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
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
you never forget
living inside
the ancient ramparts
built by popes fleeing
fourteenth century
seven exiled themselves
to hold onto power
to run Roman Christendom
from tiny
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
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
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
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
together again
after 5 months apart
meeting in Marseille
overwhelming
the sultry ambience
affecting
40 hours in transit
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
me
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
Pamela Sidney (approx 1991)
