"Let it snow, let it snow..."

I had the good pleasure to enjoy the child-like pleasure of watching a good snowfall. On February 26th, New York City had nearly 21" of accumulated snow. During the day this writing came to me and I wish to share it now;


February 26,2010
New York City Snowfall...

...and she falls, and swirls from the unknown
sky... flakes, fly and frown
from all around, like little children
all upon their own.

Now, silent in the dead of night,
slicing in wind-gusted slantings,
succulent in the day's dulled, defracted light...

Snowflakes, snowflakes fall... who
will recall all this; when two feet
fell upon our feet? And, we tromped
through it, in gladness and disgust...

A Tribute to Old Houses...

Yesterday was the first day in forty-one consecutive days that I did not blog. I realize I can't post everyday since I don't have nearly the material to do so, and nor would I want to. The piece below was conceived from a post card that I bought many years ago. The photograph of the old house on the card serves as a metaphor as you will now see;


The Old House That Leans

The old house leans
a little, intact-- (but a bit to the left).
The roof leaks water
when the heavy rains come.
And sure, the joints
don't fit just right
as they once had--
but your style is unalterable.
The old house-- the plain sense of you--
remains;
you my father,
a bit older,
but still standing,
perhaps leaning just a little
to the left...

A Man of Certain Intergrity...

Perhaps, I dwell on him too much? He is my Papa, and he is laying in hospital. I wrote this piece orginally in 1991, for him. I have revised it recently, and want to release it again. I love him so, and think of him now-- my Papa Jean;

Pour Papa

De le vieux e'cole.
By ship-- from Rives, Isere-- il arrive'.
Un homme, de'ja, who had seen and survived
the gaunt, blood-shot facade
de le grand guerre.

Sauce' by trade, of le haute cuisine.
He was soon to see
the fruition of his dreams--
a family, une maison.

I, of first generation,
no longer on foreign shores
pense, que c'est le pouvoir
of this man?

He distilled and entire culture
and language in me.

Pu je le continuer en mes enfants?

"Today is your birthday..."

This is a personal blog. It is for her that I hold dear. She has shown me so much and taught me so much that I wanted to try to give a little back in return. She once wrote something to me that was so simple yet so profound; "Morning. May the clouds go away and sun fills your day. A good day is not too far away". I wish her only good things, always... and this is for her:

Perhaps...

Words need not rhyme
to be poetic...
Words need not be poetic
to inspire love...
Words need – perhaps– the sincerity
of their maker;
and then all their meaning
will speak in silent
tribute for feelings,
all too often,
lost through convention.

The things people do...

This little writing is recent. I happened to catch a couple at a restaurant and it appeared they we more consumed by the crossword puzzle than the food that they had ordered. So this piece goes out to all you crossword lovers...

Crossword Junkies

I watched, from a good distance,
a couple that appeared to be
crossword junkies.
They were pretending to be dining
but their dishes were placed
to the side– almost untouched.
It was the crossword puzzle
that they were eating.
It was placed center of table,
and they were nibbling at the squares.
With clues obscure–
long ago, hidden words, archaic and laic
usages and such. Engrossed in conversation
of many years with dialogue silent; pens in hand–
understanding only words. As they filled in those
New York Times crossword boxes,
I could only imagine what Sunday brunch
meant to them?

A rare man indeed, mon Papa Jean

The writing speaks for itself. My father is getting older and has certain health issues. I wanted to write something with him in mind and this is what I came up with;



Mon Papa

Images of you; silent sagas spoken.
The black-and-white photographs;
running through Les Tuilleries in pre-occupied Paris,
mud kicked up from your strides covers your shorts;
or in Rives, a Sunday walk on the unpaved road
with grand-pere and grand-mere– your mischievous smile;
and as chef-apprentice in Grenoble,
dressed in all-whites, toes protruding
from a hole in your shoe–
images fixed in my mind.
It is then that I can hear you say,
in your rich-accented English,
“My son you cannot understand those times.”
Hard I do try though, in vain you will remind me.
I know... I know...
“my son, I have been through the war.”

