Trying to kick-start the muse with an old poem.
for f.i.in.e moods
Peep, Peep, Peep
Let the peaches support the languid summer evenings,
rocking on the porch, from which he loves to piss,
while you write your stories, while together
you watch the sunsets beyond the coastal range.
It’s tough to make a living, the work is harder
than he imagined, the money less.
Come winter the cash runs out, so you teach,
and it helps. The teaching allows the orchard.
Three days a week you become the mother-bird
stuffing French down the fledglings’ throats:
La belle demoiselle qui passe là-bas! You say.
La belle demoiselle qui passe là-bas. The chicks repeat.
Là-bas! You say.
Là-bas! Say the chicks.
So goes the winter, so goes a year. You are terrific.
Boys stare and dream, girls wish they were you.
The orchard is his dream. You dream of abandoning
the chicks, of speaking the language you love
in the country you’ve never seen, to have the man
in ragged jeans and the grand schemes become the man
on the boulevard charming you with words, to leave
the rented house, the rotting floor of the porch,
the pissing, the wasps that come for the fallen fruit,
to leave it all behind, even the baroque sunsets.
I thought I saw you coming down the steps of St-Denis—
the beautiful young woman that passed by.
Poetry by jim
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Written on 2015-01-19 at 09:03
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F.i.in.e Moods |
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