"What I admired in poetry was the defeated difficulty, and I just thought that writers of prose had resigned themselves to write in prose for they were unable to create rhymes." Marcel Pagnol

In January 1914, Marcel Pagnol launched a literary magazine called "Fortunio". Six issues were released, in which he published a few poems, among other works.

"...They were no poets. This led me to conclude that I was one, that I had been stupid not to realize it earlier, and that I had to begin my work as early as the following day if I wanted to achieve glory and fortune by the age of twenty. And I imagined myself on a picture taken in a sumptuous study, surrounded by precious books, posing beneath a sculpture of my own bust crowned with a laurel wreath."

Two poems by young Marcel Pagnol:


The sun crazes the ground,
In the fields, no disturbing sound;
The cheerful songs of birds,
Singing in days of yore,
Are no longer heard.
All by heat made drowsy
Under the bush lie low.
Alone, a cicada is on the eyrie.

Its resonant stomach is moving;
On a sheaf alighted;
Alone is not exhausted
By the fire breathing star.
And the tireless singer
Hurls in the air, scorching and blue,
Its endless tune.


Here comes blossoming Easter,
And, before the candies
Little wanderers come to a halt, envious.
They lick their pink lips
Gazing at something
Which in their eyes lights up a flame.

Their hungry eyes assault
The magnificent Easter eggs
Proudly sitting enthroned in the emporiums,
Superb, firm and smooth,
And observed behind scenes
By April fool fish, their neighbors.

Some are white as snow,
Silky shavings protecting them.
Their sides are made of sugar. And, beside,
Others are seen, showing on their dark sides
Of chocolate glittering in the dark,
Tiny carved angels.

Some are small and slender,
It seems it would be easy
To crunch more than one at a time;
And others, comfortably seated;
Plain, simples, potbellied, obese,
Flaunt themselves like wealthy men.

All are tied with pink ribbons.
One can feel thousands of tasty treasures
Hidden in their roomy sides
Empty belly and pocket,
Poor little ones, with greedy eyes,
Seem to eye them hungrily.