And now, when I find you deep in afternoon sleep,
snoring as only you can– a colorful cacophony–
I watch you not wanting to disturb or wake you.
You have earned these cat naps.
Your work is complete.
These are the quiet years, when time’s clock slows,
and you can note the change
in seasons; the peculiar smell that low tide brings;
the everyday thrill of making birdie.
A man moderne in an un-modern time.
Stringing your own bow, your arrows unwavering.
Former soldier, sage centaurian, socialist to the end.
You have earned your keep
and these deep afternoon sleeps.

I look again at the black-and whites;
Your visage holds such promise,
though much misery to come– athletic, confident,
French, such a joie de vie.
Hard I do try to understand that past.
I know... I know...
“my son, I have been through the war.”

Of Old Structures and Traditions...

La Saracina was the name of the farmhouse I lived in for three years in Tuscany, Italy. It was a dilapidated shell of a structure when I first saw it, but it had character and a story to tell. When the renovation was completed this writing came to me and this is what I want to tell;


The Work Complete, the Old Farmhouse Restored...
(La Saracina)

Thirty-some odd years the house withstood
alone,
unable to tell a soul
its misery with the wind.
The scars are there
the open wounds,
fissures in cotta– a house well-suited for Poe’s Usher.

Built with Tuscan stubbornness
crafted in old, old
mason ways.
The choking weeds have been cleared
(once again)
broken beams–
a structures bones– replaced.
The sense of self– untouched.

In whirling wind, whistling
it sings itself
and howls at the moon...
an old, old story of the region;
its stoic people
that live atop these supple wind-swept hills.

Architecture organic,
a form so pure, so complete and of itself
it has a proper name.

The piercing glare that refracts
from the new copper gutters
will soon dull, and
so too soon, the terra-cotta rooftop
tiles will lose their bright orange hue.
The oak beams restored
will themselves need replacement.

But this structure will remain
its idiosyncrasies intact;
the fireplace will always spew smoke,
just enough to sting the eyes;
the bedroom doors will never close just right
for lovers trying to hide;
The floors will always lean– a little–
after many souls have come and gone.

Casa colonica, standing firm
on your sacred ground, like a Tuscan contadino–
resilient–
the wind may seep through you;
lizards, insects and birds may nest
with your crevasses;
the hunters may use you again
come some winter or when abandoned, again.

But your structure standing erect,
the plain sense of you,
cannot be diminished, cannot be broken.
You will sing of yourself
and howl at the moon...
an old, old story of this...

The Cutler and his Craft

This work was inspired by a local craftsman in the town of Pienza, Italy. He had rigged a bicycle and used it to power his sandstone to sharpen his customer's cutlery. It was quite clever, and I wrote this for him;

The Honer

With the bare tools of his trade;
a converted bike as his motor; a sandstone; some water;
old, skilled hand with a keen sense for acuteness;
he set about his local trade of sharpening his patrons’ wares.
His was a particular passion for knives.
He enjoyed most about his craft
the humble pleasure of taking a dull knife,
one that had lost its sheer edge,
its purpose to cut
through and make the ignorant bleed,
and honing it for days...
During that period of time,
Like Lowell in the act of revising,
as the night-light burned,
he honed the instrument for a finer, yet finer
even finer edge,
Each stroke on sandstone
he would pass the knife’s edge over his often-used hand,
no longer able to bleed,
to gauge how much farther he could go.
Tonight though seemed different.
He had always felt he delivered fair product for his price.
True, his patrons did bring back the same knives
he had sharpened before– but this was common in his trade.
He wanted to be remembered for more.
He knew the Old Masters never got back their poems.
In his way, he too wanted to whet a knife
that would never dull, lose its cut
and ability to make bleed.
Pedaling with unknown power, he worked the steel over sandstone
and with hardened hands he wrought his metal music.
He seemed to grow delirious as he felt himself nearing
the precipice of all his years as a cutler.
Then he heard a sound he had never before
plucked from the steel-stone instrument;
the knife has reached it point,
it had severed him.
He bled for the first time in his life.
He died, with quiet, almost anonymous.

