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 . . .
https://irenefsullivan.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/P1000206-e1509989969636.jpg45923448Irenehttps://irenefsullivan.net/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/irenelogo2.pngIrene2017-11-06 17:46:412018-01-27 03:58:57A November Morning: Poetry of Mourning.