les moments les plus difficiles, la résilience d’Haiti est forte. Sa musique, ses payses, ses artistes et son climat ont toujours su comment charmer, créer et faire réver. Quand nous pensons à Yvon Louissaint, ce nom évoque instantanément ‘Troubadour”car c’est ainsi qu’il commenca à se faire écouter au début des années 1960.

Il grandit à la ruelle Cameau, en plein coeur du bas peu de choses. Ennivré, exhalté par le mouvement des mini Jazz, il joignit “ Les Morphées Noires”au beau milieu de 1960. Peu de temps après, les musiciens de Shupa Shupa font appel à lui et l’embauchent comme guitariste. Il y resta avec Shupa Shupa jusqu’à son écroulement.

Après Le Shupa Shupa, il embrasse sa guitarre et chemine à nouveau son chemin de troubadour. Il donnait des sérénades un peu partout dans la capitale et avec sa guitarre, il animait des soirées privées, pétillantes d’esprits, joyeuses et romantiques. Un soir, tandis que Guy Durosier et ses compagnons animaient une fête privée, la musique de Yvon, aux abords de la maison où Guy et ses disciples s’exhibaient, a engendré une inégalable séduction . Par contre, Fitot Léandre, un invité de cette soirée l’invita à y rentrer. C’est ainsi que Yvon a lié connaissance avec Guy et son groupe. Jusqu’après son introduction a Guy et sa suite, il propose de faire une jam. Ce qui a caractérisé cette soirée n’est pas seulement le fait qu’une nouvelle étoile allait naître mais, un esprit de corps y régnait pendant cette brêve rencontre. La beauté des mélodies, les voix de Guy et de Yvon imbibées de tendresse ont crées une exhaltation, une transe jusqu’au délire.

En 1972, après André Toussaint, Carola Cuevas, Ansy Désrose, Guy présente au grand public de Cabane Choucoune, Yvon Louissaint, la nouvelle révélation de la chanson Haitienne. Ce soir là, on a cru même entendre vibrer le coeur de la Coupe; Yvon fut l’object de nombreuses marques d’estime. Depuis, il est dans le coeur et l’esprit de toute une population.

Les retombeés de cette rencontre à Cabane Choucone allaient porter ses fruits car, quand Guy Durosier laisse Haiti en 1973, le groupe ‘ Les Frères Déjean ‘ a fait de Yvon le symbole même de la joie et de l’espoir;Yvon est devenu une superbe étoile.

Avec Les Frères Dejean, Yvon enregistra, Sasa Ye Sa, une adaptation de Qu’est ce que c’est que ça de Henry Salvador par Guy Durosier, Bouki Ak Malis, Latibonit etc . Ses meilleures performances portent les empreintes des Frères Déjean. Cependant, ce n’était pas facile de controller Yvon. L’alcool, les femmes, certains stupéfiants l’empéchaient de faire face à ses responsabilités envers l’orchestre. Par contre, il fut mis en disponibilité par le responsable des Frères Déjean et fut remplacé par Harold Joseph.

En 1978, Macaya Records publia Zin/ Yvon Louissaint Et Les Antillais. Sur ce LP, Yvon chante Bel Mari Pou Li de Dodof Legros, Zin , Mal Pensee et un fameux pot-Pouri de boleros qui a beaucoup émerveillé les Haitiens de New York, des deux états avoisinants et de la mère patrie.

En 1979, Macaya publie un autre disque de Yvon que la compagnie a titré Se Sa. Dans ce LP nous signalons La Vie Musicien de Ibo Combo (Paroles de André Romain, adaptation d’une mélodie étrangère par Serge Simpson), puis, Se Sa et Bienfaiteur, deux compositions de Yvon .

