In 2018, I am writing poems in the early mornings. Freely written in English or French, they are collated under the title Les matins clairs.
Flower sculpture against the white “flower wall” of the gathering room at the Studios are a silent happening to honor a visitor, respond to an event in the world, or to the language of nature over the town that day.
INTERLUDE
Maiden grass in the Spring hollow — a meadow cuddling in a hand palm, still estranged to the hay widow Seasons will make her.
For now, just what a psalm should be, enchanting and soft, inviting love over sun, for the sun will shine, then burn.
Cushioned grass along the river — or such it looks. Earth like down comforting the eye, freshly unpacked as heaven is supposed to be,
but in poems only, for they ignore the multitude that long stamped the silk green threads into mud, for light feet belong to real children, not angels.
LES NUITS BLANCHES
Les yeux ouverts, entre solitude et paix, lames grises creusés comme des colliers africains, lisses comme la piste inclinée d’un vélodrome, magnétiques.
Les voix des poètes, leurs silences suivis d’envols abrupts, étendus comme des routes longues à traverser des continents constellées de carrefours où s’aglutinent des juke box clignotants, muets.
Les mots des poètes à la pointe ardente d’une cigarette, musiques de braise, braséro des mariages sur la terre, sur le sable, sur la poussière.
Dust to Dust, Amber to Amber.