Thursday doors…Lost in translation

This week we have more random French doors, but with a bit of a linguistic twist. The first is the door to a cave. No, not a door to a cave, but to a cave (cahv), French for cellar. Of course it is a bit like a cave, but a cave that houses wine sometimes or, in this case, a variety of spirits for the distillery above. In a very un-American way, there was an entire bottle of whisky with small glasses for tasting and no one there to be sure you didn’t have two samples! Quelle horreur!*

This is a wild boar door. 🙂 Sangliers can cause all sorts of destruction, despite how cute these look on the outside of this small hunting cabin. From experience I can testify that the meat when smoked is delicious!

Pain is your friend.

When my husband played rugby, they had a saying, “Pain is your friend.”  In France, that’s also true.  Except that “pain” in French means bread and isn’t pronounced like something that hurts.

The baguette may be the iconic French bread, but there are many other types of bread, including whole grain.  Good bread isn’t limited to France, though.  I flew into Frankfurt, Germany and, because of a cancelled flight, had time there.  Despite a bit of rain, we walked to the outdoor market, had a delicious brat (American name)/braten/bratwurst (in a great roll), then stopped at one of the stands to buy bread. This round, whole grain loaf was substantial. It was about 10″ in diameter and, if used as a Frisbee, could have taken down a grown man. It was SO good, on its own or as a vehicle for any sort of cheese.

Don’t forget that if you get to Germany or France, pain is your friend!

 

I’m still in France and my days are full.  I’m doing my best (unsucessfully) to keep up with your posts, as well as struggling to accomplish what I want on my iPad. Thanks for your understanding!

Forgiveness

After several days of helping a friend collect her part of the physical detritus of a shared life prior to moving into a life on her own, I’m also emotionally drained, as both the people are our friends.  I don’t say “were our friends” because singly they remain our friends even though now detached into two separate names rather than two names joined by the small word “and.”

Anticipating Winter

This is another poem from many years ago.  I don't recall the exact circumstances but the
sense of impending loss still seems real.

           Anticipating Winter

Even though you are not yet gone,
     my self does not know it;
     is preparing for the cold as gradually as possible.
With so many claims upon you now,
     I cannot bring any I may have to bear on you.
I must leave you as free and unencumbered
     as I can.
Since I can take none of your pain upon myself,
     the least I can do is to bear my own.

Friday Fictioneers–Exist-tense

The weekly gathering of the Fictioneers has commenced.  Bring out the halt, the lame, the blind, the murderers and aliens, vampires and vamps. Look carefully and you might see a human or two.  Take them all, stir thoroughly, add a dollop of disbelief, a soupçon of silliness. Dip a spoon into the resulting slumgullion:  each recipe meticulously prepared, marvelously rendered, tasty to the tongue.  Your personal recipe is solicited or feel free to simply feast and go away replete; perhaps not always uplifted, but with your brain stimulated.

Thanks to our fearless leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and this week’s photographer, David Stewart.

Copyright David Stewart

                                                          Exist-tense
Dreary, grey, distorted.
     Everything out of kilter, as if I’m in a foreign country.
          Can’t interpret the signs around me anymore.

A statue frozen in an empty plaza, surrounded by a city. Living people move along the periphery, 
     no one willing to come near.

Torn apart. Fragmented.
     Reaching, stretching. No one takes my hand.
          Crying out. No response.

Can’t anyone hear me?  I’m right here.  Why won’t you see me? Don’t you know that I exist?  

Perhaps…

Perhaps I don’t exist.
Perhaps I’m simply trapped. Forever a statue. Living but ignored.

Acknowledge me.  I need that to give me life.

A flash from the past…Untitled

Poetry as pain-reliever

I used to write a lot of poetry. I think mostly it was a way to work through pain or difficulties. Where I am today, I don’t write much poetry. Perhaps because I am content. Or maybe I write prose poetry or use poetry to cook, be a better friend, write cards or create a home. At any rate, here’s something from my very distant past.

                                    

                                    Another life
                                                                        With faint strains of previous choruses

The last few mornings, when the six-o’clock sun spread fingers through
my bedroom screen to touch me gently,
my eyes opened willingly
while my body gloried in its summer strength.
Mind and stomach dwelled lingeringly on eggs and bacon,
fruit and yogurt,
toast with honey,
orange juice….
maybe waffles….
of driving to the lake, lying lazily in the sun and drinking beer
or exotic tropical drinks afloat with rum-soaked fruit.

But deep inside my being,
somewhere in my soul,
lies a small hard spot,
as heavily as a lump of lead or high-priced gold;
that part of me which does not forget that you will be leaving
and understands how empty my life will be even on these lovely days.
Especially on those days.
Without even the knowledge of your body in the same city.

Now I must rise each day
and choose a face to wear
with matching attitudes to dress my body.
There will be roles to play,
facades to be carefully erected,
with constant maintenance.
Some few people will be allowed around to gently touch raw surfaces,
to help to heal and withdraw some pain.
At home, I will cry to blank uncaring walls
or curl around that small hard lump to smother it
and wait for the sun to finger me warmly on yet another day.