FRANCE POEMS ONE by MELBOURNE POET PAMELA SIDNEY

2008-07-29T00:50:00.001+10:00

Avignon

Summer mornings

shrill bicycle bells

hustle and bustle

intrude through

the dark green

louvered shutters

distant sounds

from town centre

filter incessant

car horns relentless

patience no virtue

in deep south France

greetings ring out

'bon jours, salut, ca va' ?

this language to my ears is sung

if ever I am to learn it

it will be by heart -

like a song

we are upstairs first landing

above a narrow street

they don't ring doorbells here

too many stairs for a brief hello

just call up to the open shutters

ring a bicycle bell, if all else fails

throw a pebble

this spontaneous flow

noisy anarchy

could not contrast more

with the slow motion

courteous, slightly dour

London I've just left

Avignon's a walled city

you never forget

living inside

the ancient ramparts

built by popes fleeing

fourteenth century Vatican

seven exiled themselves

to hold onto power

to run Roman Christendom

from tiny Avignon

in the shadow of the old world

fortified walls you confide

'when I take my daily walk

it's always in circles

determined by the walls

local police (as they move you on -

suspecting you're loitering)

say' 'circulate, merci, circulate'

when you confess

"I circumnambulate daily'

I chuckle at the thought

of your daily circular plodding

in the manner of the amiable

chinese astrology horse you are

near le Gare d' Avignon

a gypsy woman approaches

selling posies of dried flowers

with her sister, so very pagan

against this backdrop

of religiosity she incants

'cross my palms with silver

know your future'

