September 17, 2004

• When you lose things, it is a natural reaction for people to believe you had never owned them in the first place.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I once wrote poems in French, but like a lot of my abilities, I lost it with my stroke.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Here are five poems I have had published in France, in French, but now only survive in English.

  
  

  They are “by” Jacques du Lumière.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ——————————–

  
  

  Our children’s faces

  
  

  Are seen only as reflections

  
  

  In some dark, polluted pond;

  
  

  Forever crying, their eyes

  
  

  Penetratrating our horror,

  
  

  Pleading for us to hold them

  
  

  Once more in our arms;

  
  

  Kiss once more their

  
  

  Dead cheeks, and tell them

  
  

  We still love them.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Forever they look up

  
  

  To us, from rivers, from

  
  

  Lakes, from natural mirrors

  
  

  Of water. They ask us not to

  
  

  Forget them…

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Nor shall we ever.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ————————–

  
  

  Our children’s children

  
  

  Are all we sing for

  
  

  In these black fields

  
  

  Of loneliness.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  They are all that matter now

  
  

  We realise,

  
  

  As we carry our little bundles

  
  

  Onto the edge of eternity

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Each one of us remembering

  
  

  How beautiful death can be

  
  

  To a dying man.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —————————

  
  

  You were part of something

  
  

  I never wanted,

  
  

  Part of someone

  
  

  I never met

  
  

  Snapping into life’s jig-saw.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I saw you before,

  
  

  You were never there

  
  

  Never in the day

  
  

  Of white snow,

  
  

  Never in the language

  
  

  You said you spoke

  
  

  Never in the lips

  
  

  Of the shadows,

  
  

  Never in icicles

  
  

  From my eyes;

  
  

  Never, never, never

  
  

  Wanting you.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  You were part of something

  
  

  I never knew.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ————————–

  
  

  He returned alone,

  
  

  And in rags

  
  

  Shut himself in his hut

  
  

  And spoke to no one

  
  

  On that cold wet day.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Whom of us dared to ask him

  
  

  Where his wife is now?

  
  

  We approached his hut slowly,

  
  

  To hear him crying

  
  

  And making more noise

  
  

  Than the rain.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ————————–

  
  

  “In the Shadow of the Abbey”.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I say Lord, don’t miss me

  
  

  In the shadow of the abbey,

  
  

  My prayers for your ark,

  
  

  My enchanted chapel of nuns;

  
  

  My tower room full of yellow light.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  And Lord, do not get me lost

  
  

  At these crossroads

  
  

  Where the signpost is bent

  
  

  Its fingers pointing to the four corners

  
  

  Of the drunken Earth.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  For when the undergrowth of night

  
  

  Sob spirits from each stone, and

  
  

  When death overhangs each vine;

  
  

  Lord, spare me the sadness

  
  

  Of the deep black pond.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  You shall welcome my song

  
  

  My soft words, my thoughts,

  
  

  To you Lord, my Saviour;

  
  

  In the shadow of the abbey,

  
  

  Remember me, do not forget…

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Even if the signpost is broken

  
  

  And lays in the shape of a demon.

  
  

  ______________________________

  
  

  
  

  
  

  All poems published under the hetcronym of Jacques du Lumière

  • 8:33 pm
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