En 1982, Yvon manifesta un élan généreux et candide á l’endroit des Frères Dejean en titrant son nouveau album ‘Yvon Louissaint’ Chanteur des Frères Déjean. Ce titre probablement traduit beaucoup plus que l’on imagine parcequ’il aimait profondément ce groupe. Imprimé sous le label Betami Music Production , le producteur fit choix des musiciens suivant pour accompagner Yvon. Ils sont: Jean Baptiste Edouard (piano), Claude Desgrottes (guitarre basse), Ricardo Frank (guitarre accompagnement), Harry Sylvain (batterie), Raymond Nozil (tambour), Jean Michel Ulcenat (tam tam), Lucien Serrant (Sax tenor), Gerard Laurelus et Eric Mazarin (choeur) et Yvon Louissaint (chanteur, guitarre solo). Pa Gen Zanmi Anko, Kilè Poum Retounen Lakay, Jardin D’Eden, Haiti et Ecris moi sont gravées sur ce disque (BTA 2834). Il dédia’ Ecris moi’ a sa maman qui probablement vivait encore en Haiti, à tous ceux qui ont cru où fait croire qu’il avait perdu la tête et à ses auditeurs.

Né d’une famille de onze enfants composée de Carlos, Serge, Frantz, Lionel, Yves, Prévilon, Ernst, Wilner et Emmanuel, son histoire est aussi pétulante que triste. Serait elle un exemple de réflexions tristes et douloureuses pour ses fans et autres artistes comme il le souhaite?

Il venait juste de visiter les clubs, Granada et Le Récif dans une température estimée par les métérologues d’être en dessous de zéro degré, quand il perdit connaissance dans une des rues de Brooklyn. Il n’accordait aucune attention au froid intense qui régnait; il était trop ivre pour fusioner avec la réalité de ce soir là. Les passants s’en foutaient pas mal de lui et aucun d’eux ont eu la décense de composer le 911 quand il tomba sur le pavé. A leurs yeux, il n’est qu’un ivrogne qui a trop bu mais, pour nous autres; il est une vedette; notre idole à nous ,en dépit de tout. Yvon resta trop longtemps dans la neige, sur le pavé, si bien que ses deux mains furent congelées. Par contre, neuf de ses droits furent amputés par les médecins quand il fut transporté à l’hopital (Brookyn Jewish Hospital) par deux officiers de la police de New York qui patrouillaient le quartier. Tout cela s’est passé le 20 Janvier 1985. Sa résilience fut tellement profonde que même après la chirurgie, il continuait à jouer la guitarre. Cependant, il ne pouvait pincer les cordes comme jadis.

Pendant une de ses visites au studio de Moman Kreyol, il nous raconta son histoire et comment que certains de ses amis le fuyaient. Pour soulager ses peines il écrivit la chanson suivante:

A chak fwa ke mape panse

Sa ki rive mwen nan lavim

Dlo koule nan Ziem kou lapli

Paske sa pa te dwe rivem

Mwen Konn lavi

Mwen Konn lanmo

Mwen Kwe nan syel

W Komprann late

Nan bay tout moun laverite

Yo fem mande charite

Gade Kijan mwen pedi de men mwen

Mwen pas tuye

Mwen pa vole

Nan komba pou la libete

Des muzisyens a respecte

Mwen pedi guitam

Ki vre don pam

Kompay mwen

Lajwa ki nan kem

A la fin de l’été 1987, presque deux ans après que ses doigts furent amputés, il reçut l’invitation de Alfred Michel du Bossa Combo pour célébrer avec lui au Manoir Restaurant. Ce soir là, il fit preuve d’un bon musicien et exhiba un peu de sarcasme et la joie de vivre. Avec Bossa, il interpréta Historia de un amor et un pot pouri qui contient La maison sur le port et En la casa de Isabella.

En 1988, Michga Records a imprimé son dernier disque” Yvon Louissaint Chante/ Salut Temple Sacré. Cette fois ci, il est accompgné aux claviers par Robert Charles Raymonvil (Charlot) tandis qu’il chante et joue sa guitarre.

