Tag Archives: France

Song of Apparent Innocence

This late in the game, in our jade consciousness,there is still innocence.  It peels the leather back, it floods with exuberance the most open spaces watches the way an old port glimmersas do beaches, boardwalks, plazas  kids still thrill over the … Continue reading

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Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

Coming from the US to France: out of the frying pan, into the fire.  Heat wave –canicule, in French – refers to dog days, which even Homer wrote about in The Iliad:  Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid skyOn summer … Continue reading

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U-topias

This past summer I wrote “U-topias” about an ill-fated, meandering voyage, a long poem for me but very short compared to wandering voyages like the Odyssey or the Hebrew Bible.  My search began with an irony – our town’s name said … Continue reading

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The Blue Door in our Dreams

There’s always a blue door in our dreams,in our former lives. A cerulean blue door, with wooden slats held by a small hook in the white plastered wall.   It opens, closes and opens, screeching like a sickowl, such are the vagaries … Continue reading

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Cut Me Loose

How freeing to discover the curious way French acquaintances and friends are judging the US.  Fortunately Trump is not sucking out all the oxygen.  While they despise him, they’re perplexed by this passing nightmare and don’t hold it against us.  … Continue reading

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My Own Equators

I like to travel south.  The further south in Europe I go, the more comfortable I feel.  I’m often following a pull, the  force of personal migration.  The compass point opens up more and more exhilaration.  It’s as if I’m … Continue reading

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Nice Work if You Can Get It

Workers work like dogs, and the tribute to work can only be marked by a temporary stay from what it celebrates. If you can’t stand your job, you certainly can’t imagine work as a realization of human potential, an aligning … Continue reading

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WHAT WOULD BAUDELAIRE DO?

I know, poets are said to have beautiful words but no practical action. Still, I began to wonder what Baudelaire, French poet par excellence, bad boy and scowling melancholic, would say about France and its current crisis of post-attack polarization. … Continue reading

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