Nos jeunesses avec Monsieur Snoopy


C'était le noble fils d'Isky
Yorkshire au caractère vif
Betty l'avait eu en cadeau
De Ginou, comme un joyau.
Dans ses jeunes ans, vêtu
d'un pelage noir et boucle.
Il semblait une variété
d'écureuil plutôt qu'un chien
Mais sa passion était de jouer
Et de mordiller aussi .
Mais ce chiot était déjà
Un jeune combattant téméraire.


Venu avec nous a Lille
Il apprit a courir les pigeons du Beffroi.
L'été prenant le cargo avec nous pour la Corse,
Il débarquait aphone ayant aboyé toute la nuit.
Dans l'île, ce chien anglais se portait comme un charme,
et se jouait des ronces du maquis.
Il dégotta même une ruche sauvage d'abeilles près du ruisseau le "Fiume".


Mais de caractère dominant
Et n'ayant pas appris les mœurs de la meurtre,
Il refusa la soumission au dogue de "Zeze"; "Fakir",
qui le prit dans sa gueule et le fit tournoyer sous la camionnette du boucher ambulant.
Il en fut quitte pour quelques jours de peur panique,
Puis ne manqua point de frétiller de sa queue pour saluer le chef de meute selon la coutume des chiens.


Rentrés a Lille, je vis un film de Claude Lelouch,
Ou un restaurateur avait entraîné un coq a saluer les clients,
Aussitôt, je m'efforcais de renouveler l'exploit avec Snoopy juche sur mon épaule ou l'appui tête de notre Fiat.
Mais ce chien indépendant et fougueux ne voulut rien entendre.
Las et envolées les idées de montreur de chien savant.


Le chien Snoopy n'aimait guère l'eau, ni douce, ni salée,
mais une fois plonge dans les flots,
de ses pattes il se faisait des nageoires pour rejoindre sa maîtresse se baignant dans les flots.


Âgé  de seize ans, la grande vieillesse venue,
dont le malheur veut qu'elle marque le cadrant de cinq fractions de vies d'hommes,
Une année fatidique le désormais vieux chien fut gardée à  Luchon par mes parents pour lui éviter le chenil du cargo,
Aussi un soir attablés au restaurant "La Stonda" nous apprimes l'affligeante nouvelle,
Le vivace Snoopy n'était plus, Je nous revois encore les yeux baignés de larmes comme si nous avions perdu, la meilleure partie de notre jeune âge.
Car il fut le premier chien de notre âge adulte,
Notre fille Celia mêla ses pleurs aux nôtres,
et cette nouvelle pourtant bien prévisible apporta une touche de chagrin à ce mois d'août d'ordinaire, si plein de Lumière et de soleil.

Nous avions perdu notre premier chien et notre grand ami de ceux qui ne vous trahit jamais.
Snoopy fut pour nous notre premier amour de chien.
Solide cabot au poil argenté, aux oreilles en pointe dressées au moindre bruit.
Il accompagna nos jeunes années de couple, alors sans enfant,
et enjolivait notre vie par sa fantaisie et ses facéties.
Joli descendant des chiens de mineur du Yorkshire, il sut nous donner pour toute notre vie l'amour des chiens anglais.

Paul Arrighi

I'm from the land of candy, which is as rare as gold.

I'm from the land where fruits are our desserts and rice is a must.

I'm from the land where cheese is a treat and milk is banned.

I'm from the land where determination is my Parliament Building,

The Library is my City Hall,

Technology is my Plaza,

And Music is my Town Square.

I'm from the land where Math is our School,

Lucy Maud Montgomery is our teacher,

And Creativity are our Artists.

I'm from the land of pine-smelling air and strokes of sunburn.

Where laughter is heard at every corner.

I'm from the land of a Dominating Dad and a Mature Mom.

I'm from the land of a Busy Brother whom is somewhat caring.

I'm from the land which changes constantly,

Hot and Cold,

And is always forgetful.

I'm from the land where Pheonix Wright is our King and Meg Cabot is our Princess.

I'm from the land where friends are our special jewels,

And family is priceless.

I'm from the land where my valuables are my memories

And I'm still collecting them.