taking in the massive fort

of a palace, mediaeval

dark stone and mortar

transfixes me so deep

I know intuitively

the lecherous deeds

of those evil old popes

their plotting, scheming

planning of wars, of torture

the burning of the innocents

such grand scale of everything

such immensity

but the grandeur does not

overwhelm completely

nothing can cause me to forget

what has been done down the ages

in the name of sacredness

absorbing this culture

with all it's history

it's triumph and pain

almost too much to take in

so many levels of being

not of the cerebral mind

in the tradition of bards and buskers

we unpack our guitars and sing

on the steps of the Palace of the Popes

nothing unusual

Europe quite comfortable

with the spectacle does not differentiate

between the noble roaming professions

to have been part of the ancient tradition -

a travelling bard - this calling to sing

to shout loud like a Celt on the spot

where my cousin Gauls were massacred

for observing a nature spirituality

to be singing here is to win a kind of war

a victory to say I survived you Caesar

this Celt, her ancestors, fellow Celts

escaped somehow your murderous net

we are still here living loving

fighting our battles, singing

writing poetry and I give thanks

to the ancient ones that Caesar

did not kill all of us

In the Steps of Gypsies and Popes

The main boulevarde

is lined with large-leaved Plane trees

knarled trunks companion coffee drinkers

seated at small tables under bright umbrellas

southern sun filters through shivering leaves

throwing patterns on the ground

where scrawny sparrows

pick for crumbs

a street-dusty gypsy woman approaches

insisting we buy wild-flower posies

to support her family

part-pagan, part convert

to Roman dogma Christianity

out of necesssity, she is now safe

from a burning at the stake

she is free to live in poverty

waiters glide and swoop arrogantly

elegantly even in the cheapest bar

they tower condescendingly

knowing the pale-skinned foreigners

do not speak French well

the waiters who learnt English at school

but choose not to use it out of whim

or mood or just gallic spleen

aging Mediterranean men

with parched hands, sun-lined faces

play Boule under wide trees

gravel crunching underfoot they crouch

tracing the trajectory of the heavy black ball

a festival has come to Avignon today

from the Camargue -

the swamp-lands to the south

haughty men reminiscent of Spanish nobility

ride stocky tightly reigned impatient horses

alongside of vibrant dancing women

dressed in 'old world' intricate lace

and musicians playing folk-songs

of the region

as if by magic children suddenly appear

from the narrow alleyways

to watch the parade

the city centre instantly has focus

homeless nomads arrive

with bagettes and flagons of wine

scruffy long-haired travellers

shuffle in tiredly packs on back

Alsation at heel along

with dark skinned gypsies

from Portugal or Spain

wearing shiny, worn

smartly tailored jackets

straggling up the street

these people the locals abhor

they have no money to spend in the city

some beg for yesterday's bread

at less pretentious boulangeries

others scrounge in market bins

for left-over greens

at a nearby grocery they pay

twenty centimes a litre

for a gut-rotting red wine

no one else will buy

some try busking

'til quickly moved on

by 'le flick' -

the hawke-eyed gendarmery

this raggle taggle tribe seem destined

to remain impoverished

pass time bemoaning

'their fate' and the 'system'

that has them locked in

to this way of life

they are wearing bohemian rags

clothing that knows no culture

yet has links with all

some manage

flowing theatrical

classical saris

rustic peasant

gothic velvet

others show off

their rakish

satin waistcoats

tight black trousers

extended needle-point shoes

as always the long grey overcoats

usually worn by derelicts,

and alienated intellectuals

who occasionally add a long

swashbuckling white-fringed scarf

they all share the abandon

the hedonism of dreamers

that poverty has not yet turned sour

and the need to be with tribe and kin

the coffee machines work at full pressure

waiters run, patrons call 'garcon'

cafe owner scrutinizes

with perceptive eye

for slackness of staff

summer season brings big money

each waiter knows he must

move or be sacked

one waiter, heavily intoxicated

weaves his way in and out

of a mass of tables

opens a bottle of wine

with one hand

the bottle clamped

between his knees

while balancing a heavy tray

full of food in the other

tourists watch in awe

he does not stumble or fumble

only his eyes give him away

superb in control

waiting's all he knows

all he has ever done he follows the sun

when the season finishes

he'll move down south like a gypsy

to the festival of Cannes

or Monaco's Grand Prix

or to serve the sun-naked wealthy

on the beaches of Nice

the cafe owner knows his waiter

drinks all day and all night

he knows well too this man brings in

more money than any other

to keep him mobile

he'll ply him with drink

will re-hire him each season

only until his speed diminishes

this is France, control and decorum

of the physical body, elegance

and manners deeply ingrained

unconcious, perhaps innate

apart from the bedroom

everything revolves

around food and drink

tips mandatory

a percentage of the bill

plus a little left on the plate

double-tipping

the hippies, gypsies, German travellers

dogs, children, assorted petty crims

derelicts, and small-time upper-class

English musicians dressed down

for European travelling

reconnoitre

under a large Plane tree

directly in front of the Town Hall

much to the Mayor's disgust

the locals appear not to notice

but they miss nothing

besides this happens

every summer festival

the scruffy ones

who come for anything free colour

continual movement, world music

travelling accoustic bands

northern rock and roll stars

down south for sun and sex

international film directors

rubbing shoulders with famous actors

street theatre, hustlers, restaurant buskers

the ragged earthy artists and the scruffy ones

who share unspoken kindred spirit

counter-culture nomadic outcasts

sit on benches, sprawl on the dusty ground

discuss the possibility for anything

how to get money

the best place to sleep

lucrative busking pitches

which section of town

one might score hashish

this band of anarchistic star-gazers

and vagabonds settle down

in the afternoon sun

to doze, to strum guitars

it is siesta time in the south of France

everything slows down

to sleep a little

The Breton Girl

There was no clue

no hint of change

I wasn't looking

just excited to see you

to be on the bus to Avignon

together again

after 5 months apart

meeting in Marseille

overwhelming

the sultry ambience

affecting

40 hours in transit

Australia, Paris, Marseille

in no state to pick up

subtle influences

the apartment, rented

in the old part of town

perfect, overlooking

a busy lane, no cars

just crowded with loud people

dogs, cats, ubiquitous bicycles

and the local medium

two doors up, her brass plaque

announcing exceptional

clairvoyante powers

the large room all things

kitchen, sitting, bedroom

raffia-bare, sunny-south

on the radio an old tune

"oh, oh, oh, you're

slipping away from me

aaaan' it's breakin' me in two

watchin' you slippin' away aaaay"

not until bedtime was I hit

an invisible energy

you held me differently

suddenly sobbing

not knowing why

huge wracking, choking

in-breaths, heaving in shock

wondering what was happening

felt hit, I could feel between us

a woman's presence in the bed

tactful, concerned, you said

" you're very sensitive, the journey's

been too much for you"

