tree poem for Patsy

A clumsy translation of this poem on a nearby building, done with the help of Lynn in Montpellier. (Lynn teaches translation and says poetry is especially hard. As you will see.)

Passerby,

cast your eye on this great tree

and through it,

maybe it's enough.

Because even torn, soiled,

the tree of the streets,

it's all of nature,

all the sky,

the bird there rests,

the wind moves there, the sun

speaks there of the same hope despite

death.

Philosopher,

if you're lucky enough to have the tree

on your street,

your thoughts will be less arduous,

your eyes more free,

your hands more desirous

of less night.

Poem by Yves Bonnefoy, art by Pierre Alechinsky.

Paris, 5th arrondissement, at the angle of la rue Descartes.

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It's 10 a.m., and Chris will arrive here from the airport within the hour. I've just done mes courses - my shopping, down to the rue Mouffetard, which was just waking up, to buy the first real French gariguette strawberries - tasting them, the first of today's orgasmic experiences, spring in my mouth - and from the bakery, croissants, pain au chocolat and a baguette, munched on the way home. I went via the tabac, where I bought the fresh new Elle that comes out on Friday.

As I walked, I compared the experience to being in New York. New York is a fabulous city, no question, but it's relentless. There's no let up of the energy, the solid barriers of building blocking out all sky, the furious pace of automobile and pedestrian. Here, rows of pretty six story buildings with their balconies admit lots of sky, and there's a more moderate pace even in the heart of the city. It's just more human here. Not as edgy, God no, not as on top of things, not as trendy, open, daring, surprising, challenging, fun, free.

But beautiful and human, with the best strawberries.