The Traditions of the Tuscan Farmers

I return to one of the poems from the Tuscan series. The writing is about the day I experienced the collecting of the grapes from the vineyards. It was hard work but all the men would set out to the rows of grapes and the chatter would begin. The whole scene reminded me of a folk art painting. I leave you this vignette;



La Vendemmia

In this autumn of rain,
after long, long days in dry season
timing being all–
October sempre– somewhere
mid-way,
early morning when the dew still
drips silent drops, slow,
from these vines;
a ritual begins anew
in a land of rituals.

Mire grips to boot, the rows heavy;
the vineyard, the methodically plotted lines,
ready to be picked, to be stripped
bare of its precious fruit.

Method unchanged, Old men
tutored in the old ways. This labour of hand,
old hands, hard-worked hands– knees twisted, knuckles knotted–
mimic the vines they pick.

Chatter commences, stories told before
unfold, embroidered slightly, And,
like some off-stage event
the women, sharing their mother’s
mother’s recipes, prepare the traditional meal
gossip alike while waiting to feed the men.
Like Randsig’s painting, the perspective encompassing–
jubilation fills the scene, the year has been good,
the harvest abundant.

The table already set. Unsalted Tuscan bread is broken,
last year’s wine is raised– salute– the toast is made.
The vignette of vigna glimpsed...

Traditional yet Moderne, graceful as a Lady...

This writing is for the lady I hold most dear. I need not name her, she knows who she is. I have never met a woman who has moved me so. She has grace, humor, intellect and style. I just want to be with her all the while I am alive. This is my message to her;

Portrait of a Lady
(inspired by a John Singer Sargent painting)

The night’s autumn coolness
brings thoughts of her in recline–
supple, full of mood–
susurrant, in her re-pose;
as if, an absolute ablative.
Like an archaic Latin construct,
your form, your grammar,
your entire idiom distinguishes
itself in a mere phrase,
spoken by a poet...
This phrase in recollective
breezes, moves about the room–
rimy
in September’s
dank
light
waning.
Shadows surround your every move... Indeed,
we live within such small vignettes
with great consequences...
and...

with sun rising...
night falls...

The beauty of sleep...

This is a little writing about coming home from a long day and yearning to sleep in one's bed with your lover. There is something beautiful to finding your lover asleep. This poem is just a sneak peak at that feeling;


Arriving home to finding you sleeping


I turn the front door key.

Words tip-toe from my tongue

as my weary feet, like drums

make the old, oak floor boards creak.


I try to sneak

my way home, to this bed that

awaits so patient in New York’s

late light.


Sleep is so near. The pillows piled right

To take rest my head in this– yet another night.

I have journeyed far my day’s flight;

now is thoughts of you– dreams sweet and good night...

To watch young children sleep...

The writing belows relates to the wonderful experience of watching children fall to sleep. I have a son, Luca, who is now 8 years old, and I have a daughter, Lena, who is now 14 years old. As young babies I can remember the beautiful ease they had, once in bed, to close their eyes and go to the world of sleep and dreams. This writing is for those moments I will always cherish;



Watching You Fall Asleep
(To Lena and Luca)

With this late light
that leans lower, and
the moon-lit sky, I swoon
and say good night...

With tomorrow’s shining sun
rising, I sigh and reply,
dreams sweet in repose;
stay tucked in as
within the restful, gentle
arms the newborn baby craves
as she rocks crib-like
towards silent, succulent sleep...

Beauty, Grace, and The Gentleman...

