A November Morning: Poetry of Mourning.

The Seine.

One month ago I returned from France.  My reflections of time in the village of Marnay-sur-Seine at the     CAMAC artist residency wrapping my soul with threads of gratitude.  This morning as I re-read my   journal entries from time at CAMAC I found these lines from the French poet Philippe Jaccottet.  They seem particularly poignant as another senseless massacre occurred in a small Texas town on a Sunday morning.


 One would like, for the crossing s/he has to make

if we can speak of  a crossing

 when the bridge seems broken off

 and the other bank in a mist

 or itself a mist, or worse, an abyss –

 in this barbed wire wind

 to wrap them in music, hurt as s/he is . . .


 On voudrait, pour ce pas qu’il doit franchir

 – si l’on peut parler de franchir

 la ou la passerelle semble interrompue

 et l’autre rive prise dans la brume

 ou elle-même brume, ou pire: abime – 

 dans ce vent barbelé,

 l’envelopper, meurtri comme il l’est, de musique . . .




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