"madeleines" poems
Les nèfles de Kabylie
Il est des souvenirs d’enfance qui dominent longtemps l’esprit et ont des goûts de saveurs douces telles les madeleines de Proust.
Pour moi qui suis né à Bougie Ce sont les nèfles de Kabylie.
C’était en mai soit en juin que ces fruits blonds arrivaient sur la table de formica dans des couffins tressés de paille,
comme le signe d’un printemps qui bientôt deviendrait fournaise mais vibrionnant de Soleil.
Il fallait enlever la peau et en séparer les noyaux qui me faisaient penser à des billes Mais leur chair était succulente avec des zestes de vanille. et de bonbons acidulés.
J’avais huit ans, c’était la guerre !
Mais quand les nèfles arrivaient, j’oubliais les soucis des «grands» pour goûter à la chair des nèfles, jouer aux billes avec leurs noyaux.
C’est ainsi que parmi les drames, le regard de l’enfance est lointain.
Car la mort leur reste chimère. bien moins réelle que les jeux et les fruits dorés, bref privilège de l’enfance.
Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi)
Toulouse- février 2014.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
the way the sunlight comes in through the kitchen window
is my favorite shade of yellow
i saw it when mémé sat me in her sink
and we ate raspberries
i shoved them on the tips of my fingers
and stained them red for a week
i could catch the yellow in my hand
i saw it when mémé shook her head
because tes madeleines sont pas assez cuit
and i rolled my eyes and assured her
i was not going to be a housewife anyway
i could feel it warm my arm
i saw it when mémé giggled
as she snuck me a bottle of wine
i cut my hand trying to open it
and hid it in a shoebox under my bed
i could feel the glimmer on my cheek
i saw it when mémé cried
as she held my chin in her hand
she said being fearless and daring are a bad mix
and it also runs in the family
and i could feel the rays reach across my collar
i see it when i think of mémé
i am no housewife
i struggle open a bottle of wine
and i have a bad mix of hereditary characteristics
mes madeleines sont toujours pas assez cuit
i can catch the yellow in my hand
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC
i've become old...
i can tell by
1) the seasons, growing shorter
trees these days seem to be in such a hurry to
shake their leaves off
2) the growing number of people that are gone
by the time you come back with tea and
madeleines
...
wherever the days went
that's where they took my friends, too
they've all gone in search for
Bigger & Better
(although i can't imagine what could be
Better than my tea)
they've all gone in light of
promises
"she promised to live with me..."
"i promised myself that one day..."
"the future is promising..."
"more promising than here..."
me,
i stopped believing in these promises
last Sunday when i overheard the neighborhood tarot
sobbing in the Confession booth:
"Father, that's when I realized that
the only promise in this world
is the present"
...
i find promise in
smaller promises,
such as
1) a good chance of rain this afternoon
2) your alarm has been set to 7 AM
3) see you tomorrow
...
people don't remember what they ate for breakfast,
while they remember the life they have yet to live
and so
i stopped remembering
...
i only hope that when tomorrow comes the
view outside my window will not change
and what that view means to me
will not change, as well
the city will still light up all the night with its strange fire
and the people will still be in love with powerwalking
...
in truth
i live in this state of constant fear:
when i turn away, the city will cease
(like dream machines)
if i blink too hard,
this all might just become a line
from some book i think
i read sometime in
grade school
(which name i can't recall)
if i were to move away
would it all wait for me?
do i really love this?
or am i just afraid of losing it?
and while i wonder,
i don't dare take my eyes off of
the view outside my window
...
you say that life is loving and leaving
again and again,
then i'm not interested in life
what's so beautiful about broken hearts?
...
if happiness for me
is 2nd paragraph on page 149,
let me be an inkblot
in time, forever still
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 2:42 AM UTC
If she could have got
inside her head, Nadya
thinks, she is sure, her
mind can expand like an
inner universe. The thoughts
moving around like lost
planets, clusters of stars,
images, words, faces, actions
remembered. If she could
just put her hand into a
hidden orifice and reach
into her brain and sort
amongst the galaxies of
ideas she could be brighter,
braver, wiser, and there
clinging to certain ideas
associations like Proust’s
madeleines would be old
loves, broken heart moments,
melodies from favourite songs.
Josef has told her to leave
off the ***** to put away
the bottles, drink water, tea
or whatever. But he does
not satisfy. His love making
is a joke, all push and poke.
Sometimes she thinks her
thoughts come out of her
head and dance. Time for
another drink. She thinks
of Paris. Summers past,
spring walks. Josef’s endless
chatter breaks in; those all
too intellectual boring talks.
She imagines him as another,
pretends some young Russian
overeager tends to her, embraces
her body, kisses each inch of her
flesh, pleasure giving. No more of
this boring life, more of that wild,
touching the new, exploring *** living.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 4:22 AM UTC
Looking for your Green Card
Mayhap Mayhem
Don't lose it now...
But you're the kindaguy
One finds (with)
A tiny piece a recipe
Folded up in his wallet
For
Madeleines
Sugar Butter Cookies
While in the islands
Alone among the ties
Bind me then
By invisibility
To now then: some kinda
Some Offworld alien celebrity
From some far off
Land
Made of money
Pots of honey gold
Over there
Out there
The other side of the rainbow
A milk box
Para'Illusion
Half delusion
Unaware
Don't lose it now
That pink card
"Permanent alien resident"
With A Madeleines Cookies recipe
In your wallet's
Back pocket
Mayhap maybe
It should be easy
To make.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 3:27 AM UTC