poetry diary

The lips don’t have to be yours
to plunge me into sadness
with a smile.

Complete despair would be kinder,
than these filaments of hope
always wakening sadness.

We moved on and said farewell,
but you returned again this morning:
footprints etched in the grain of the floor;
your eyes unblinking in those I try to love.

I cannot forget
the power of your love
in every woman I embrace;
in every stirring of the flames,
like a monster without form,
your memory shades their face:
beautiful and sad.

******
I read a classic French short novel, Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan, this summer (in translation). The title is a reference to the poem below by Paul Éluard, which was included in the book but not translated. My French is modest, but I enjoyed translating it and then re-working it (a lot) to arrive at the very loose translation above.

(‘Bonjour tristesse’ literally means ‘Good morning sadness’…so you can see how free I have been.)

Adieu tristesse
Bonjour tristesse
Tu es inscrite dans les lignes du plafond
Tu es inscrite dans les yeux que j’aime
Tu n’es pas tout a faire la misère
Car les lèvres les plus pauvres te dénoncent
Par une sourire
Bonjour tristesse
Amour des corps aimables
Puissance de l’amour
Dont l’aimabilité surgit
Comme un monstre sans corps
Tête désappointée
Tristesse beau visage

Paul Éluard, ‘À peine défigurée’

When I say ‘I love you,’ now,
we speak as trees in late summer,
and whisper in September winds
as the first leaves fall.

When I say ‘I love you,’ now,
we have seen the trucks collecting lambs
and held the empty starlings’ nests,
black against the dawn.

When I say ‘I love you,’ now,
your roots flow deep into your hill
and mine surround my grassy knoll;
binding earth we know.

When I say ‘I love you,’ now,
I do so freely, as our branches touch,
expecting nothing in return,
but shared autumn skies.

****************

Feeling wistful.

Posted on d’Verse Open Link Night.

And what remains of love is this;
a pack of jelly babes.
“Give these to your mum,” he says,
and turns away to shield
his tears.

Fifty four sweets are in that bag;
one for each year of coloured days.
This one tastes of ’65,
that one of ’91 –
all gone.

“She still likes these, sometimes,” he says,
“as far as I can tell.”
She takes one more, unsmiling,
and heads towards the door,
unsure

of who she is or who we are,
or why these little bumpy things
still seem to mean so much to us
and feel so warm and moist,
almost

defining something once well known
she feels is lost or yet to come,
but will not find her now.
There must be something new
to do.

Across the room the curtains close,
and in the fading evening light,
a single jelly baby lies
alone; her lover’s furious final wail –
of farewell.

************

Jelly babies are traditional English sweets. People with dementia seem to like sweets.

Posted on d’Verse Open Link night.

It almost snowed this morning;
odd flakes distracted in the air,
like girls with secret crushes
blushing in his sideways stare.

I almost loved a woman;
odd moments that connected,
like snowflakes sparkling in her hair –
yet which, as courage, later melted.

We almost spoke of feelings;
unsaid, not settling; but biding,
baying – like wolves in winter
from mountains with dusk falling.

Lives almost changing daily,
and landscapes almost smothered
by almost snow and almost love:
almost makes us days to covet.

*******

Actually from a week ago – it’s got warmer since then.

Posted on dVerse open link  night

Rising to the surface of an empty lake,
a single leaf
like an unsaid goodbye,
too late for autumn.

Ripple-ringed dark waters,
light-lost, strive
to recall sun-splitting orange-gold
days of October.

Reflected forest, broken
by the troubled surface, promises,
touching leaf edge;
that gravity and time will turn again.

But I recall you smiling as we swam,
and memories dissolve,
like autumn leaves,
in the rain.

————————

For Hj.

Posted on dVerse