Poems Read online

  A parasol

  Of satin.

  A stain of red,

  A breeze to seize

  Your hat in.

  Through hot shade

  A fleeting glint

  Of emerald.

  All’s fresh out here

  And on the breeze

  The merest hint

  Of coastal trees.

  A burning though

  At noon,

  A running tide,

  A lighthouse too –

  So Isabelle,

  You have no need

  Merely to dream

  Of being freed.

  I THINK OF THOSE

  I think of those who remain

  Frail and brown in their drawing rooms

  At the grey hour

  The lamps already lit …

  Those little dresses and dishevelled silks …

  Our girls.

  I think of later hours,

  The slow tollings of departure

  Urging steps towards the sea,

  And the tears that rise

  To fill those lucid eyes.

  THE GRIEFS OF SUMMER

  Sunday

  The curtains are drawn at desolate junctions …

  The fresh? They’ve abandoned their spinning, gone outside

  For the freshness and the gaiety of far-off greenery …

  … Somewhere inside, a sobbing piano …

  *

  This morning too, because it’s summer now,

  One thought to have seen them smiling in white.

  Already, this morning, the bells have rung out

  Because of course it’s Sunday …

  *

  Sunlit despair of these desolate afternoons,

  Dust … silence … glimmer of dead gaiety.

  Days of lowered curtains, sad as any winter!

  … And mournfulness here, and exhaustion, and the notes

  Of that piano, somewhere, the sob of the forgotten.

  ADOLESCENTS

  (To Monsieur M. Maeterlinck)

  ‘And seek quietly

  With your bloodied hands for what grates on you in the dark.’

  About that hill, made drunk with spring,

  Having sensed for far too long the dreaming pines

  And watched them darken far from town

  We went down … in the evening … into spring.

  We were twenty then, in our thousands.

  Our love-sobs strayed across the town.

  *

  We had crossed each threshold with its arbour,

  And brushed against that dear old soul,

  The keeper of the path, the hamlet’s lullaby

  And reader of the dances in the hearth at eventide.

  With villages quietly breathing as

  We fell to the gathering of the branches …

  *

  The glory of the sunset is soon spent,

  And in the valley, there is too much moonlight.

  The town has gone out, and we go now, less fleet,

  Our soles full of holes from the gravel.

  Through weeping woods, unsung by any doves,

  We stride towards our death with bleeding feet.

  *

  Hello there! My heart has lost sight of the troupe.

  My heart, it’s as cold as the moon alone on the moor.

  Who’s going to show me my route for the dawn?

  Who will come to carry down the linen and the lavender?

  Along the roads, the carts tonight were bell-like drops

  Of shaken light. They’re gone now from the moor,

  And no Samaritan comes past, as maybe came before.

  *

  Hello there! Something towers here:

  Its shadow wafts across the moor:

  A mystery that’s there before the dawn!

  And in my heart and with each hand

  (I find good roads across this land,

  How crisp the tone of bells on this new route!

  How crisp the tone, when singing of the dawn!)

  – And in my heart and in each hand,

  In the dusk before dawn, all over the moor,

  More lavender found than ever before.

  Thrilling the blood, and in each hand

  Your marvellous hair, my Melisande!

  THE SHOWER

  ‘a tuft of flowers that trembles with tears.’

  (A. Samain)

  The rain brings the children inside as if routed.

  The night is slow and fresh with the silence of roads.

  In the garden, drop by drop, my heart pours itself out.

  She is so discrete and pure, but do I dare

  Take the risk of loving her? Lovely, please don’t delay!

  Just come and open the gate one damp evening in May.

  *

  Timidly, with fingers you mistrust, which tremble now,

  You will push it open a little, delighted

  By love and by freshness, but with an iota of fright.

  The lilacs are heavy with rain at the gate;

  Who knows if these, inclining, full of what to declare,

  Will quite be able to stop themselves weeping onto your hair?

  *

  You’ll wander gently down the length of the borders

  Picking out flowers to put wherever you may

  And make of my shivery feelings, a bouquet;

  Be careful, though, when crossing to the spot

  Where the weeds, tonight, betray a strange allure,

  Where the weeds are maddened, dying of their dreams …

  What if you were to wet your little feet!

  *

  The high jinks, they’re all done,

  The mad weeds fast asleep.

