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Spiritist Review - Journal of Psychological Studies - 1866 > August > Spiritist Poetry
Spiritist Poetry
Méry, the dreamerGroup of Mr. L…, July 4th, 1866 – medium Mr. Vavasseur
Still a newborn on your shores
I heard an attentive woman
Say while watching my awakening:
Do not disturb his sweet sleep,
He's dreaming; and I was barely born!
A little later, when in the prairie,
Stripping the leaves of a flowering clover,
It was said that Joseph Méry
Was dreaming, and when my poor mother
Sat me on the white stone
That guarded the edge of the stream,
She also said: Dream again,
My child. Later, in college,
Out of hatred or contempt, what do I know!
All my friends were running away,
And left me alone, in a corner,
Dreaming. And when the mad drunkenness
Pleasures troubled my youth,
The crowd pointed at me
Saying: It is Méry, yes,
Still dreaming. And when, wiser,
Almost halfway through the journey,
I was judged as a writer,
They said of me: It's in vain
That he evokes poetry
In his verses, it's dream
That comes to his call. Méry,
Whatever he does, will be Méry.
And when the last prayer
Had blessed my cold dust,
Attentive under my shroud,
I heard one word, only one:
Dreamer! Well! yes, I dreamt
On Earth. Why silence, then,
A dream that is not over,
And that I start again here!
Joseph Méry
Prayer of death for the dead
Parisian Society of Spiritist Studies, July 13th, 1866 – medium Mr. Vavasseur
The centuries rolled over the abyss of time
Without pity, flowers, fruits, cold winters, sweet springs,
And death passed without knocking
On the door that hides the treasure she secretly takes away.
Life, o death! The hand that your hand guides,
Tired of knocking, can’t you tomorrow
Suspend the blows a little? Does she still want
To disturb the banquet of life?
But if you keep coming, every time of the day,
Seeking the dead among us to fill up your stay,
The universe is too little for your deep chasms,
Or your vortex is bottomless to the poor victims.
O death! You see the virgin weep without crying,
You wither the flowers that were to adorn her,
Not allowing the forehead to be encircled by the crown
Of roses and lilies given by her spouse,
O death! You do not hear the screams of the poor child,
And come mercilessly to harm her at birth,
Not allowing her eyes to know the mother
That gave her heavens by giving her Earth.
O death! You do not hear the wishes of this old man,
Begging the favor, at the time of departure,
Of kissing the son and blessing the daughter,
To fall asleep faster and die more peacefully.
But, cruel! Tell me what happens to the dead
That leave our banks and go to your shores?
Would they still suffer the pains of earth
In this eternity of time, and the prayer,
Couldn’t she at least alleviate them one day?
And death responded: “In this somber space
Where, free, I fixed my dark empire,
Prayer is powerful and it is God that inspire
My subjects and me. When I come, in the evening,
On my bloody throne, pompously sitting,
I look at the skies and I am the first
To quietly recite the prayer for my dead.
Listen child, listen: “O almighty God,
From heavens, on them, on me, casually fling
A look of pity. May a ray of hope
Finally illuminate the places where pain is weeping.
Show us, Oh God, the land of forgiveness,
This borderless shore, this beach, nameless,
The land of the elected, the eternal homeland,
Where you created the eternal life for all.
Make each one of us, in front of your will,
Bow with respect; before the majesty
Of your secret designs, bend and worship;
Curve before your name and stand up still,
In exclamation: Lord! If you banned me
From the home of the living, if you punished me
In the abode of the dead, before you I confess
Having deserved more; knock, knock and don’t stop,
I will suffer without ever moaning,
And my eyes can never cry enough
To wash the indelible stain of the past,
always shamelessly attached to the present.
I will take your blows, I will carry my cross,
Not cursing, for a single day, your fair laws,
And when you believe my ordeal is over,
Lord, if you make my shadow pale,
The goods it lost when in prison,
The breeze, the sun, the clean air, the freedom,
Rest and peace, before you I pledge
To pray on my side, in my new shore,
For the brothers yielding to the weight of the chains,
That keep them nailed to the bottom of their hells, in pain;
Their weeping shadows, on the borders of the other side, sheer
Silence, looking at mine, fleeting,
Running away, saying: courage friends,
I will keep in heavens what I promised here.
