Hither and Thither

By MARYVONNE MAY

A selection of poems written between 1968 and 2014.They each describe places that Maryvonne visited or worked in; family and friends; political/ecological issues and chidhood memories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490728360

Book preview

A tale of two towns Saint Pons and Saint Cugat

Some twenty years ago,

When I first saw St. Pons

Living then near St. Cugat

In pretty La Floresta

How nicely it bustles I thought,

Most especially on Market day

Similar to St Cugat

People come to sell and buy

Sausages, wine, rubber boots

A pleasant drive to market,

Past vines and almond trees

Gated communities now

For rich folk like Los Angeles

St. Pons, however sleeps

That delicious Midi slumber.

Abbey, Cathedral, Church of St. Pons

Yellow wallflowers sprout from the cracks

In the marble block church walls,

Whilst crag martins fly to their nests

In holes along the pale façade.

More than a thousand years ago,

Benedictines prayed and walked,

Through cloisters and through Abbey Gardens

Where there’s now a Wednesday market.

In the name of religion the abbey was razed:

Huguenot Protestant versus Catholic.

The stones survived, pink, blue and white

A gigantic new cathedral was built,

Until it was partly destroyed again.

Now she still stands and imposes,

But willow herb grows from the roof.

Aircrash

Today a plane went down

Lost in the mid-Atlantic

Seven hundred miles from the prison isle

Of Fernando de Noronha.

I can’t keep away from the box

Distraught families wail and wait

In Paris and in Rio

Waiting for some comfort

Me I’m afraid of flying

Especially transatlantic

Such a relief to touch down again

After thousands of miles of blue

I came back myself on a boat

Passed that former prison island

The ship’s engine caught fire at sea

Blackouts screaming terror reigned

But at least a boat doesn’t fall

Fires can be extinguished

Light and speakers were restored

We chugged slowly back to Brazil

But for those on that modern plane

Most likely fast death then the depths

Would they have time to think at all

Or has that been left to their loved ones

They’ve found some debris in the ocean

An aircraft seat some wood some oil

Out there in the mid-Atlantic

Where the rift goes down for ever

Beyond where the caelocamphs glow

And viper fish bare such sharp teeth

Where even the latest technology

Can’t get to that precious black box.

Amaranthus

for Ronald on the Day of the Dead

Love lies bleeding

Drooping in Autumn rain

Streamers of crimson seeds

Cliff of slate behind.

Sacred plant of Aztecs and Greeks

Nourishing and curative

Symbol of immortality.

In Ephesus used to adorn

Images and tombs of Gods.

You told me its history Ronald

So I’ve planted some for you

Here on this terrace near your ashes

There in the garden where I go to think.

                              October 30th 2011

An Apology to My students

My classes were taken away from me

After a number of students complained.

Doubtless they thought I was crazy

Talking of protest movements in France

Last week, and in May Sixty Eight.

Revolution is not for them.

They’re on the rungs of the ladder.

One day they’ll get a mortgage.

Nor had they ever seen, poor things,

A teacher quite so technophobic

Fumbling foolishly at the controls

Up goes the volume down comes the screen

Sometimes I lost my place in the book

Cause a poem was distilling in my head.

                                             Oct 2010

Another One for You Ronald

One of the happiest days of my life was

When I showed you the nice new house

I met you in Toulouse airport

We arrived here tired at midnight

To a blazing hot log fire

In the warm old fashioned kitchen.

‘This is splendid’ you said.

Taking in the faded grandeur.

‘You weren’t exaggerating.

When was it built?’ you asked.

‘Thirteen eighty’ I replied with pride.

‘Look at the metre thick marble walls,

Pity they covered them with plaster,

But I like the central heating,

And other modernish features’.

We’d last lived in a weekend shack

With just solar plaques for energy,

Before that a done-up garage,

Both in beautiful places

But right out in the sticks.

From our terrace here we see

A shady small town square

With shops and bars and church.

Next morning you drank it all in.

‘I can buy my own buns and newspapers,

Watch what goes on down below,

Plant my bulbs out here.’

You exclaimed for once excitedly.

‘There are passersby who say bonjour

We’re back in civilisation’ I said.

Then off we went to the nearby café.

                                    Winter 2010

Anxiety

Anxiety’s free floating.

My psychiatrist said

It can spread like oil

Fixing on this or that worry.

It attacks me here or there

Heart skin or back

Knees neck or stomach.

It comes in waves

And then subsides

As pain is wont to do.

It can fasten on a detail

Like an ant inside

Your itchy scalp

Stopping you from sleeping

If you have the great misfortune

To wake up in the small hours.

April Afternoon

Pale tender