Poetry, pomegranate and persimmon

Prévisible, voilà ce que je suis. Il a suffi d’un jour de lumière cristalline à la porte de février pour que des mots s’en viennent. Après des mois de silence, soudain quelques poèmes tambourinent au portillon, des poings et des pieds, dégringolant comme Bifur, Bofur, Bombur et Thorin sur le paillasson de Bilbo… mais de nuit. C’est un peu dommageable, car une ou deux heures de sommeil en plus m’aideraient à mieux comprendre ce qu’ils me veulent.

L’hiver aussi est prévisible : il a suffi que je détourne les sous réservés à l’achat d’un recueil (onéreux) de Jaccottet vers l’acquisition d’un grenadier et un plaqueminier (l’arbre à kaki), tous deux amateurs de grandes chaleurs, pour que la neige et le gel s’invitent. Ce n’est pas idéal, mais entre nous, ce n’est pas le Midwest, et si ces arbres crèvent je m’accorde le droit de leur en vouloir. Le fait que je sois coupable de quelques moqueries à l’égard des Anglais qui cultivent des oliviers n’a rien à faire ici et ne sera pas mentionné.

In English please (apologising non-apology).

OK. So it turns out I bought, with the money I was given for the purchase of an expensive poetry collection by Philippe Jaccottet, a pomegranate tree and a persimmon tree. That was just the signal Winter was waiting for to push a few good freezing nights and cover us in snow. Now would be the time, I guess, to apologise for the many sarcastic side glances or remarks I may have thrown in the direction of English growers of olive trees. I would like to feel sorry… but I don’t. Feel free, English owners of olive trees, to snigger at my own attempts and to save sharp comments for my probable future lack of edible crop. I will concede that you were right to anticipate on global warming. 🙂

 

 

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Lullaby to a garden

 

To my sleeping garden
this weightless lullaby
a quiet outlook from a frosty window

As in grey winter light
the blackbird is black
and the grass is revealed with the rigour of morn

As the sycamore gone
still inhabits the sky
and homeless the grey heron flies

So my patience is wantless
and serene and full
live as the silence of prayer

For now is the night
for us both to dream
and entrust deeper roots to the stillness of love

And now is the time
for the fire to glow
and ashes be true
to snow

 

 

First frost

 

Mid-November
On trees finally, their October gowns of liquid amber.
Morning walk – blades and veins
Seized by the meticulous hand of frost
Lines from which Winter shall be drawn.
Slowly
Slumber befalls those plants which to Summer offer
Largesse of smiles and flesh.
I too
Am awaiting the hour
When darkness boils into fervour.