Writing...here?

'

I should be a writer, looking out onto such a 

landscape,

but I don't know how,

I have never done this, I read books and

am in awe at how words are put together

and linger in my mind, after shocking me

with their beauty and wisdom, or surprise,

capturing something, creating

I would be a writer, here, in this place,

but I don't know how, I have never done

this improvisation in words, I barely do it

in notes on a flute, guitar or piano

I don't know how to write more than a few

sentences.

I can find out how.

Cathy - La Bergerie de l'Aulagner in the Ardeches

In the end

it's the people, no, it's a person,

that person, the one smiling next to me.

that woman, Cathy, who does it all in her head

from laundry to linge, from vaisselle to vassal,

changing sheets and scrubbing sinks, she smiles

in the sun, 

we smile in the sun, talking of lists with 

his name on them, not hers, of every man's dreaded

D word, not divorce, but Delegation.

she is the one I would return for, 

to peek behind the door to see him

washing the dishes, making lists, 

while she reads on the sofa

sipping a glass of red wine.

À la fin

Ce sont les gens, non, c'est une personne,

Cette personne, celle qui sourit à côté de moi.

Cette femme, Cathy, qui fait tout cela dans sa tête

De la lessive au linge, de la vaisselle au vassal,

Changer les draps et frotter les éviers, elle sourit

Au soleil,

Nous sourions au soleil, en parlant de listes avec

Son nom sur eux, pas le sien, du redoutable de chaque homme

ce mot qui commence avec le "D", pas divorce, mais la délégation.

C'est pour elle que je reviendrais,

Pour jeter un coup d'œil derrière la porte pour le voir

Faire la vaisselle, faire des listes,

Pendant qu'elle lit sur le canapé

En sirotant un verre de vin rouge.

.

The most secret memory of men - Joan Didion's notebook

and of women?  yet, yes, 

his secret lay in seeking and destroying

the Nazi criminal who sent his friend to the

gas chambers.

That book was never completed as far as we know.

that is his secret, 

there are so many secrets, industrial espionage

burning down the house, 

so the words in this book went deep where

no one goes freely, in our lives, there are so many

hidden dangers, and we see rainbows 

she and I, as we pant our way up the hillside.

This notebook, this one inspired by Joan Didion

where I think of Richard Feynman, of Saliou

and Djiby, of Badou and Iba, of all that was lost on 

this trip, of misunderstandings and turning away,

of that was gained, a view of hordes of pelicans 

swirling in the sky, fish still swimming in their bellies.

All of this is only known to me.

writing to my penpal, Mira

I'd never written a postcard from Senegal, 

the streets too dauntingly dusty and crowded,

I'd never seen a post office. 

no one had been worth the effort

until now.

Darling Mira, I went to a city far away

from Dakar, I searched for La Poste, across

from the hotel from which brave men flew across

large distances to deliver the mail.

hallways full of photos and letters sent

and received, letters telling of love and absence,

describing the unimaginable in this land, here,

in Africa, where pirogues still roam through narrow mangrove

passageways, 

on a cool January morning, the eyes of a hippo rise up

above the water, in May, the pelicans fly overhead in 

impossible spirals digesting many pounds of fish.

From this land, I sent this card, to a little four year old

girl named Mira, the one who wears sparkling 

Princess dresses, and dances towards the waves,

they may be the same ones that dance outside

my door.

My new penpal, Mira

I have been grooming her since birth

to write cards and letters, as soon as her little

hands could grasp an object moving in her

field of view, a few inches from her face.

She had no idea of the persistence of her

grandmother, 

Mimi, who still treasures the postcard from

her own grandmother, the one with the marmot on the

front, addressed to Coucoute, that particular

handwriting so flat, yet surprisingly legible. 

There is no better gift than a handwritten

letter, easy to keep, beautiful to display, 

a direct line to your heart.