Casimir Delavigne
We have already published poetry received by this medium in the issues of June and July with the title To your book and The prayer for the Spirits. Mr. Vavasseur is literally a medium of verses, for he very rarely receives communications in prose, and although very educated and knowledgeable about the rules of poetry, he has never created it himself.
People will ask what do we know about it, and who can tell that what is said to be supposedly mediumistic is not the product of his personal composition? We believe, first of all, because he says so and we consider him incapable of deceiving, and second, because mediumship for him is completely disinterested, there wouldn’t be any reason for him to do a useless work and represent a comedy that is unworthy of an honest character.
There is no doubt that it would be more evident, and above all more extraordinary, if he were completely illiterate, as it is found in certain mediums, but the knowledge that he has would not produce his faculty, since it is demonstrated by other means.
How to explain, for example, the fact that if he wants to compose something from his own, a simple sonnet, he obtains nothing, whereas without seeking it, and without a premeditated intention, he writes texts of significant length, suddenly, and more rapidly and more correctly than we would write prose, about an improvised subject, in which nobody thought about? Which poet is capable of such endeavor, that is renewed almost daily? We could not doubt it, because the excerpts that we cited, and many others, were written before our eyes, at the Society or in different groups, in the presence of a sometimes-large assembly.
May all the jugglers that intend to discover the supposed wires of the mediums, imitating some more or less rough physical effects, come therefore to challenge certain writing mediums, treating even through simple prose, instantaneously and without preparation or correction, the first subject matter that shows up and the most abstract questions! It is a test to which no detractor has ever submitted to.
Apropos, we remember that six or seven years ago a writer and journalist, whose name sometimes appears in the press and among the scorners of Spiritism, came to us, disguised as an intuitive writing medium, offering his support to the Society. We told him that before accepting his kind offer, we needed to get to know the extent and nature of his faculty. We then invited him to a private session of exercise, in which we had four or five mediums. These just took the pencil and started writing in a speed that stunned him. He doodled three or four lines, with many erasures, and complained of a headache that disturbed his faculty. He promised to come back, but we never saw him again. As it seems, the Spirits only assist him with a fresh head and in his office.
It is true that improvisers showed up, like the deceased Eugène de Pradel, that captivated the listeners for their facility. People were surprised that they did not publish anything. The reason is very simple. What seduced hearing was not bearable for reading; they were just an arrangement of words coming out of an abundant source, where a few witty traces shined exceptionally, but whose content was empty of serious and profound ideas and strewn with revolting errors. That is not the reproach that can be made of the verses that we quoted, although obtained as much fast as those of verbal improvisation. If the were the result of a personal work, it would be a singular humility from the part of the author to attribute the merit to someone else, depriving oneself of the honor that could come out of it.
Although the mediumship of Mr. Vavasseur is recent, he already has an important collection of poetry of real merit, that he intends to publish. We promptly announced that work before it comes out, and we have no doubt, it will be read with great interest.
Without pity, flowers, fruits, cold winters, sweet springs,
And death passed without knocking
On the door that hides the treasure she secretly takes away.
Life, o death! The hand that your hand guides,
Tired of knocking, can’t you tomorrow
Suspend the blows a little? Does she still want
To disturb the banquet of life?
But if you keep coming, every time of the day,
Seeking the dead among us to fill up your stay,
The universe is too little for your deep chasms,
Or your vortex is bottomless to the poor victims.
O death! You see the virgin weep without crying,
You wither the flowers that were to adorn her,
Not allowing the forehead to be encircled by the crown
Of roses and lilies given by her spouse,
O death! You do not hear the screams of the poor child,
And come mercilessly to harm her at birth,
Not allowing her eyes to know the mother
That gave her heavens by giving her Earth.
O death! You do not hear the wishes of this old man,
Begging the favor, at the time of departure,
Of kissing the son and blessing the daughter,
To fall asleep faster and die more peacefully.
But, cruel! Tell me what happens to the dead
That leave our banks and go to your shores?
Would they still suffer the pains of earth
In this eternity of time, and the prayer,
Couldn’t she at least alleviate them one day?
And death responded: “In this somber space
Where, free, I fixed my dark empire,
Prayer is powerful and it is God that inspire
My subjects and me. When I come, in the evening,
On my bloody throne, pompously sitting,
I look at the skies and I am the first
To quietly recite the prayer for my dead.