I said the obvious

"another woman's been here"

"no, no, no", you said

"my friend Francois's been here too

he brought some women back -

that's what you're picking up"

I didn't challenge, left it at that

walking down the street

a week or two later, you took

sudden, almost frantic efforts

to avoid meeting a young woman

up ahead, waist-length red hair

pale freckled skin, younger than me

slightly chubby - French Breton

you dragged me down a side street

by the arm, almost running

to avoid meeting her

kaleidoscope of emotion

suspicious, angry

a little jealous

before even thought, words

escaped from my mouth

"she's not very pretty"

you replied

with cool

unconcerned

Aquarian detachment

"no, she isn't"

Pamela Sidney (approx 1991)

2008-07-28T02:04:00.002+10:00

Deja-vu a’ Montmartre

(an experience of deja-vu in Paris)

You whisked me too quickly

down the cobbled streets

old apartments

iron-lace balconies

facades jutting out

‘the artist’s quarter’ you said

‘Montmartre’

to you who grew up here

homely clutter

my new-world eyes

gulped at your old-world

fret-worked spirals

could not get enough

empathy of heart

you took me to Place du Tertre

in the shadow of Sacre Coeur

corner café, small table

looking out on a vista

of easels and daubed canvas

when the eclipse occurred

perspective slipped, a time shift

old eyes eclipsed new eyes

focussed a lens on a scene

so familiar, it was clear

my whole life spent here

in this gas-yellow café’

reflecting faces

blurring gold

in smoky mirrors

the aroma of absinthe

strong coffee, croissant

those ‘morning after’
red-eyed rituals

and lingering still

the nightly smell of paint

still wet on artist’s smocks

the dancer’s top-knots

twists of red, swirling silk

lace petticoats and breasts

still heaving, sweating

their last frenetic finale

leaving on the air faint

perfumed powder

rose, lavender, old tobacco

sate the senses

in one breath knowing

I’d walked back a century

to meet myself in another shell

so in this present I sit

blue jeans embroidered

flowers, symbols

long hair patchouli’d

waist-coated paisley

and my eyes eclipsing

plunging me back

to a strange culture

an old city’s odour and hue

glimpsing my place

in this teetering world

of saw-dust vagrants

vain mirrors of their idol

Bacchus chalking up

debts rebellious

a sketch for a meal

at the local café’

my second home

the artist’s quarter -

Montmartre

Pamela Sidney (approx 2002)

2004-11-26T21:03:00.029+11:00

Marseille

"Meet me in Marseille" I shout down the phone
"I'll fly from Paris, we'll bus it to Avignon"

"Meet me in Marseille -
now there's a good title for a song!"

The Marseille air curls around me
like a welcoming lover
curls it's layers of language
culture deep into me
skin, blood, head, heart
under some kind of bewitchment
this sultry, brooding melting-pot
of a meeting place
with it's perfumes of incense
myrrh from Africa
frankincense from Arabia
invading, making me giddy, melancholy

this infamous old sea-port
with it's breezes in from Barcelona
boats full of oranges from Valencia
a little further south, it's Algiers, and I'm back
into a morass of memory

no more Pythagoras, his sacred numbers
adoring followers, wandering penniless

no more the dusty market-sellers
caravans bold and tawdry, trundling in
magnetic compass point - home

no more the raggidy urchins breathless
open-mouthed Carravaggio boys
TV has them now in it's thrall
rebocs, rap, baseball cap

no more the splendid dying Gauls
wearing only a golden torque
expiring on their precious soil
withering under the savage thrust
of Caesar's murderous glance

no more the Magdalene
escaping the wrath of the holy land
cast out in a tiny boat, drifting in
to Marseille's shore threadbare
in fragile bare-foot radiance
to tread a penitent path
to exist holy in a lonely cave
honouring the bloodline
of a martyr resonating still
like cannons in the ether

no more the camel trains
travellers 'n tricksters
flooding in to this fickle city
faithful to no one
except a thunderous
ever-changing living moment

