Sunday, September 18, 2011

Another Poem .. .. Another Song .. .. Another View .. .. I Borrow

Somewhere in France (SW) 2011


With one he wrote a number so beautiful
it lasted forever in the legends of numbers. With another

graffiti covered doorway, in France
he described the martyrs' feet as they marched
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
asking, asking, his fingers a beggar's lucent black,
for the word that gave each of us away.

- BY Jonathan Wells
The New Yorker
July 26, 2010

 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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