Paroles Vides (pour Jaques Prévert)
PAROLES VIDES (pour Jaques Prévert)
Savoir faire, sauveur, sauge…
sauvage:
Creuse RUE DE SEINE
Le sein s’élargit sous les pierres
avec un souffle scintillant
á dix heurs e demie:
“dis-moi la vérité…”
Pierre.
Savoir faire dire
la vérité est vide:
Remplirons
avec nos paroles
aussi vides
aussi belles e sauvages.
Sauge / Saveur.
Savoir / Sauveur.
Sa voix faire…
EMPTY WORDS (for Jaques Prévert)
Know how, saviour, sage…
savage:
Excavate RUE DE SEINE
The breast expands under stones
with a glinting sigh
at ten thirty:
“tell me the truth…”
Stone.
Know how to say
the truth is empty:
Let’s fill it
with our words
also empty
also full of savage beauty.
Sage / Savor.
Knowing / Saviour.
Her voice knows…
I gave my love a cherry without a stone…

Spring has arrived in Lombardia. This is the cherry tree in blossom that I see on the walk back from taking Robin to school in the morning. The cornice of the house that you can see on the right is the house where we live and I can also see this tree from my kitchen window. Lovliest of trees…
Loveliest of trees….
LOVELIEST of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
A. E. Housman (1859–1936)
Very seldom do I post something so well known, but I saw a cherry in resplendent bloom this morning and this poem by Housman (one of the few I’ve ever memorized) sang so loud I thought I’d see if you heard it…
Interview with Speed Racer…or is it Spritle, or maybe Sparkey?
I’m in love…with the lake
This is the web cast from Cerro-Laveno…if you want to know what my sky looks like you can click the reload button on your browser or (go somewhere else like HERE and then come back) and the sky will change…it’s in real time. Now, I have an, albeit lo res, view of lago maggiore. I’m enchanted….
Lombard Spring / Rondeau á Lago Maggiore
The Spring won’t come. A dun bird shifts
his leaden wing and preens the quick
unplanished sky. The rain holds back
above the glacier’s mirrored lac.
Sheet pinned to sheet clouds sullen drift,
Mountain’s iron foot shores the split,
Dis’ black horses elude the bit.
In white re-dressed the peak sounds back:
The Spring won’t come!
Persephone irons out her shift,
Twists off her leaden ring and quick
folds up famine’s sheet; sighs, turns back
to Somnus’ smile ingrained with lack
of sleep pinned to sleep, beauty drifts,
the Spring won’t come.
by Bonnie Mcclellan copyright 2011
listen to this poem here:

The Anarchist Seed Swap
The anarchist seed swap was cool. A town up in the hills a ways past Luino had a get together at the recreation center where people came and exchanged seeds. Just showed up and put a chair next to a long table with piles of seeds and scraps of paper. Some, like me, showed up with seeds wrapped in a paper towel and stuffed in their jacket pockets. Then, in order to trade we had to…well, talk to people, people we didn’t know. That was the cool part, talking to people about what worked for them. There were lots of folks younger and some older and kids and dogs. While I was chatting with some ladies in their 60’s with a table full of bulbs, beans and zinnia seeds I overheard someone asking, “so how can I pay you for them?” and the laughing response, “you don’t, we’re doing it for love.” I went by that table tended by 3 young men, dreadlocks and tie-dye but with tidy beards and polite. The table next to them was full of leaflets and brochures…I recognized some from a pretty militant environmental group, Earth First!, that I hadn’t heard of since the 80’s. There were refreshments: tea, coffee, homemade baked things and dried fruit.
Robin had been taken in hand by an 8 year old boy who (while I watched from the window) took her over to see the deer and baby goats behind a fence at the edge of the park adjacent to the rec. center.
Then the group of people who were gathered on one side with musical instruments pulled themselves together in a group and everyone kicked back to listen to the music. They sang beautifully, the songs were…songs about anarchists in Lombardy or Switzerland who’d been imprisoned or killed and something like the anarchist anthem that they sang at the beginning and again at the end.
It was all in Italian, some of it in dialect…Matthew whispered in my ear, “Have you noticed that they’re anarchists? Not exactly what anyone in Texas would expect when you say ‘Anarchist'” It is true that a very tall fellow with a lovely baritone voice was wearing a black shirt with a hand-grenade on the front, and I’m sure that a lot of people, like us, were just there to swap seeds…
But, if you’re wondering, anarchists in Lombardia are nothing like this:
Meanwhile, I finally got some seeds for Cavolo Nero (fabulous tuscan ‘black cabbage’ that makes a wonderful sub for collard greens) and a few of the oregano seeds seem to be peeking up down in the garden. We also left with a pamphlet that one of the tidy young fellows gave to Matthew. The first article inside was entitled: “You may already be an Anarchist” I think Jeff Foxworthy may have a new tag line…
My daughter the model…
Alchimie
Le fou
(lui-même)
allume mon briquet
avec la tête
d’une allumette illustré
avec le schématique
du feu
designee
en d’or
mir(acle)
alchimie
The fool
(himself)
lights my Bic
with the head
of a match illustrated
with the schematic
of Fire
designated
in gold
mir (Acle)
sleeping
alchemy
by Bonnie McClellan
ecoutez ce poem ici…listen to this poem below:








