Le parcours d'un homme des cantons.
Another Poignant Moment
On a fair day,
a gently warm and sunny day
the three of us are picking currants
and blackberries in the back garden.
Willie plucks berries, purple-black lips and fingers,
thin red lines zigzagg his arms where he reaches, unheeding, for the fruit,
muted plunk into a margarine container
then, no sound,
tiny hand lost in it.
My friend, Maxene and I are yakking about men,
how horrible they are.
Our idle talk is somewhat “tongue-in-cheek”
sparked by conversation
with my dyke sister and her lover,
about how awful men are.
My sister has been hurt by men.
We have been hurt by men.
Well, Willie listens quietly for awhile
and then he says,
”How would you like it if you died
and came back as a little boy
picking berries in the garden
with your mom and her friend
and you heard them talking
about how awful men are?”
Maxene and I look at each other,
then, silently,
at the little blond boy
who will one day be a terrible man,
arms weathered to withstand the sting of nettles
taste less sensitive to the sweet tang of berries,
no longer reaching out….
or so we women meant
in the garden
on that fair day.
We smile deep inside ourselves, where truth sometimes lies.
by Gay Grannary
Ma mère est écrivain, voici un de ses poèmes sur moi.
Et pour Finir- Voici un de mes plus beaux souvenirs:
It was March 20th, 2022 and I just picked up my son. On occasion, on the Sunday exchanges, my little man sleeps and I find myself with a calm and reflective ride back home.
This particular night it was raining and the shuffle of music quietly playing lead my mind to a time and a place far from now. A simpler time when my youthful confidence and curiosity had thrust me out and into the unknowns of the world.
I remembered a late night; I had recently turned 18 and was staying at the bungalow village with the sounds of waves rhythmically enticing my dreams. I was out some hours before dancing and drinking and found myself in peaceful trance, my mind skipping through thoughts.
My ears began to stretch towards a conversation between a man and a woman. The man’s voice became louder and I was able to tune into the frequency of there exchange. His words began to thunder with wisdom as he painted a portrait of a beautiful relationship between 2 words.
He went on with the woman explaining what “passion” meant to him, how the word had begun to signify a large piece of his being and needed to be properly mounted at this moment. I could no longer here anything but this man’s voice, the crashing waves and night went silent.
He described passion as an itch, a need, a creative ooze. It was as important as food and water, sleep and shelter. The word was as significant as a spine. He poetically phrased passion as timeless and without residence unless flowing through people. But alone, passion can not be, it can only flourish with “energy”.
Energy was what made this mans wisdom resonate from his bowels. It propelled him into living his passions, creating his life and life all around him. Energy is what made us evolve and grow, use tools and start fires. It was the life force that when combined with passion created art and music and religion and spicy food.
My mind still weaves that memory through my life. Tonight, 21 years later, with my son sleeping behind me and this dark road ahead of me, those words began to resonate once again. The fires must once again be lit.