“La poésie, c’est la frontière de la lucidité, de la folie. Pour exsuder des vrais problèmes, il faut les poètes, l’évolution, et surtout la folie.” –Frankétienne
I was listening to the French news a few weeks ago, as I try to do every day now that I’m studying for the Delf B2, and they did an amazing segment on a Haitian culture exhibit in Paris, including an interview with Frankétienne. In it, he said the line above, roughly translated: Poetry, it’s the border of lucidity, of madness. To release/free real problems, there must be poets, evolution, and especially madness.
Here’s a recent draft of one I wrote 15minutes the other night between dinner and doing the dishes. Poet friends, send comments. I’m trying to pick up my pen again. Because the real problems, they deserve a poet.
Conversations with a muse.
Pick-up four square, the children on the pavement with the melting snow.
Juan, Juan, the ball. Madison the small sixth grader. Natalie. They’re laughing,
and our winter was austere so I’m watching them feel the dusk and March spring.
This was the part of my life I forgot, so I’m remembering it for them.
Adults know about steel, solar flares, cauliflower, she says, points her knife at me
in the kitchen. We can talk about ironless blood. There are causes, events. Malaria, she says.
Children are small, brains unformed; the world we know they can’t fathom.
Still no one understands why we die, she qualifies. Adults even.
You forget what that fear feels like in the dark when the little one wakes crying.
The nightmare has depth, so she sobs into the quilt against me and my calm, grown heart
until I have no fears but hers and even though she doesn’t understand how cauliflower grows,
she seems wiser than me, afraid of the dark.
The child says, I know what it’s like to be careless, and I am certain the world I imagine is real.
I want to make the world I imagine and everything I forgot exist again,
so I can watch the children, give everything to dream they won’t grow up to be like us,
where we do nothing, saying the children don’t understand or else they would forgive us.