Que de fois la vie m’a trompé dit-il dans une entrevue. ‘Je sortais du Manoir Restaurant et de l’autre coté de la rue, j;ai vu deux anciens amis qui conversaient ; je fus ravi de les rencontrer à nouveau. La joie de les voir était si grande que j’ai commis l’imprudence de ne pas bien regarder avant de traverser la rue. Alors, avant que je dises un mot, une voiture qui faisait la course avec une autre m’a frappé et m’envoya à quelques mètres de haut. Par la suite, je fus tombé sur le sol en me heurtant la tête. Je suis resté figé, un peu muet sur le sol. Je buvais un peu, il faut l’avouer mais, je n’étais pas ivre. Après cet incident, j’ai decidé de rentrer dans un hopital pour y être soigner. C’était en 1990, après mon séjour à Miami’.

Le 18 Novembre 1991, Lionel Lamarre du Star Forum, émission de télevision haitienne à New York lui rendit........ LIRE LA SUITE:

Adrien B. Berthaud

http://adrienberthaud.com/Yvon_Louissaint/

-----------------------------------

🎶"Yvon Louissaint - Hola Soledad (live recording)"

https://youtu.be/BX8OIHCq7u4

🎶 "Yvon Louissaint - Eliminacion de Los Feos (live recording)" on YouTube

https://youtu.be/N__XLktBUs4

🎶 "Yvon Louissaint _ Pot Pourri"

https://youtu.be/iVXnQTzf9FU

🎶 "Yvon Louissaint - Eliminacion de Los Feos (live recording)"

https://youtu.be/N__XLktBUs4

🎶 "Yvon Louissaint et les Antillais - Zin.." on YouTube

https://youtu.be/ZH2VK3iYUe8

🎶 "YVON LOUISSAINT--Céça"

https://youtu.be/sfqM4BCJ9lc

🎶 "Les Freres Dejean L'artibonite" on YouTube

https://youtu.be/HRbiydD0FUE

🎶 "les freres dejean bouki ac malice"

https://youtu.be/6W_ZBUa91jw

---------------------------------

#Video

Watch "YVON LOUISSAINT " LIVE https://youtu.be/KgolfYb8wrE

-----------------------------------

#Discography

Yvon Louissaint at Discogs

https://www.discogs.com/artist/2264846-Yvon-Louissaint

Yvon Louissaint at KonpaInfo

https://www.konpa.info/result.php?search=Yvon%20Louissaint&so0=contains&col=pfx%2Cbnd%2Csfx&_ds=1&n=100&p=0&asc=15

HAITI⭐LEGENDS #YvonLouissaint #Chanteur #FrèresDéjean #BoukiAkMalis, #Latibonit #ShupaShupa

#LesMorphéesNoires #BossaCombo #Vocalist #MiniJazz #WorldJazz #Haitilegends #CabaneChoucoune

#MacayaRecords #Zin/ #YvonLouissaintEtLesAntillais

#MichgaRecords

#HolaSoledad

#RolandoLaSerie

#Historiadeunamor

[burt-reynolds]

Mon amor, sweet child of mine, didn’t anyone tell you it’s okay to shine?

[sawa-soon]

Mon Bel Amor

[zamboni-princess]