Today, is the 50th wedding anniversary of my Maman and Papa. Their names are Pauline and Jean Vergnes. They are 82 years old and 88 years old respectively. They have had an extraordinary life together. Today I will make them a simple dinner in honor of their simple but real life together. The writing is from a photograph taken at their wedding;



Still Life
(to Maman and Papa on the occasion
of their 50th wedding anniversary)

The photograph does not lie (in this instance). It cannot
hide your smiles nor the body language;
that tells you were made to be together (as one).
February 11th, 1960– way back then–
is, almost, just yesterday in the mind’s
snapshot of time...
A simple wedding, a simple reception
and yet such a wealth of life and love.
The moments, those voyages and the sheer adventures;
oh, to turn back the clock and start
once again...

Accabonac Harbour a place of harmony...

This is the second poem in series about Accabonac Harbour on the east end of Long Island. This writing deals with the sense of harmony and balance that I often envisioned as I made extended walks on the roadside next to the harbour. A very special and serene place it was for me;


Black & White on a bed of green embers

By the verdant marshes
of Accabonac Harbour
I caught a white seagull
landing–
near the soft-

edged,
un-
dulating
shore–

not far
from a few nestled, black wrens.
It was there
in the plain, flat light
that
slanted.
against a beach grass burning green fires
that nature’s splendor reared
its simple wonders;
Black & White on a bed on green embers...

With my Mother in mind...

This is a piece that I wrote for my mother on Mother's Day back in 1995. I've revised it a little bit, but for most part it has remained intact. She has been on my mind lately, and her health has been in decline. This is my way to tell her I love her;

Reflections of my Mother

Selfless to a fault.
The rock, the mooring, the anchor–
of three men’s lives– on which we cast
our flailing, selfish selves.

You are always there– a lighthouse–
illuminating the way for vessels, (mere hulls of men
vacuous and dull) pointing the direction,
charting the proper course.

The years have done what years
only know to do; they pass and create change.
But you have defied the years. Stoic, strong
you have held, unmoved by the wind, the rain, the passing seasons.

We grow old all around you.
We are the coming winter weary, you are the eternal-ever spring.
The family grows, extends and takes on new faces.
And you with your lighthouse glow,
remain planted, always fixed– indefatigable, unflappable.

A Drinkin' Life...

Although I'm French descent, this poem is for the Irish, Celtic and Norman blood that runs through my veins. France was once called Gaul and it was conquered by the Normans. I believe this is why I am fascinated with pubs, taverns and bars. I like the idea of a good bar stool and good conversation. I've had the pleasure of meeting some of the most interesting characters in my lifetime just sittin' in a bar and drinkin';


Drinkin’

I’m self-taught at this thing.
The not-so-subtle art
of self-absorbing, self-destruction
in drinkin’.
The smell of mens’ breathes
in the bawdy, dingy dive bar rooms.
Holding one’s own upon stool
chairs that seldom level– see
his crooked, red-eyed stare?
A drinkin’ man knows to arrive
and call his order...now to leave
in polite disorder, before all hell
breaks loose within his frame
wrought from the years of a drinkin’ brain...

The issues that must be spoken about as well...

I believe that as writers we must address issues that are sensitive otherwise, we are not writing. To avoid is to conceal, and to write is to liberate. The issue of clinical depression has long been in my family. Recently, I have watched it ravage my mother's core as she sees the man-- my father-- she has been married to for 50 years slowly nearing his last days. The stress and strain that his impending ending puts on her is unbearable at times to witness. I just want to leave this little writing as a means to address the issue:

When in Depression

(Contained), as in a
cubicle, even in the open air.
Roofed, squared, seemingly
extant within the mind’s
intangible dilemmas. Exas-
perated, like from every
common cold;
yet, somehow– colder.

The way some of us handle loss...

This works comes from the the curiosity I had with a neighbor friend of my parents whose wife had died several months early and he just chose to tell no one. It was in a passing conversation while walking his dog that he matter-of-factly mentioned to my mother that his wife had passed on. I didn't think much of it since I knew his wife was sick, but my mother was besides herself that he had made no announcement to the community. This writing touches on this incident;



The old man across the street
(A contemporary sonnet)

In these senior communities
there is a code to the way
of the old
(so my maman tells me).
Some adhere to it,
while others choose not.
The old man across the street
lost his precious wife
on November 25th, 2009.
He chose not to tell a soul. He did not report
his anguish to any of us.
For him perhaps, it was like
walking his dog each day– you do it,
you clean up after– and mind your own.

