In Arles I bought three Camargue shirts
white embroidered in red and blue xanthous
and one azure fleur-de- lis in Large.
‘Paris est tres jolie’ the maker’s wife
while holding their new baby
showed me the workshop and pure cotton foils,
as her husband worked the sewing machine.
We gestured in hand to mouth comprehension
I made my choice and passed the Euros,
then while I tended Isabelle they went for coffee.
I got the babysitter’s discount and their smiles
were like the relief of an invested city.
Later, a grinning rubicund cheeked man
stopped me in the geranium clad street
laughed and pointed out a remnant baby vomit
resting opaquely lemon on my shoulder,
‘merci merci’ we wiped it off together
and I knew there is no such thing as a nation.
Heavens this is formidable.
ReplyDeletethe deadliest of all abstractions
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteDISAFFECTION
(or when we fuck it's gratuitous sex)
I have this vision of us on the Breton coast
we never got to.
We're standing together on a rock
on the windswept coast,
our oilskins wet and shiny,
waves splashing over and over
our gumboots, spray on our faces.
I want to talk to you
but you're hardly conscious
There's no sign of cerebral activity
at all.
Somehow I'm sure you'll never be bored.
I have this mental image of us
late in the afternoon
and I can see the sunlight
shining through your ears from behind.
We have a cramped flat together.
Out the window there's a terrific view the
mistral blowing relentlessly
across the Carmargue.
But we can't see any of this
because your underwear,
hanging out to dry
is blocking the view –
Of course my underwear's there too
but there's much less of it
although you say mine's
not so good to look at.
Imagine the world’s
two most incompatible people
in bed together
and it's us.
We could have sex to kill the boredom
or we could join in, be dull ourselves
and never notice it.
I think you're getting the hang of it.
Looking at you now
I can tell you're not thinking of anything.
You're wide awake but there's no proof.
Thanks for that.
We can populate a room
with our thousand voices
of washing up and the radio.
Sometimes I wonder
why I don't just
put you out with the milk bottles
one morning
before I go to bed.
1983
Ah that mistral across the Carmargue, if I offended you, i remain disaffectedly yours!
DeleteThis poem has made my day, James...laugh! Cheers.
ReplyDeleteGreat stuff James!
ReplyDelete