Category: Poetry and Translation
A Tour through The Gardens: by Liliane Richman
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.
Salines: by Liliane Richman
“L’improbabilité générale d’exister”
Claude Roy
The guest let herself in the Hotel des Bains
into the damp darkened reception
found her key hunted for the stairs
opened the door
briefly switched the lights on and off
Close your eyes
and the shutters of this house
Outside the street lights muted
coiffed to sleep relax in the fog
Her mind saturated with air and salt
wearily tangoed into sleep
and the world stopped spinning
the curdle and killing
the freakish accidents
will hold until morning
and in deep sleep the spawning
reams upon reams of startling dreams
until the slightest faux pas
unhinged her
sent her tumbling headlong
into the recurring improbability of being
endless task in the middle of night
Sound of a lone owl
outside the tide
the blanched canal
under the moon
flowing mechanically
a cog in the machine
Herself a black spider
saddled on the eyelash of time
Click on the player below to listen to a podcast of this poem:
Pineapple Memories (For Carmen): by Liliane Richman
Pineapple Memories (for Carmen)
That scaly fruit
barricaded and stealthy
that tough palm with ridges
secretive and guarded
which I surmised
was kinship
what attracted her
and impelled her to say
with delight
every time she wrestled
to unsheathe it of its plated armor
that the fruit inside
its sweet yellow nakedness
made her forget the recurring nightmare
of the concentration camp
and brought paradise
without death
the instant she placed it
in her mouth
To listen to a reading of this poem, click on the player below:
Halting Novena: by Matthew Broussard
I struggle to abandon apollonian mind to faith:
To leave aside the compass given me to read, arrange
And bend the spinning chaos to the rhythm of my breath.
My path
Is that of reason. Yet relieved to find the passing strange
Truth which flouts my measured doubt: I can scarce allow
Myself the grace that we are twin and have so been forever.
A fact
Which grounds all other house-of-cards truths i pretend to know.
And what of that? The world spins on indifferent to whether
My conjectures stand to reason. We know each other.
And laugh
Matthew Broussard: 18 June 1963 – 6 August 2023
In Vocation of the Muse II: by Bonnie McClellan
In my map of things you are confounded with
grey-green clouds
pressing against
bright ground,
like Shiva’s foot.
Creating – uncreating
spring.
Though properly your colours belong
to summer of golden
gulf-beach sand and
blazing,
hephaestian-hematite sweat
against the cuffs and
collar of
field, cotton white and
August sky or shallow
water running over
stones.
Implied subject || sottofondo: by Bonnie McClellan
It is the thing that lies under
under lies
below the foundation
like a time signature
signalling in silence:
there
there
there
there
we are.
È la cosa che sta sotto
sotto stante.
sotto il fondo.…….
come il tempo quaternario
segnalando in silenzio
ci……..
ci……..
ci……..
ci……..
siamo.
Memory of Water
Every stone bears the memory of water
within its mineral bones
time stamped with the fluid trace
of a flickering-blind magnetic north.
Sunrise, 30 December 2020 – by Bonnie McClellan
Sunrise, 30 December 2020 Now is the hour of the small birds storming into the cypress tops, which do not bend as they do under the weight of magpies and ravens. A murmuration of morning steam rises off the cement factory. Disguised as fast-moving clouds, they power up the valley; an insubstantial mother tugging at the hand of her sleepy puff of a child, running off into nothing. Now the sun snaps across the mountains an incandescent ribbon of rose-lipped pink. Clouds, scattered across the measureless pale-blue tile of sky, explode into tulip petals, pink swans, holy doves alight.
Shadow Play: Fennel and Bees
a follow up poem to “White Skirt on the Train”