the house where i was born - one

hey readers! it's saturday. it's going to be a rainy one around where i live. rainy days are days that make me wriggle with the pleasure of quiet indoor stuff like reading, cleaning, movie watching, reading, writing blogs, reading blogs, watching the rain, walking out in the rain, standing in the garage and watching it come down. rain rarely ever gets me down. i thank my birthplace (manchester, england) for that because in manchester it rains more than it shines so you need to get used to it, or even better - to find ways to like it.

yesterday i shared a little rave about yves bonnefoy and i have a really long poem of his that i want to share. so at the expense of my reader's sanity and maybe even your happiness i'm going to tell you that today is the first installment of a five part series featuring the poetry of yves bonnefoy. i think i'll be adding extra posts just to keep my guilt at this excess at a minimum. we'll see what shows up. it's just such a wickedgood piece of writing that i have to share it.

it's called "the house where i was born"

george bellows. an island in the sea. 1911

i woke up, it was the house where i was born,
sea foam splashed against the rock,
not a single bird, only the wind to open and close the wave,
everywhere on the horizon the smell of ashes,
as if the hills were hiding a fire
that somewhere else was burning up a universe.
i went onto the veranda, the table was set,
the water knocked against the legs of the table, the sideboard.
and yet she had to come in, the faceless one,
the one i knew was shaking the door
in the hall, near the darkened staircase, but in vain,
so high had the water already risen in the room.
i took the handle, it was hard to turn,
i could almost hear the noises of the other shore,
the laughter of the children playing in the tall grass,
the games of the others, always the others, in their joy.

michelle flores "girl in water"

i woke up, it was the house where i was born.
it was raining softly in all the rooms,
i went from one to another, looking at
the water that shone on the mirrors
piled up everywhere, some broken or even
pushed between the furniture and the walls.
it was from these reflections that sometimes a face
would emerge, laughing, of a gentleness
that was different from what the world is.
and, with a hesitant hand, i touched in the image
the tossled hair of the goddess,
beneath the veil of the water
i could see the sad, distracted face of a little girl.
bewilderment between being and not being,
hand that is reluctant to touch the mist,
then i listened as the laughter faded away
in the halls of the empty house.
here nothing but forever the gift of the dream,
the outstretched hand that does not cross
the fast flowing water where memories vanish.

yves bonnefoy