"Aah, it's just a place
of cut-throats and bandits"
you say, nonchalant
no concept of the impact
reeling in on me
this foreign country
not of my tongue
mysterious steps leading us up
to a restaurant on a hill -
so casual, yet so very particular

I'm learning you France
learning you like a lover bit by bit
building slowly - a Bach fugue
unfolding pleasure
sacred landscape to be explored
this night is heaven
yet what's this weight I feel
surely the burden of all history
gone before

this ancient holy city -
I usually manage to skirt around
religion's tight entanglements
yet here I am, embedded
enmeshed in this very catholic place
feeling memories I've never lived
emotions I've never owned before

your amber lights glimmer slow
sensual, air so thick with atmosphere
I scarcely breathe so not to break the spell -
will you unfold, bend for me
tell me your secrets before I leave ?

On the bus to Avignon you inform me
"I've arranged a gig
you're singing tomorrow night -
small village, concert
just outside Avignon

next day is spent in a combi-van
pillaging the still village streets
haranguing locals
through loud-speakers
"Come to the concert tonight"
but the spruiking's all in gallic tongue
and colloquial
I don't understand a thing

the concert, open air, small arena -
fit for french gods
whomever they may be -
is packed with people.

The MC announces in franglais
"La chanteuse, Pamela
all ze way from Australie
to sing pour vous"

I finish my set
with 'Diamonds and Rust'
someone shouts
"We love you"
I shout back
'et moi aussi, au revoir'

and I, feel glad, to exist
on this small spinning friendly planet
tonight, enveloped in love
the village, the people, and you

Pamela Sidney 2002

2004-11-25T22:33:00.012+11:00

Provence

Out of Avignon on the way to Nimes
you handed me a ripe peach
plucked from a tree
at the side of the road

"And what of the farmer?" I said
your answer came swift -
a whiff of revolution May '68
infused with a cool noblesse oblige
"It's OK, travellers and tramps
hold a share of the harvest
consider it their inalienable right"

I was unready for your heady brew
your artist palette of purple hues
fields of lavender, sage, thyme
your fragrant nectar spun my senses
stunned and stilled me

we cycle by vineyards, small farms
fences covered in morning glory
honeysuckle on walls and porticos
tea roses tumbling from terracotta pots

in the heat of midi we pause to share
citronade glacee` avec madeleine
ice-cubes tinkle against glass
diamond bright, insect hum
cicada drone - I m taken
filled in your sun

we ride beneath towering trees
a conspiracy of green
open-air cathedrals
woven leaves
enmeshed web tight
blotting out the immensity
of blue still beckoning
in the distance
sure as a promise

the river meanders lazy into Nimes
under the Roman aqueduct -
giant, still casting
shadows from dark days
the earth does not forget
the once blood-soaked fields of Gaul

I stand in awe, mind reeling
feeling empathy for my French kin
I am back inside those fear-filled days
of smoke and pain
feeling the ghost of Caesar's cold slaughter
cutting a swathe through May Day joy
his war machine proficient
prophetic, as if preparing the way
for the all pervading
unrelenting Christ religion

then the burning of the heretics -
herb-women, Cathars, Albigensians
(I was surely there when a dissolute pope
decreed whole villages razed)
massacred for a belief -
divinity of trees
all submerged now, pressed deep
into earth's layered stratum
almost forgotten
beneath the weight -
invasion after invasion

locals sunbathe, flirt by the river
fraternise, obsess in mirrors
bikini narcisse
pagan times not on their minds
(oblivious to my
history-tripping euphoria)
everyday scenery too familiar
their icon of an aqueduct
almost unseen
along with it's meaning

by La Gardon's rocky banks we lie
insignificant beneath the icon
drowsy in warm siesta sun
my pale celt skin turns honey-gold
one summer in Provence
I am, in love

Pamela Sidney 2002