Tuesday, October 3, 2017

James Walton #76 Couleurs D'Arles




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.



6 comments:

  1. the deadliest of all abstractions

    ReplyDelete

  2. DISAFFECTION
    (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

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Ah that mistral across the Carmargue, if I offended you, i remain disaffectedly yours!

      Delete
  3. This poem has made my day, James...laugh! Cheers.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Great stuff James!

    ReplyDelete

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