Listen child, listen: “O almighty God,
From heavens, on them, on me, casually fling
A look of pity. May a ray of hope
Finally illuminate the places where pain is weeping.
Show us, Oh God, the land of forgiveness,
This borderless shore, this beach, nameless,
The land of the elected, the eternal homeland,
Where you created the eternal life for all.
Make each one of us, in front of your will,
Bow with respect; before the majesty
Of your secret designs, bend and worship;
Curve before your name and stand up still,
In exclamation: Lord! If you banned me
From the home of the living, if you punished me
In the abode of the dead, before you I confess
Having deserved more; knock, knock and don’t stop,
I will suffer without ever moaning,
And my eyes can never cry enough
To wash the indelible stain of the past,
always shamelessly attached to the present.
I will take your blows, I will carry my cross,
Not cursing, for a single day, your fair laws,
And when you believe my ordeal is over,
Lord, if you make my shadow pale,
The goods it lost when in prison,
The breeze, the sun, the clean air, the freedom,
Rest and peace, before you I pledge
To pray on my side, in my new shore,
For the brothers yielding to the weight of the chains,
That keep them nailed to the bottom of their hells, in pain;
Their weeping shadows, on the borders of the other side, sheer
Silence, looking at mine, fleeting,
Running away, saying: courage friends,
I will keep in heavens what I promised here.
Casimir Delavigne
We have already published poetry received by this medium in the issues of June and July with the title To your book and The prayer for the Spirits. Mr. Vavasseur is literally a medium of verses, for he very rarely receives communications in prose, and although very educated and knowledgeable about the rules of poetry, he has never created it himself.
People will ask what do we know about it, and who can tell that what is said to be supposedly mediumistic is not the product of his personal composition? We believe, first of all, because he says so and we consider him incapable of deceiving, and second, because mediumship for him is completely disinterested, there wouldn’t be any reason for him to do a useless work and represent a comedy that is unworthy of an honest character.
There is no doubt that it would be more evident, and above all more extraordinary, if he were completely illiterate, as it is found in certain mediums, but the knowledge that he has would not produce his faculty, since it is demonstrated by other means.
How to explain, for example, the fact that if he wants to compose something from his own, a simple sonnet, he obtains nothing, whereas without seeking it, and without a premeditated intention, he writes texts of significant length, suddenly, and more rapidly and more correctly than we would write prose, about an improvised subject, in which nobody thought about? Which poet is capable of such endeavor, that is renewed almost daily? We could not doubt it, because the excerpts that we cited, and many others, were written before our eyes, at the Society or in different groups, in the presence of a sometimes-large assembly.
May all the jugglers that intend to discover the supposed wires of the mediums, imitating some more or less rough physical effects, come therefore to challenge certain writing mediums, treating even through simple prose, instantaneously and without preparation or correction, the first subject matter that shows up and the most abstract questions! It is a test to which no detractor has ever submitted to.
Apropos, we remember that six or seven years ago a writer and journalist, whose name sometimes appears in the press and among the scorners of Spiritism, came to us, disguised as an intuitive writing medium, offering his support to the Society. We told him that before accepting his kind offer, we needed to get to know the extent and nature of his faculty. We then invited him to a private session of exercise, in which we had four or five mediums. These just took the pencil and started writing in a speed that stunned him. He doodled three or four lines, with many erasures, and complained of a headache that disturbed his faculty. He promised to come back, but we never saw him again. As it seems, the Spirits only assist him with a fresh head and in his office.
It is true that improvisers showed up, like the deceased Eugène de Pradel, that captivated the listeners for their facility. People were surprised that they did not publish anything. The reason is very simple. What seduced hearing was not bearable for reading; they were just an arrangement of words coming out of an abundant source, where a few witty traces shined exceptionally, but whose content was empty of serious and profound ideas and strewn with revolting errors. That is not the reproach that can be made of the verses that we quoted, although obtained as much fast as those of verbal improvisation. If the were the result of a personal work, it would be a singular humility from the part of the author to attribute the merit to someone else, depriving oneself of the honor that could come out of it.
Although the mediumship of Mr. Vavasseur is recent, he already has an important collection of poetry of real merit, that he intends to publish. We promptly announced that work before it comes out, and we have no doubt, it will be read with great interest.