GRE Word Root Study

A – agnostic

An – Anonymous

Ab -  abdicate

Able – insatiable

Ible – Tangible

Ac – acidic

Acr – acrid

Act – actuate

Ag – antagonize

Acou – acoustics

Ad – advance

Al/Ali/Alter – alternate

Am – amorous

Ambi – ambiguous

Amphi – amphibious

Ambl/Ambul – ambulatory

Anim – animated

Annui – Annual

Enni – perennial

Ant/Ante – anterior

Anthro – anthropology

Andr – androgynous

Anti – antimatter

Apo – apogee

Aqua – aquatic

Arch/Archi/Archy – archetype

Ard – arduous

Auto – autonomous

Be – belittle

Bel/Bell – Belladonna

Bell – antebellum

Ben/Bene – benefit

Bi/Bin – bifocal

Bon/Boun – bountiful

Brev – abbreviate

Brid – abridge

Burs – reimburse

Cad – cadence

Cid – coincidence

Cant/Cent/Chant – cantor

Cap – capture

Cip – participate

Cept – intercept

Cap/Captit/Cipit – captain

Card/Cord/Cour – cardiac

Carn – carnivore

Cast – outcast

Chaste – chastise

Caus/Caut – cauterize

Ced/Ceed – intercede

Cess – abscess

Celer – accelerate

Cent – centennial

Centr – central

Cern/Cert -  discern

Cret/Crit - discriminate

Crim – criminal

Chrom – monochrome

Chron – chronological

Circu/Circum – circumvent

Cis – desist

Cla/Clo/Clu – close

Claim/Clam – clamor

Cli – incline

Co/Col/Com/Con – collective, comradery

Cogn/Conn – cognitive

Contra/Contro – contraceptive

Counter – Counterproductive

Corp/Cors – corporation

Cosm – cosmic

Cour – courier

Cur – recurrent

Cre/Cret/Cresc - crescendo

Cred – credible

Crypt – cryptic

Cub/cumb – succumb

Culp – culpable

Dac – didactic

Doc – doctrine

De – detach

Dele – delete

Dem – democracy

Dext – ambidextrous

Di – diary

Di/Dia – dialogue

Di/Dif/Dis -discontinue

Dic/Dict/Dit – diction

Dign – dignity

Dog/Dox – dogma

Dol – condolences

Don/Dot/Dow – endow

Dorm – dormant

Dors – dorsal

Dub – dubious

Duc/Duct – aqueduct

Dulc – dulce

Dur – durable

Dys -dysfunctional

E/Ex – extramarital

Ego – egotistic

Em/En – engage

Epi – epidural

Equ – equilateral

Err – erroneous

Esce – adolescence

Eu – eulogy

Extra – extraterrestrial

Fab/fam – fabricate

Fac/Fic/Fig/Fait/Feit/Fy – fiction, figure, counterfeit

Fal – fallacy

Fatu – infatuate

Fer – transfer

Ferv – fervent

Fi/Fid – fidelity

Fin – infinite

Flagr/Flam – flammable

Flect/Flex – deflect, reflex

Flu/Flux – Fluctuate, reflux

Fore – forbearance

Fort – unfortunate

Fort – fortitude

Fra/Frac – fracture

Frag/Fring – fragment

Fug – refugee

Fulg – interfulgent

Fum – fumes

Fus – refuse

Gen – genesis

Gni/Gno – agnostic

Grad/Gress – transgress

Gram/Graph – telegram, telegraph

Grat – gratitude

Greg – segregation

Hap – happenstance

Hemi – hemisphere

Her/Hes – Adhere, adhesive

Hetero – heteronormative

Hol – holistic

Hom – Homogenous

Hum – humanity

Hyper – hyperactive

Hypo – hypochondriac

Icon – iconic

Idio – idiosyncrasy

In/Im – impartial

In/Im – Impervious

Inter – interstellar

Intra – intrastate

It/Iter – itinerary

Ject – object

Joc – jockey

Join/Jug/Junct – conjugate, conjunction, conjoin

Jour – journal

Jur – jurisdiction

Juv -juvenile

Lang/Ling – lingual

Laud – applaud

Lav/Lau/Lu – launder

Lax/Lease/Les – loose

Lec – lecture

Leg/Lex – Lexicon

Lect/Leg – selection

Lev – levitate

Li/Lig – ligament

Liber – liberty

Lith – blithe

Loc/Log/Loqu – loquacious

Luc/Lum/Lus – illuminate

Lud/Lus – delude, illusion

Macro – macro-economics

Mag – magnificent

Maj – majestic

Max – maximum

Mal/Male – malevolent

Man/Manu – manipulate

Mand/Mend – commend, demand

