Fabrice Poussin

Cinq Poésies

 

 

No sympathy, no condolences

 

Her mama went on to better things this morning they say

We knew her well, we liked her so, alone as she was

But she was gone long before far too young they hastily add.

 

Now here we are, standing by the gaping ground

Starving for the remains of a daughterless mother

Hungry only for the eternities it will still allow.

 

Lovely though in the somber color of the last rites

Touching through the gentle fabric she wears so well

Fighting a droplet of the newborn rain perhaps her soul’s.

 

Her life permeates to awaken the sleepiness of my bones

Her finger locked in hopes of a warmer alcove

Contemplating the others, lost in the same moment.

 

No one left for condolences, no ear to hear our sympathy

Absent smiles unable to find a birth on the weary lips

And soon a grave filled atop the memories of two forgotten girls.  

 

 

Riches

 

Misty is the air for a morning stroll;

in a long coat, he can dissimulate

a truth.

 

The dew of its infinite mirrors speaks

to the gaze insatiable, of many visions,

unforgiven, by an early summer light.

 

It is late in a young morning to him alone;

other lives barely awaken, he has not

yet shut his eyes.

 

The stance is weary, the pace uncertain,

the body shakes, fighting to survive, just

one more moment.

 

Feeding in misery, the bones sing in

sorrow, cold of a frigid August heat.

 

Trees murmur a last plea to the dying,

one releases a drop of sympathy upon

him.

 

It ventures fast to find a soft place to tickle,

to trigger a giggle, but it finds only

the land occupied.

 

A single drop no longer, on the used face,

destitute, the broken hearted is a man

wealthy indeed, of great many sorrows

and a tear.  

 

 

Summer rite

 

Little boy had grown a bit, not much to be fair,

yet enough to grab at another dream,

reaching the reigns of the steel horses.

 

Inches away, a few more grades and the magic age;

time to take to the road, at the wheel like the old man;

pride, at twenty miles per hour, on the narrow country road.

 

To the old chapel, site of first communions, many a misdeed,

and fields gorged with the stream waters of summer;

kingdom of frogs, toads, rabbits, and fearful snakelike fish.

 

The old barn, refuge of the mooing ladies full of charm,

and a favorite for the manly picnic for father and son;

cool, readied for the break after the bumpy ride.

 

The weaved creation full of treasures revealed,

simple, made of that bond cherished of generations;

strength before the afternoon lesson of hard knocks.

 

Few words, and the unsolicited moo, as the rugged

hands pull out the sweets of the cherries, the bottle

running with dew, eggs yet to be shelled, and the bread.

 

complete with meat and cheese, and smiles;

revered repast with a chuckle, and a sigh of joy;

the moment is shared for eternity, before a first nap.

 

 

 

They put it in a box

 

They put it in a box and said good-bye

Those bipeds in white gowns almost angels

Hovering inside the walls of a faded green hue.

 

Joe, his mother called him and so he remained

Until the hands on the clock changed to mush

Hesitant between the classroom and the morrow.

 

And he sang for no reason at all in a strange tongue

And laughed just because it was gleeful to do so

Always late against the steep curve of the hill.

 

Glad was Joe just to be with those odd youngsters

Across from the gentle soul of a red-headed maiden

She too looking at the oblong cask of the old schoolboy.

 

Something just did not work anymore inside the prison

It was time to go home albeit a little too soon

For this day he would be early in a timeless realm.

 

The wheels broke so they replaced them with gold

Tried pearls, and the precious metals of alchemists

Making a new machine so his life would continue to flow.

 

It was a week, perhaps a month or a year, but treasures too die

His sad gaze upon the box he saw them taking it away

And onto the wings of sleep he caught an eternity made for him

Joe, they called him, Joe alone with a deep hole in his chest.

 

They took the old heart he delighted in and teased so lightly

And they put it in a box, and all says good-bye at last.  

 

 

Beginning

 

The letter beats its heart, unaware of a future, it giggles;

born in a mystery of origin tickled in its tender tummy,

it extends in the arabesque disrespectful of horizons,

drawn in strict geometry on a plane landscape yet.

 

Sister to the L, the vowel sweetly settles on a curve;

languidly satisfied in the completion of its soul;

no fear of the reversed arrowhead will linger much;

the story must go on, the word will be birthed.

 

A verse screams in anxious anticipation a name;

though deathly quiet on the young meadow;

its hope for the wavy consonant to become hurricane;

secret tsunami carried on softly to another scene.

 

A virgin page, still patient in wait of the messenger;

undetermined of boundless untouched light;

open, ready for the single touch of the loving quill;

for the response to exist as the words come alive.

 

The void fills with the energy of a frail answer weary;

the sharp point makes contact and scars the velvety skin;

while the L of old grows a fraction stronger, more confident,

it too now can rest in the safe shade of a great notion.

 

Distance long, distance brief, no matter for the eager line;

it wants to live, it will be, the composition will be real;

one little symbol at a time, in an infinite embrace universal;

for this night, when the covers close, the pages will kiss.

 

Moon and Sun, Night and Day, unique and one in longing;

the impossible takes hold and makes naught of hardships;

unperceived to all, indivisible in time and in space;

in their unspoken words, love forever written and victorious.

 

 

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 300 other publications.