When I was 8 years old, my second favorite place in the whole world was the Campbell Public Library. I liked to go in by myself because I was treated like a grown-up even though I wasn’t. I would walk into the fiction section, walking up and down each of the aisles and stopping to look at anything that caught my eye. If I couldn’t find a particular book I wanted, I would use the library computer to look it up and if I couldn’t reach something that looked interesting I would get a chair to stand on top of. I would carry a towering stack of books by authors like Judy Blume and Meg Cabot to the checkout counter, feeling very adult as I used my very own library card and successfully held a polite conversation with the librarian and told her yes, I would like a receipt please because I liked how the due date for my books was written on it. I found my mom parked in her Mercedes Benz convertible that cost far less than she wanted people to think and we would drive back to our house with her desperately trying to fill the five minutes with the sort of conversation that is normal for a mother and her daughter, except unlike most normal mothers and daughters, her understanding of me as a human being went as far as my name, age, and that I was full of wasted potential even as a third grader. She liked to say, “The apple don’t fall too far from the tree,” but I could tell she was disappointed. Every time we were about to pull into the driveway, I would unbuckle my seatbelt in eagerness to escape into the half-dozen books on my lap and every time without fail my mother would ask me where the fire was. It was a stupid expression and I resented it a little more every time I heard her say it. My first favorite place in the whole world awaited me in my bedroom, a snug corner on top of my dresser where I always kept some blankets and pillows for the hours I would spend up there post-library visit. It was a tight space, perhaps a little bit precarious, but it was quiet and it was safe and whenever my mom would come in to check on me (every few hours or so), she wouldn’t know where I was. You would think that after spending the majority of my time on this specific spot on top of my dresser, she would one day figure out that if she doesn’t immediately see me that I would be there like I am every other time she entered my room. But like most things, she ignored what she observed and I could not find it in me to be amused at her ditzy incompetence. Directly across from my dresser was a window with a view of an aspen tree, frequently inhabited by birds who would sit on the birdfeeder that I made a point to fill every few days and squirrels who would scurry up and down the trunk, occasionally pausing to look curiously at me. I liked sitting on top of my dresser and watching them because if you stared for long enough, one of the squirrels would do something really funny like stand on its hind legs to eat from the bird feeder. When something like this would happen, I would call for my mom so she could watch with me but she looked at what I was looking at wrong and didn’t understand. Sometimes if I watched for too long, I would start thinking about things that weren’t birds or squirrels or aspen trees or Judy Blume books. Sometimes if I watched for too long, I would get really sad because it was a Saturday that I should be spending with my dad, whose understanding of me as a human being went much farther than my name, age, and the false idea that I was full of wasted potential even as a third grader. If my dad walked into my room, the first place he would look would be on top of my dresser. He wouldn’t ask me what I was reading or if I was hungry or if I would come out and be social; he would watch the birds and the squirrels with me and he would understand.

All the way past Westminster
the Thames breathes rain & clouds

                                                         ­                     & the grim reaper beckons
                                                         ­                        in the iron vein moonlight
& I, I,
an I is an Eye
                                                             ­                  open wide a thousand times
                                                           ­                   & the grim reaper beckoning
Basho & the Dalai lama
might help me find
                                                            ­                                 the restless gambler,
                                                        ­                                            cards in hand
or escape the ships
that never sail past the horizon,

                                                       ­                                                     tribunals
  ­                                                                 ­                            & looking out now
from Cabot tower now past Bristol & beyond
a homeless man sits waiting
                                                         ­                                                     paper cup
                                                             ­                                            & styrofoam
& Clocks do not
tell the time

                                                           ­                              they are merely told it
                                                              ­                  yet in their vanity proclaim that they alone are it's keepers
& our only friend & Nemesis

A wet dog's fetchingly damp like Charles Sebastian Thomas Cabot
chasing after one oily, grimy, filthy, cruddy, covered-in-mud rabbit
that's comical like “Little Christ” Costello and Billy “Bud” Abbott
after dealing with William Blythe Clinton Rockefeller's stud habit

A wet dog's fetchingly damp like Charles Sebastian Thomas Cabot, chasing after 1 greasy, grimy, filthy, cruddy, covered-in-mud rabbit
that is comical like “Little Christ” Costello and Billy “Bud” Abbott
after thrillin' to big William Blythe Clinton Rockefeller's stud habit

as a snowflake
falling from the sky
soft as the wings
on a butterfly

soft as the leaves
on a weeping willow
the fluffy goose down
stuffed inside my pillow

soft as the hair
on a rabbit
as the velvet wine
in a bottle of Cabot

soft until
it poured down buckets
the clouds above
caused a ruckus

then I hardened
as my world darkened
hard as a wooden broomstick
even harder than a ton of bricks

I'll not catch the raindrops
running off my rooftop
they froze into icicles
pointy, jabbing rising hills

Sebastian Cabot in a hostel oh God, with Abbott & Costello so odd
52 weeks before mad Abbott & Costello had inhabited hostile Ohio
This unclasped brassiere dignifies my teen years feeding lean steers
on shipped tortilla or corn chips, soaked soggy aboard sunken ships
where liver-dead dipsomaniacs on flat sea planes plot drunken trips
to Oriental ports of trade for the Sinocentrical chore of bunkin' nips

Sebastian Cabot in a hostel oh God, with Abbott & Costello so odd
52 weeks before mad Abbott & Costello had inhabited hostile Ohio
This unclasped brassiere dignifies my teen years feeding lean steers
on shipped tortilla or corn chips, soaked soggy aboard sunken ships
where liver-dead dipsomaniacs on flat sea planes plot drunken trips

I've been described as beautiful by people with poor vision. My voice is melodic to the profoundly deaf. My youthfulness has been noted by folks in their 90's. [№ 9 : Hillary is ****. Bill likes 'em ****.] Throw away your new, expensive lawn mower and use scissors to achieve that manicured lawn that will have your neighbors collapsing into convulsive, conniption fits of envy.

Sebastian Cabot in a hostel oh God, with Abbott & Costello so odd
52 weeks before mad Abbott & Costello had inhabited hostile Ohio
This unclasped brassiere dignifies my teen years feeding lean steers
on shipped tortilla or corn chips, soaked soggy aboard sunken ships

Sebastian Cabot in a hostel oh God, with Abbott & Costello so odd
52 weeks before mad Abbott & Costello had inhabited hostile Ohio
This unclasped brassiere dignifies my teen years feeding lean steers
I changed your name as a dodge for espionage with each slight tick,
when squattin' over a bucket in the morning when the cows are sick