Medi – medial

Mega – Megadome

Micro – microorganism

Min – miniscule

Mis – mishap

Mise – compromise

Mob/Mom/Mot/Mov – motor, movement

Moll – emollient

Mon/mono – monorail

Mon/Monit – monitor

Mor/Mort – mortician

Morph – amorphic

Mult – multitude

Mut – mutation

Nat/Nas/Nai/Gna – cognate

Nau/Nav – nautical

Nihil – annihilate

Noc/Nox – noxious

Noct/Nox – nocturnal

Nom – economy

Nom/Nym/Noun/Nown – renown, nominate

Non – nondescript

Nounc/Nunc – annunciate, pronounce

Nov/Neo/Nou – novitiate

Null – annul

Ob – obstain

Omni – omnipotent

Oner – exonerate

Oss/Oste – ossicles

Pac/Peac – peaceful

Palp – palpable

Pan/Pant – expandable

Par – partake

Para – paradigm

Pas/Pat/Path – pathology

Pau/Po/Pov/Pu – impoverish, pauper

Pec – pecuniary

Ped – pediatrics

Ped/Pod – podiatrist

Pel – propel

Pen/Pun – compensate

Pen/Pene – penultimate

Pend/pens – compensate

Per – per chance

Peri – pericardium

Pet/Pit – competition

Phil – philanthropy

Phob – phobia

Phon – phonetics

Photo – photosynthesis

Plac – placate, complacent

Ple/Plen – plentiful

Plex/Plic/Ply – complex

Poly – polyhedron

Pon/Pos/Pound – position

Port – portage

Post – posterior

Pot – potion

Pre – prefrontal

Prehend/Prise – apprehend

Pri/Prim – primordial

Pro – proficient

Prob – probe

Prod/Prox – approximate

Pro/Proto – prototype

Psud/Pseudo – pseudonym

Pug – repugnant

Punc/Pung/Poign – punctuate, poignant

Pyr – pyrotechnics

Quad/Quar/Quat – quarter

Que/Quis – quest

Quie/Quit – quiet

Quin/Quint – quintuplets

Raci/Radi – radiate

Rami – ramification

Re – repeat

Rect – erect

Reg – regal

Retro -retrograde

Rid/Ris – ridicule

Rog – interrogate

Rub/Rud – ruddy

Rud – rude

Sacri/Sanct – sanctify

Sag/Sap/Sav – sage

Sal/Sil/Sault/sult – somersault

Sal – salt

Salu – salutations

Salv – salvage

San – sanitary

Sang – sanguine

Sat – insatiable

Sci – omniscience

Scribe/Script – scripture

Se – separate

Sec/Seq/Sue/Sui – sequential

Sed/Sess/Sid – possess

Sem – seminary

Semi – semicircle

Sen – senior

Sens/Sent – sentient

Sin/Sinu -sinusoidal

Sol – solitude

Sol – solace

Sol – solstice

Somn – insomnia

Soph – sophisticated

Sourc/Surg/Surrect – resurrect

Spec/Spic – speculate

Spir – respiration

Sta/Sti – stationary

Strict/String/Strang – stringent, strangle

Sua – suave

Sub/Sup – subliminal

Summ – summit

Super/Sur – surpass

Sym/syn – sync

Tac/Tic – tactical

Tact/Tag/Tam/Tang – tactile, tangible

Tain/Ten/Tent/Tin – maintain, tenant

Tend/Tens/Tent/Tenu – distend, tense

Test – tesify

Theo – theologian

Therm – thermometer

Tim – intimidate

Tor/Torq/Tort – contort

Torp – torpedo

Tox – toxin

Tract – tractor

Trans – transatlantic

Ult – ultimate

Umbr – umbrion

Un – unavailable

Und – undertow

Uni/Un – universal

Urb – urban

Us/Ut – utilize

Vail/Val – valiant

Ven/Vent – venture

Ver – verity

Verb – verbiage

Verd – verdigris

Vers/Vert – convert

Vi – viable

Vid/Vis – visualize

Vil – anvil

Vira – viral

Voc/Vok – vocation

Vol – volunteer

Vola/Volv – revolve

Vor - carnivorous

[gargantua]

Dante Gabriele Rossetti, Beata Beatrix

Le Lethe (Charles Baudelaire)

Viens sur mon coeur, âme cruelle et sourde, Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents; Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants Dans l'épaisseur de ta crinière lourde;

Dans tes jupons remplis de ton parfum Ensevelir ma tête endolorie, Et respirer, comme une fleur flétrie, Le doux relent de mon amour défunt.

