Reading Aloud

The other night I was invited, along with Glenda, Anne and John, to Durfort to British Anne and Peter’s house for a “poetry reading”. Hey, I though, I can do that!

There are regular poetry readings in Sonoma County back home in California, where I have read at the Lit Cafe and the Literary Guild's readings in the City Council Chambers at City Hall in Healdsburg, and at the Valona Deli in Crockett. I have read my poetry in locations as various as Shakespeare & Co in Paris, the Café Kafka in Vienna, a family re-union at Roaring River State Park in the Ozarks, and Fort Casey on Whidbey Island.

I am used to keeping to the time limit, to sharing the stage with other writers, to listening respectfully to other people's work and applauding equally for each reader. I looked through my poems and picked out two new ones I was interested in trying on a new audience and an old favorite, requested by Glenda. I pulled out my new, acid green scarf, put on a nicer pair of shoes, fluffed my curls and packed up a chilled bottle of rosé to contribute to the pizza dinner.

We carpooled over; Durfort is the next little village to Soreze and is a lovely walk of an afternoon, but the path is a bit steep and dark to walk home at night. We parked by the church and made our way along the sky blue ribbon of water in the street to the worn, sea green door, rang the old school bell and mounted the double spiral staircase to the second floor.

We were the only literary audience for the evening; it was simply the four of us from Soreze, along with Anne and Peter. They had set up a table facing the balcony and covered it with some twenty-five poetry books that they have with them in what is mostly a summer house for them in Durfort. Peter had put on a pressed white shirt and festive vest, Anne a nice black sweater. We chose numbers out of a bowl to decide reader order, toasted each other's health with a glass of Kir (French cocktail made with a measure of crème de cassis, blackcurrant liqueur, topped up with Blanquette de Limoux, the Lanquedoc region lower cost answer to Champagne) to kick off the proceedings and began the first of three rounds of reading.

John Norton (no relation) read from his poetry book, Air Transmigra, just out from Ithuriel's Spear small press in San Francisco. (click here to read it on Google Books) The painting on the cover as well as the portrait of the poet on the back cover are by Anne Subercaseaux.

I read each of my three poems in turn. Glenda brought a well worn poetry compendium and read selections from it.

Anne and Peter had bookmarked some favorites to share and we each dipped into the books on the table, hearing from Edward Lear, Rudyard Kipling, Shakespeare, James Joyce, Walt Whitman and more.

We ate pizza and drank wine and then went back to reading aloud.

I love sharing books with family and friends by passing them on and/or reading the good parts out to them. I started reading to my kids when they were tiny. My Dear Daughter is reading "Swiss Family Robinson" to the Corn Tiger as his bedtime story, started when he was about a week old.

I think a lot of us who come to this region of France are attracted to a simpler life here. I'll take an evening reading aloud in the parlor with friends over a brain branding session in front of commercial TV any day.

One of the poems I read, which is becoming a crowd favorite and was published this year in CALYX, A Journal of Art and Literature by Women, in their Winter 2010 issue, is "Warm Ripe Figs", which you will find below.

Remember to read aloud, especially to those kids!

Bises,

N2

Warm Ripe Figs

You’ve long been attracted to the young ones

with firm pink flesh, with just a hint of green

so perfect and unblemished there on display

only to taste at first bite the acrid 

bitterness of fruit picked too soon.

When will you learn to reach

for the wrinkled ones

with just a bit of heft

with the right drooping sag

those that have been 

hanging on

soaking up sun

unnoticed by bird or man

until filled with a mature

musky sweetness.

Pluck a warm ripe fig.

Put your nose close.

Pull the flesh open.

Stick your tongue in.

N2

20080216

The Smell of Sky Blue

In the midst of all the family logistics and planning for my sister's funeral, I checked in with my friend Ms Moon over at Bless Our Hearts. She wrote simply and eloquently about the joys of hanging out the wash, of standing outside under a bright blue sky.

Here's my own take on just that feeling from a few years ago.

Sun Washed

I want my wash to smell of sunshine and the wind.

Why did we become convinced that

some lab concocted combination

of hydrophobic long chain molecules

is better?

could even come close?

Because we were missing

a half remembered fragrance from home?

Because clothes from the dryer have no smell?

Or worse, smell sour

having sat in the washer too long?

Because by using a dryer we won’t have

to lift wash

to carry it to the yard

to shake out each piece

to pin it with wood to the line

in the sun

in the breeze

to catch sight of a blue jay in the redwood

to sigh at the beauty of cloud against sky.

N2

20041104

Still on the road here. The up side is that I am getting some time to connect with family and children. Looking forward to being home and having the chance to do the simple things like hanging a load of wash on the line.

Thanks to one and all for the kind words of condolence.

x0xo,

N2

Day 15 of the Picture Dialogues

Tulips Three Ways

Tulips

I brush tall rose tulips with mine

tumble into bruise blue eyes

thin petal skin reminiscent of your

newly shaved chin under my two lips.

Arms full of hot pink, cerise, deep purple

tulips spill color into the canal.

I stand near the edge.

Two lips so close.

You, fearful of falling,

too afraid to approach.

N2

20080414

Maintenant, revenons à l'écriture.

Bisous,

N2

Spring! (Printemps!)

Springtemps

the tender shimmer
of green where hills
rise to meet the eyes

fresh-plowed fields
brown under the sun
pink and white petals
pop in the hedgerows
trees lean over the road
still at languid rest

streams run chuckling
through budding woods
slip under stone arches
of small town bridges
brief showers clarify
cerulean blue sky

five crows call
medieval cadence
for oncoming Spring


N2
20080224

An empty house (Une maison vide)

Encouraged by my friend LC’s fine example, I will be posting some of my poetry here. I wrote this just after arriving at Rue Ferlus. As you can see from tonight’s picture, the worn statues of Mary are currently on the mantle piece. And the rooms are no longer empty, in fact the one from which I write is quite a jumble at the moment, but soon to be sorted!


Start with an empty house

Open the windows and doors to air
and light. Sit in the small courtyard.
Introduce yourself to the plants.
Feed them. Water the well,
adorn it with worn statues of Mary.
Create a comfortable burrow of a bed.
Fall asleep to the click of boule balls
in the soft dirt under pollarded plane trees.

Wake to a restless summer wind. Tie the shutters.
Wash the grime from the Escher-tiled floor.
Buy olives of pincholine green at the market,
a chalky pyramid of goat cheese, a wheel
of bread with wood fire-blackened crust.
Eat lunch on the stone ramparts of the village,
your basket perched on a map of the towns
spread like a sunflower strewn carpet below.

Leave for the lake when the church bells strike noon
to swim in that pine-rimmed basin -- rain held high
before dashing down stone channels to the Canal.
Spend the late afternoon at the brocante in Revel.
Make the furniture you buy first for the house
a simple writing desk and oak captain’s chair.
Invite your neighbor in for a glass of wine.
Give her the new chair. Exercise your rusty French.

Muse over wall colors in the day, by the light of night.
When you go away, leave a good book behind
so the characters can fill the house with laughter,
a welcome when you open the windows and doors.

N2
20070722


More about the market in Revel after Saturday. You’re going to love its abundance.

Bonne nuit, dormez bien et ne pas rêver de cornichons au vinaigre
N2