  The scents of the paths are fading,

  And you can come, my welcome one.

  All evening, wisely, you will go down the allée,

  Warm with love, with petals and dew in your way.

  You’ll rest your elbows over the brook of my heart,

  Unbind your gatherings, flower by flower,

  Innocent jasmine, pansies proud from the bower,

  And the whole evening’s humid, scented dark

  Bursting with springtime, showers and delight,

  Will be embellished on this peaceful stretch:

  Sprigs and flowers turning as they roll towards the night.

  TALE OF THE SUN AND THE ROAD

  (To a little girl)

  There’s a little more shade in the squares

  Beneath their chestnut trees,

  There’s a little more sun beating down now on the road.

  In ranks of two, a wedding passes by

  On this stifling afternoon − a long bridal procession

  In all its country finery, remarked upon by everyone.

  Look how lost in the midst of it all are the children,

  Their fears and upsets ignored.

  I think about the One, and one little boy who resembles me.

  A light spring morning, under the aspens,

  Mild sky scented with dog roses.

  He is alone, although he’s been invited,

  And at this summer wedding he says to himself,

  ‘What if they place me in line next to her,

  The lovely one who makes me whimper in my bed?’

  (Mothers, do you wonder of an evening,

  About the tears, the sadness, the passions of your children?)

  ‘I’ll wear my big white hat made of straw,

  My arm may be touched by the lace of her sleeve,’

  As I dream her dream in my Sunday best.

  ‘What a love-filled summer’s day we’ll see!

  She’ll be sweetly leaning, on my arm.

  I’ll take little steps – I’ll hold her parasol

  And softly say to her, “Mademoiselle …”

  But firstly, well, in the evening, perhaps,

  If we’ve walked a long way, if the evening is fresh,

&nb
sp; I will dare take her hand, I will hold it so tight.

  I will speak the truth until I’m out of breath,

  And closely now, without the need to fret,

  I will say words so tender

  That her eyes will go all wet,

  And with none to eavesdrop, she will answer …’

  Thus it is I dream, as my current glances fall

  On a mundane groom together with his bride,

  Such as one views on any baking noon,

  Poised above the steps of a town hall

  Then spilling out to music onto the blinding street,

  Trailing several couples en cortège,

  All in their first-time outfits;

  Dream, in the dust of this processional affair,

  Where two by two go by, the girls with their noses in the air,

  Girls in their white, with lace-embroidered sleeves,

  And the boys from the big cities, maladroit,

  Gripping gauche bouquets of artificial flowers;

  I dream about those small forgotten boys;

  Panicked, placed last minute with no one in particular;

  Dream about the village boys, those impassioned lads

  Jostled at a rhythmic pace in these absurd parades;

  – Of others caught up in the rhythmical process, confident

  And pulled along, heading for a liveliness

  Which loves to make a noise, peal without a purpose.

  – Of the very smallest – going up and down the rows,

  Who can’t find their mummies, and one above all

  Who looks just like me, like me. More and more,

  Above all else, it’s him I see, as the sun heats up for joy;

  This boy who has lost to that dusty wind that blows,

  His nice new hat, of crisp silk-banded straw,

  And I see him on the road, chasing after it,

  And lost to the march past of belles with their beaus

  Runs after it – despite their jeers – runs after it, blinded

  By the sun, and by the dust and by his tears.

  ON THE GREAT GREY ROAD

  ‘I am closer to you in the dark’

  (Pelléas et Mélisande, act IV, scene 3)

  On that great grey road

  To which we have been led by our two byways

  Here we are, both caught by shower and storm and night.

  With no shelter in sight.

  We’ll have to take to the ruts,

  Seek from these detours the initial lights

  Of some far-off land …

  We’ll have to head on, hand in hand,

  Travelling the grey months,

  Lost among the major roads in front of us,

  At night …

  *

  We can’t read the edges of those roads,

  We can’t read them because of the night,

  Because of the starless night, because of the downpour.

  *

  And before this, we went on, oh so blindly confident,

  Pleased with the way things were going, pleased with our lives,

  As if we were two little children

  On the village street, beneath a great umbrella.

  *

  We’ll take a chance, the two of us, a shadow at a step,

  And never blame each other for the night, in the wood,

  For the night on our tracks, the night where things get lost.

