Category: International Poetry Month

Seed of women
seed of men
good seeds
bad seeds
there was
always a garden

Little girl lucky me
into the world at war
Sent to safety on a rattling train
held and soothed
by darling brother Fred
Magically transported
to a village surrounded by forests
pungent sap of tall pines
harvested for the making of turpentine
Carpet of ferns curly loves tight as fists
covering the ground for miles

and the pure air
lungs of the Landes forest
inhaled far from bombs and ashes

Sometime my foster mother
and Paulette take me with them to church
For Pentecost I wear a big white ribbon in my hair
and Fred is a choir boy

But I don’t remember my real mother
coming South to see us

shortly before they round her up in Paris
and send her to Drancy
and Bergen Belsen
for the next 3 years

–2-

Perhaps what I do remember
is some one afternoon
in my foster parents’ home
the bent knee of the helmeted occupier
offering me candy

But all in all life goes on
merrily for me
child whose earlier memories
are already erased
I go to the one school room
learn to read
and count with sticks
play under an upturned chair
my stage

And there is always Fred
who lodges with another family
and no longer hides behind bushes
to visit with me
From age three to six then
nary a fear except from fairy tales
a thrill safely vented
under the watch of seraphim
hovering in a semi circle
above the fireplace
My major household god is Paulette
redoubtable on her elephantine legs
How I loved her and still do
who cured me of mange
potty trained me authoritatively
and took me for rides
on the back of her bicycle
warning sternly
keep your feet away
from the spokes

-3-

In the village we buy bread
for an entire week

and gossip with everyone
I love the dentist Pierre Chaulet

make him swear to marry me when I grow up
and how in awe of Monsieur Turok I am
a deaf and dumb man
who grunts amiably and kisses my hand
chivalrously

“Viens faire un tour de jardin”
a spin a farandole a cabriole
at the end of summer afternoons
“Come along! Let’s take a look at the garden”
suggests Paulette
We put on espadrilles and leave the big house
wealthy well appointed
filled with ancient toys
postcards books silver coins
apples duvets

hand embroidered linens
homemade preserves
in armoires

And traverse the road watching for oncoming traffic
stopping midway near Jesus’ cross twenty feet above us

Safely to the other side we reach a narrow path
lined with brambles
leading to the gleaming garden
porous gray soil
matrix of strawberries tomatoes onions cabbages and potatoes
thriving under the sun

Where did this universe stop when it did
I wondered
With a fence around the earth girding it
a security belt preventing humans from slipping
and disappearing in whatever lay beyond it?

-4-

And all around the garden
where water sprung from an old pump
stretched prairies where cows with first names
untagged unhampered
grazed in the field
-and knew time-

returning with measured steps
to stables at dusk
their bells echoing through the air
making me believe
the entire world always
held such peace

Then I left paradise

That first meeting in Paris with my real family
strange father strange broken mother
a new baby brother
only familiar Fred big brother always my favorite
every one but he strangers nevertheless reunited
struggling to get on our feet in a two and a half room apartment
And yet dreams spun for hours
in a space like a small closet
the communal toilet

a hole in a recess with two steps for the feet

shared by three families
Through its small window
I saw rooftops through clouds
and there read future fame

-5-

Just two short streets away
from our rue des Francs Bourgeois apartment
a significant garden opened up its vista
a large public square with buildings on four sides
bricked in red and white
like fancy bonbons
surrounded by arcades

Place des Vosges where I grew up
where my mother brothers and I
came for relaxation Wednesdays and Saturdays

Sometime we fought there then made friends
and Fred played soccer fervidly until dark
until our exasperated father came to get him by the ear

In the middle of the park
stands an equestrian statue

with a Louis the umpteenth regal in the saddle
staring across the street

towards Victor Hugo’s residence

where Gavroche Cosette and Jean Valjean

were conceived

Once a poetry fair took place in Place des Vosges

Paul Fort was crowned Prince of Poets
It was my first time breathing the air of the literati

Another time my mother seating on a park chair

glanced up and saw a soldier

in American uniform
Looked hard at him and after a moment
burst into tears
recognizing the brother she had last seen
as a young boy
-Mon oncle d’Amérique-
whose bride to be had a brother

-6-

Which is how I come to be in my present garden
on the other side of the Atlantic
in the far reaches of Texas
in Dallas where JFK was shot
in the budding flower of his age

And in my own garden
– like Louis X1V –

I decide what for each season
and where to put it
a stone path an arbor a bench
sculptures around a bend

Also a vegetable garden
lush
with promises in early Spring
most shriveling at June’s end
in this harsh hot climate

But In Winter
I like
how everything dies to the ground
as if it had never existed
and how the same
surprises in Spring
faithful perennials and flowering trees
as lovely as when first planted

while those who have disappeared
folded inside my heart
tight spores
as real as photographs
seeds of memories
from beginning to end

Click below to listen to the audio version of this poem.