Je veux dormir! dormir plutôt que vivre! Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort, J'étalerai mes baisers sans remords Sur ton beau corps poli comme le cuivre.

Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés Rien ne me vaut l'abîme de ta couche; L'oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche, Et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers.

À mon destin, désormais mon délice, J'obéirai comme un prédestiné; Martyr docile, innocent condamné, Dont la ferveur attise le supplice,

Je sucerai, pour noyer ma rancoeur, Le népenthès et la bonne ciguë Aux bouts charmants de cette gorge aiguë Qui n'a jamais emprisonné de coeur.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sul mio cuore vieni, anima crudele e sorda Tigre adorata, mostro dai sensi indolenti; voglio a lungo immergere le  mie dita tremanti nello spessore della tua criniera folta Nella tua gonna del tuo profumo ricolma Voglio celare la mia testa dolorante E respirare, come un fiore agonizzante, il dolciastro sapore del mio defunto amore Voglio dormire! Dormire piuttosto che vivere! In un sonno dolce quanto quello d’un morto, e  diffondere i miei baci senza alcun rimorso sul tuo bel corpo lucido come il rame. Per inghiottire i miei singhiozzi placati Nulla mi vale quanto l’abisso del tuo letto; L’oblio possente ha dimora nella tua bocca E il Lete scorre nei tuoi baci Al mio destino, oramai la mia delizia, obbedirò come un predestinato; Un docile martire, innocente condannato, il cui fervore infiamma il supplizio Succhierò, per annegare il mio rancore, il nepente e la buona cicuta, sulle punte affascinanti del tuo aguzzo seno , che mai ha racchiuso un cuore.

(Libera traduzione)

[simodevil]

Caso Umano 745

La gente, ragazzi, non sta bene. É inutile. Ogni volta io tento di riacquistare un briciolo di fiducia nel genere umano e, puntualmente, ogni volta finisco per arrivare a conclusioni sempre più drastiche. La storia di oggi é quella di “caso umano 745”.

Dunque: Conosco, appunto, questo caso clinico patologico in situazioni bizzarre, nel bel mezzo di una sua “relazione” con una “metà della mela” dalla quale viene piantato in 0.2 secondi a una settimana dall’inizio di questa frequentazione. La storia fa già ridere di per sé così. Il colmo, però, arriva quando io, che evidentemente nel mio sub-conscio voglio essere Freud altrimenti non si spiega questo amore per la psicologia e per la deficienza, inizio una conversazione con questo caso patologico. Scopro che ha una grande problematica: l’autostima. Nonostante l’oggettività della sua bellezza, il soggetto ha avuto numerose delusioni e da questo è scaturito questo drastico calo della percezione di sé. Ecco che lo spirito crocerossino e caritatevole che é in me corre in suo soccorso cercando di spiegare che la sua bellezza è un dato oggettivo e che dovrebbe assolutamente crederci di più. Forzando un po’ le mie idee, tra un “Come credi” ed un “se lo dici tu...” arriviamo ad un messaggio vocale in cui con tono misto tra Miranda Priestley e Sharpay Evans appena caduta in piscina (High school musical 2) mi dice che:” L’AUTOSTIMA NON É QUALCOSA CHE SI DA’ MA É QUALCOSA CHE O SI HA O NON SI HA (Una teoria alquanto deterministica...) E SE TU LA PENSI COSÌ NON SO COSA DIRTI...”