A sense of old New England barns...

This writing was inspired by a christmas card that I saw in a store. I thought about the barn in the picture and how it reminded me of an anchor or lighthouse. It was a bit dilapidated from the winter's she had endured, but there was still majesty about the plain sense that she conveyed.This is my homage to her;


The Old, Red Barn
(An Homage)

There is an old, red barn,

somewhere–

amongst drifts deep– along

those winding, snow-buried, poet Frost’s roads;

usually in Vermont, traveled less,

that makes no claim to greatness.

In ‘the plain sense ‘of her– the burnt-brushed

wooden redness of her hues–

she speaks of times, some time ago.

Stoic upon a hill– woodshed not far off–

She sits, (anchored) perched with a view

a proud, taciturn farmer knows.

She invites those who may be cold

to come inside. She is the barn,

the farm, the wood-burning hearth

that keeps all things warm

in her rudolf-red rusting

New England glow.

Making sense of this world through words...

I have decided to let this little writing go. I have been working on it for some time, and now it is time to let her stand on her own. There is often the writer who cannot let his/her work go and the piece languishes in a revision mode. I have opted today to let this one free;



Words...

In the poverty
of the poor–
those not so well-to-do;
their sparse words pour
forth
leaning (still)
towards poetry.

In this most salient form;
hapless men and women torn,
conjoin (still)
to pen the circumstance of woman and man.
The poet; harbinger
of this collective condition,
as the robin foretells spring...

The simplicity of the bookmark...

This writing was inspired by the idea that the writer and the reader have a continuous, interactive relationship throughout any type of storybook reading. It is simple in its approach but then again, there's nothing wrong with simple;


The Bookmark

This is the mark

I spot and set.

night-weary eyes

no longer able

to keep keen pace

As the poet’s words

rage & race across

this page--

in vain.

The night-light

wanes...

Sleep is now here.

The good book

placed near--

for the reader

(the listener)--

to resume the quest

where this mark

has been set.

A certain Blues Musician that inspires...

For almost twenty-two years I have watched and listened to Michael Powers play the Blues in New York City. He has had a profound effect on me because although, he has gained in influence to this day he remains a musician who plays in small venues with no cover charges. But if you listen to his music and his words, you can learn an aweful lot about the world around us. This writing is for Michael Powers;


The Prodical Son
(inspired by Michael Powers
a blues musician from NYC)

The prodical son,
with slower steps,
steeps
back inside ‘their’retirement home.
Oh, the days– lined– spent, stupid
in stupor,
alone. . .
vapid, vacuous in such vain.
The false mph’s&rpm’s un-gained,
in cocaine rooms
not built for such high velocity
in The City.
Often wishing for that allusive,
original, old home (‘the plain sense of it’);
the bed slept in with soft, sheets white,
made linen sweet from maman’s constant chores
and her relentless up-keeps.

When in a February state of mind...

There is a term in French poetics called paysage moralise. And it is a technique used by writers that want the landscape to mimic or echo the piece they are writing. It is a commonly used practice and with the writing below I share the sense of paysage moralise;


February, or waiting for something like February to pass

...as the day’s late,
night light
leans long,
longer than before
into seemingless
tomorrow...
We begin
now– today–
to come to terms
or, perhaps, just display
who we are

all
– alone–.

(Within sheets) not so white,
sheets not so soft,
dulled, yellowed and stained;
made coarse by the physical need
to express our singular pallor
through our little body jostles.

Yet, within such masterings
there is no abatement towards
our collective contemplation
of the soft, curvaceous lines
of lovers, who
twist and turn
and conform to the discomfort
of the moments,
for such moments.