savoured Ségolène’s words again, he felt invigorated, strong as a yeti. It was like a transfusion after a haemorrhage, a puff of oxygen when you are suffocating. He jubilated in the washroom. It had worked! She had believed in it!
11
Some austere mountains
secretly hope that at last
someone dare climb them
They act tough, flaunting
their avalanche clothes,
but they are tender-hearted
They are scared at night
weep with loneliness
their tears create waterfalls
This is how mountain
lakes pool into existence
in icy silence
* * *
Bilodo felt his happiness was complete. What more could he want? The kimono hung waiting for him in the wardrobe, but he was careful not to use it too often; he saved it, donned it only when it was time to reply to Ségolène. Then all he needed to do was put the miraculous garment on and his soul took wing, whizzed away, while colours and visions came rushing in. Bilodo had finally rejected any kind of supernatural explanation for the phenomenon. He reckoned that his discovery of the kimono right after the dream about a ghostly Grandpré was simply a fortunate coincidence, and as for the rest, that was just the subconscious manifesting itself. Besides, he didn’t really want to delve more deeply into the issue, because he feared that being too inquisitive might slow down his creative momentum and jeopardize the poetry. The basic cause ofthe miracle wasn’t particularly important to him, as long as it worked and he could keep writing to Ségolène, as long as he could dream about her playing the flute on the bank of the lazy river, charming snakes as in that painting by Henri Rousseau, then dozing on a bed of greenery while wildflowers wrapped her in live petals and forest animals mounted a jealous guard by her side.
* * *
Shimmering forms – dawn
through half-closed lashes
iridescent theatre
A flower flies from
the hair of the fruit vendor
it’s a butterfly
Mini-monster commandos
haunting the pavements
on Halloween night
A runaway horse
he looks terrified!
what’s biting him, I wonder?
Crystal-glazed puddles
the grass crunches underfoot
another winter
My big cat purrs on the bed –
right under his nose
the mouse scampers off
The perfect beauty
the divine architecture
of a soft snowflake
Enormous black backs
whip up the ocean –
the sperm whales are frolicking
* * *
She swam and gambolled, enormous, yet so nimble. Her dark, streamlined body undulated gracefully, stood out against the sunlight on the shimmering screen of the surface, skimming the sparkling curtain, sometimes cleaving it with her back. She swam and melodized, she filled the ocean with her songs, because she was a whale. And so was he. They were whales and swam together, they were heading over yonder, to that place that had no name, that was simply ‘over yonder’, far off in the infinite blue expanse. They were in no hurry. They dawdled, glided in a muted twilight glow. They would hunt a little, then let themselves be carried along, trusting the currents. They’d come up now and again to blow out a geyser of iodized steam and fill their lungs with air, to drift for a spell, swaying gently with the waves, then they’d go down again to where it was calm.
It was good to be a whale. It was good to be with her, just with her, and be free together. If he had had a choice, he would rather have been the ocean so he could have hugged Ségolène even more closely, and put his endless water arms around her everywhere at once, and slid all over her skin forever, but even so it was nice to be a whale. It was a great joy, as long as she was there and together they could escape time.
Now she sounded all of a sudden. She went into a nosedive, fled from the light. Had she detected an appetizing prey? Was itjust for the fun of getting to the bottom of things, of exploring some unfamiliar wreck, or was she playing hide-and-seek? He followed her, plunging with powerful strokes of his tail; he wasn’t
11
Some austere mountains
secretly hope that at last
someone dare climb them
They act tough, flaunting
their avalanche clothes,
but they are tender-hearted
They are scared at night
weep with loneliness
their tears create waterfalls
This is how mountain
lakes pool into existence
in icy silence
* * *
Bilodo felt his happiness was complete. What more could he want? The kimono hung waiting for him in the wardrobe, but he was careful not to use it too often; he saved it, donned it only when it was time to reply to Ségolène. Then all he needed to do was put the miraculous garment on and his soul took wing, whizzed away, while colours and visions came rushing in. Bilodo had finally rejected any kind of supernatural explanation for the phenomenon. He reckoned that his discovery of the kimono right after the dream about a ghostly Grandpré was simply a fortunate coincidence, and as for the rest, that was just the subconscious manifesting itself. Besides, he didn’t really want to delve more deeply into the issue, because he feared that being too inquisitive might slow down his creative momentum and jeopardize the poetry. The basic cause ofthe miracle wasn’t particularly important to him, as long as it worked and he could keep writing to Ségolène, as long as he could dream about her playing the flute on the bank of the lazy river, charming snakes as in that painting by Henri Rousseau, then dozing on a bed of greenery while wildflowers wrapped her in live petals and forest animals mounted a jealous guard by her side.
* * *
Shimmering forms – dawn
through half-closed lashes
iridescent theatre
A flower flies from
the hair of the fruit vendor
it’s a butterfly
Mini-monster commandos
haunting the pavements
on Halloween night
A runaway horse
he looks terrified!
what’s biting him, I wonder?
Crystal-glazed puddles
the grass crunches underfoot
another winter
My big cat purrs on the bed –
right under his nose
the mouse scampers off
The perfect beauty
the divine architecture
of a soft snowflake
Enormous black backs
whip up the ocean –
the sperm whales are frolicking
* * *
She swam and gambolled, enormous, yet so nimble. Her dark, streamlined body undulated gracefully, stood out against the sunlight on the shimmering screen of the surface, skimming the sparkling curtain, sometimes cleaving it with her back. She swam and melodized, she filled the ocean with her songs, because she was a whale. And so was he. They were whales and swam together, they were heading over yonder, to that place that had no name, that was simply ‘over yonder’, far off in the infinite blue expanse. They were in no hurry. They dawdled, glided in a muted twilight glow. They would hunt a little, then let themselves be carried along, trusting the currents. They’d come up now and again to blow out a geyser of iodized steam and fill their lungs with air, to drift for a spell, swaying gently with the waves, then they’d go down again to where it was calm.
It was good to be a whale. It was good to be with her, just with her, and be free together. If he had had a choice, he would rather have been the ocean so he could have hugged Ségolène even more closely, and put his endless water arms around her everywhere at once, and slid all over her skin forever, but even so it was nice to be a whale. It was a great joy, as long as she was there and together they could escape time.
Now she sounded all of a sudden. She went into a nosedive, fled from the light. Had she detected an appetizing prey? Was itjust for the fun of getting to the bottom of things, of exploring some unfamiliar wreck, or was she playing hide-and-seek? He followed her, plunging with powerful strokes of his tail; he wasn’t
Similar Books