Ecco, é al momento di questo messaggio (e delle successive “visua-no risp” ai seguenti due) che la mia maschera da Madre Teresa di Calcutta/Freud cade e divento il fratello malvagio di Crudelia De Mon (abbiamo anche gli stessi capelli). Io non dico che tu devi d’improvviso diventare un pozzo da cui attingere per avere autostima, non ti sto chiedendo di diventare il vaso di Pandora delle qualità, ho solo cercato di darti quella scintilla che sarebbe stata in grado di accenderti una spia nell’encefalo che diceva:” Ehi, forse non sono così merda come credo”. Evidentemente ho fallito. Vittimismo e nichilismo hanno avuto la meglio. Eh va beh. “Caso umano 745”, come tutti i precedenti non ce la farà mai...

[maxeuterpe]

Quando sarai vecchia

Il padre di Fabrizio De André, per alleviare alla moglie i dolori del parto, mise sul giradischi la Suite siciliana di Gino Marinuzzi e, mentre suonava Valzer campestre, il pezzo più celebre dell'opera, Fabrizio vide la luce. Anni dopo, venuto a conoscenza del fatto, De André vi aggiunse delle parole, ispirate a un celebre sonetto di Pierre de Ronsard, Quand vous serez bien vieille. Nacque così Valzer per un amore.

La poesia. Quand vous serez bien vieille, Pierre de Ronsard, 1578

Quando sarai vecchia

Quando sarai vecchia, alla sera, alla candela, seduta di fianco al fuoco, avvolgendo e filando, ricanterai le mie poesie, meravigliandoti: Ronsard mi lodava al tempo in cui ero bella. Allora, non avrete serva che ascolti tale novella, già mezzo addormentata per la fatica, che al suono di Ronsard non si svegli, benedicendo il vostro nome di lode immortale. Io sarò sottoterra, e, fantasma senza ossa, tra le ombre di mirto prenderò il mio riposo: tu sarai al focolare una vecchia accovacciata. Rammarico del mio amore e del tuo orgoglioso disprezzo. Vivi, se mi credi, non aspettare a domani: Cogli oggi le rose della vita.

Quand vous serez bien vieille

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle, Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant, Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant: “Ronsard me célebrait du temps que j’étais belle” Lors, vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle, Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant, Qui au bruit de Ronsard ne s’aille réveillant, Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle. Je serai sous la terre, et, fantôme sans os, Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos: Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie, Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain. Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain: Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.

La canzone. Valzer per un amore, Fabrizo De André, 1974

Quando carica d'anni e di castità tra i ricordi e le illusioni del bel tempo che non ritornerà, troverai le mie canzoni, nel sentirle ti meraviglierai che qualcuno abbia lodato le bellezze che allor più non avrai e che avesti nel tempo passato ma non ti servirà il ricordo, non ti servirà che per piangere il tuo rifiuto del mio amore che non tornerà. Ma non ti servirà più a niente, non ti servirà che per piangere sui tuoi occhi che nessuno più canterà. Ma non ti servirà più a niente, non ti servirà che per piangere sui tuoi occhi che nessuno più canterà. Vola il tempo lo sai che vola e va, forse non ce ne accorgiamo ma più ancora del tempo che non ha età, siamo noi che ce ne andiamo e per questo ti dico amore, amor io t'attenderò ogni sera, ma tu vieni non aspettare ancor, vieni adesso finché è primavera.

[ochoislas]

Si veo la calandria batir de gozo alas contra el rayo, que trascordada se abate con tal dulzura en el pecho, ¡ay! siento entonces tal envidia de aquél a quien veo alegre, que pasmo tengo que de ansia mi corazón no se funda.

¡Ay, triste! Maestro en amores me creí y sólo soy párvulo, pues de amar no me sujeto quien nunca ha de mejorarme. Me hurtó el cor, a mí me hurtó, a ella misma y toda gente; y se apartó sin dejarme más que afán y cor ansioso.

