Somewhere in France (SW) 2011 |
THE MAN WITH MANY PENS
With one he wrote a number so beautiful
it lasted forever in the legends of numbers. With another
graffiti covered doorway, in France |
past the weeping stones and cypresses, watched
by their fathers. He used one as a silver wand to lift
a trout from its spawning bed to more fruitful waters
and set it back down, its mouth facing upstream.
He wrote Time has no other river but this one in us,
no other use but this turn in us from mountain lakes
of late desires to confusions passed through
with every gate open. Let's not say he didn't take us
with him in the long current of his letters, his calligraphy
and craft, moving from port to port, his hand stopping
near his heart, the hand that smudged and graced the page,
Somewhere in France, 2011 |
for the word that gave each of us away.
- BY Jonathan Wells
The New Yorker
July 26, 2010
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I was listening to this music, by Re-Lab on Jamendo, as I read The New Yorker and came upon this poem which I loved . . . and wanted to share with you . . . and it all merged in my head as a surreal moment . . . and here of course I continue to share some of my pictures from France . . .
Piano for the wide oceans . .
seas which wash like tears within . .
the salt, a cleanser that scours
the hole . . . empty and soulless . .
which drives the music
that swirls in lassitude . . .
as the water
retreating from the breaks mirroring . . .
a forest of grass running on the hill
a breeze
a swell
a light through the wave . .
green like the ivy that clings
to the tree . .
a lover's tight grasp
that smothers a cry . . .
a heart beats within
the ocean's wide reach . . .
leaving a trail for the moon . . .
which skims hot white dreams
to me .. .
Somewhere in France, 2011 |
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