Myth of Arrival

Again I wonder how the origins of a poem arrive? A Paris torch singer, Dee Dee Bridgewater singing with her Flint, Michigan accent, croons out: "la mer qu'on voit danser le long des golfes clairs … la mer des reflets changeants sous la pluie," which I slowly translate as the sea which we see dancing along the clear gulfs … the sea with its reflections changing under the rain. It is true, my French is shameful.

A friend writes asking how my studies are getting along? An earlier draft of this sonnet (earlier as in 20 minutes ago) read it is pointless to study/ French verbs in this ex-factory city/ no one speaks … which sounded callous, dull, sluggish to my ears when I re-read it. All the poetry you see, every sonnet I post here, was composed in one go, twenty minutes and I publish it. At most I will spend a couple of hours sitting slack-jawed, lost and forgetful but rarely are they revisited, revised, revived. It is meditative exercise. One fluid movement and the poem is over and done. Unlike my sleeping desire, that rarely bubbles to the surface of late. Unlike my command of French, which simply frustrates. Perhaps a beautiful pea-green boat will take me away for a year and a day to Haiti, Guadeloupe or Martinique? Perhaps. Then I can walk the streets and listen to the French I want to hear. Instead of the gobbledygook of rain on this window. A gibberish of water.

You know rain. Some times we dance in it. Some
times we hide from it. It brings so much; stench
of this and that. Smells of sloth and boredom.
We know of this water that tries to drench
all that, the way water drenches. My French
is poor but I know "la pluie" means the rain.
It is good to talk about downpours, wrench
meaning from rain, smell the mud once again
in these devout verbs. I love verbs. A sane
verb is like a little nun, but better,
since verbs can be naked but nuns? Explain
to me why I've been such a poor father
to my lust? Lust-like rain on little nuns
I am destined to bear only orphans.

This entry was posted on Thursday, May 4th, 2006 at 11:06 am and is filed under Original Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.