Perdí la virtud de mí, no fui mío desde la hora en que me mostró sus ojos en espejo que me place. Desque me miré en ti, espejo, asmas del hondo me matan, pues me perdí, tal perdido fue bel Narciso en la fuente.

Pierdo la esperanza en damas, nunca más me fiaré de ellas; y como antes las amparaba, ya las desampararé. Que no me asiste ninguna cabe quien me abate y hunde. De todas dudo y recelo, que bien sé que son calañas.

En tal muestra ser mujer mi dama, lo que le afeo: no quiere lo que conviene sino que lo entredicho hace. En disfavor soy caído; hice tal loco en el puente. No sé por qué así me aviene salvo que piqué muy arriba.

Se perdió el favor de cierto —y no lo alcancé a saber—, pues quien debía tener sobra, horra está ¿do procurarlo? ¡Qué mal parece ante todos que a este anheloso cuitado, que no ha mejora sin ella, morir deje y no lo acorra!

Pues con mi dama no valen favor ni ruegos ni ley, y que la ame la desplace, nunca más se lo diré. De ella me aparto y renuncio; me mató, tal muerto arguyo, y parto pues no me tiene, desterrado no sé adónde.

No ganáis, Tristán, conmigo, pues parto a vagar, cuitado. Reniego de los cantares y del amor me recato.

*

Can vei la lauzeta mover de joi sas alas contra·l rai, que s’oblid’e·s laissa chazer per la doussor c’al cor li vai, ai! tan grans enveya m’en ve de cui qu’eu veya jauzion!; meravilhas ai, car desse lo cor de dezirer no·m fon.

Ai, las! tan cuidava saber d’amor, e tan petit en sai! Car eu d’amar no·m posc tener celeis don ja pro non aurai. Tout m’a mo cor, e tout m’a me, e se mezeis e tot lo mon; ecan se·m tolc, no·m laisset re mas dezirer e cor volon.

Anc non agui de me poder, ni no fui meus de l’or’en sai que·m laisset en sos olhs vezer en un miralh que mout me plai. Miralhs, pus me mirei en te, m’an mort li sospir de preon c’aissi·m perdei com perdet se lo bels Narcisus en la fon.

De las domnas me dezesper; ja mais en lor no·m fiarai; c’aissi com las solh chaptener, enaissi las deschaptenrai. Pois vei c’una pro no m’en te vas leis, que·m destrui e·m cofon, totas las dopt’e las mescre car be sai c’atretals se son.

D’aisso·s fa be femna parer ma domna, per qu’e·lh o retrai, car no vol so c’om deu voler, e so c’om li deveda, fai. Chazutz sui en mala merce, et ai be faih co·l fols en pon; e no sai per que m’esdeve, mas car trop puyei contra mon.

Merces es perduda, per ver, et eu non o saubi anc mai; car cilh qui plus en degr’aver no·n a ges; et on la querrai? A! can mal sembla, qui la ve, que[d] aquest chaitiu deziron que ja ses leis non aura be, laisse morir, que no l’aon!

Pus ab midons no·m pot valer precs ni merces ni·l drehz qu’eu ai, ni a leis no ven a plazer qu’eu l’am, ja mais no·lh o dirai. Aissi·m part de leis e·m recre; mort m’a, e per mort li respon, e vau m’en, pus ilh no·m rete, chaitius, en issilh, no sai on.

Tristans, ges no·n auretz de me, qu’eu m’en vau, chaitius, no sai on. De chantar me gic e·m recre, e de joi e d’amor m’escon.

Bernart de Ventadorn

di-versión©ochoislas

[lunapreciosa]

À la porte du matin

Vers un lendemain séparé

Pour seulement mieux se retrouver

Ancrés

Sereins

On est là

Unis par notre amour sacré

Le lien qui traverse l'âme vers le coeur

Malgré la distance

L'endroit

Le moment

Regarde le ciel chaque soir et rappelle toi

Que tous les deux on voit la lune

À la porte du matin

Je te dis à bientôt mon bel amor.