  And then I’ll say, ‘Come close to me, closer,’

  Frightened of losing you now,

  Since you have dared to accept my hand tonight

  In the frightening dark, with timid fingers too.

  So as not to be scared, you let me lead the way for you.

  *

  We’ll get side-tracked sometimes, you and I,

  Sometimes find a puddle soaks our ankles;

  Flurries of wind, rain and branches hold us up,

  And blind our eyes. And we won’t want the rain

  To last much longer, even if the rain is, in a sense,

  The sole sad friend of those who find themselves

  Thinking, wide awake, until the dawn,

  Who, in bed, alone, with fevered hands,

  Listen to it, soothed. They like the company

  Of its faint moan across the sleeping plain,

  Its rustling in the garden all night long.

  *

  We shall travel for such hours, for such hours across the plain

  And by the end, by the end, exhausted, out of breath,

  With heavy heart, you cannot, no, you cannot take another step.

  But then it’s me, quite suddenly, who will take the load off you,

  Your efforts now supported by my lilting stride

  Which will be almost like happiness, only because

  Now it simply has to be that I take you in my arms.

  And then, and then, it has to be those distant ones,

  Those first distant glimmers of a place

  My tired eyes have searched for, all night long,

  Begin to shine, at peace; all of a sudden

  The reassuring lamps of village and farmhouse

  Lamps of the evening and distant night-lights brighten,

  With the entrance, somewhere, to a tavern, brilliance

  Of a hostelry, into which I will bring you, my companion,

  Into that tavern over there, where for the rest of the night

  I will have your heart against my heart …

  And there, in those coarse sheets with the smell of the country

  About them, where we rest our sorely troubled limbs,

  Musing on the tranquil goodness of the land,

  And going through the night before, and all those frightful roads

  – Your skin will be so soft and warm and scented,

  The soft tissue of love, your so belovèd body.

  The flesh, in which one sleeps, utterly consoling me, your comfort

  Will make of those sheets the linen of churches, delicate,

  Divine. Sheets of silk and the golden ones one wraps

  Carefully around the holy chalices, meant for the blood of those

  ‘Saddened even unto death,’ who take the stage

  At some late hour, marked but with a cross

  Where, silently they’ve passed away, leaving just a drop

  Of humble blood, which women may collect

  – So that this precious blood, dripping from their feet

  Into those cold chalices, dripping from their gaunt,

  Exhausted faces – so that the blood of these Christs

  Will drip with less distress and with less cold.

  ROUND DANCE

  ‘We won’t go back to the wood,

  They’ve cut down all the laurels’

  The evening’s soft, the round is wild,

  Give me your hands, you playful child,

  Come and dance beneath the limes.

  Your skirts fly off to distant climes,

  The evening’s blue, my spirit wild,

  So turn again beneath the limes! …

  *

  Let’s turn until the chill sets in,

  Dancing here with ‘the lovely one’.

  *

  The poppet joins the turning round

  The square is brown, the dance is blond,

  The doorsteps listen to the sound.

  My spirit is that little blond;

  Of wanderlust we’re not so fond,

  Let’s stay and dance this local round.

  *

  Dance until the chill sets in,

  Turning here with ‘the lovely one’.

  *

  One more, before we’re told to stop.

  Yes, before we’re all grown up,

  Let’s dance and then we’ll go to sleep.

  A last dance under the chestnut trees,

  A last dance, turning as we please

  Till dying brings us to our knees …

  *

  Till dyi
ng brings us to our knees.

  FROM SUMMER TO SUMMER

  (To a young girl

  To a house

  To Francis Jammes)

  Awaited so

  Through summers listless in each yard,

  Summers which pour down their ennui in silence

  Under the ancient sun of my afternoon

  Made ponderous through silence,

  By loners, lost in visions of love:

  Loving beneath the wisteria, its shade

  Gracing the yard of some peaceful house

  Hidden beneath branches

  Spread across my own distances

  And my own infantile summers:

  Those who dream of love or weep for childhood.

  It is you, it is you who have come to me,

  This afternoon which lies

  Baking in its avenues,

  Come with a white parasol

  And with a look of surprise,

  Quite solemn as well,

  And a little bent over,

  As in my childhood

  You might be, beneath a white parasol.

  And of course you’re surprised that,

  Without planning to have come

  Or intending to be blond,

  You have suddenly found yourself