Vive Saint Sara

Please don’t look at me like that – I’m fine.
I see the fear in your eyes,
but I’m not scared you know.
What goes up must come down,
when you fly you eventually fall –
Ok, some plummet – but that’s not the point.

I know you’re about to cry – please don’t.
Your trembling chin is quite funny, still
I’d rather if you didn’t cry.
We could take a break – South of France is always good.
Really? You’re lovely, so glad you’re my mum –
Just one thing – no garlic bread, you and dad always get it.

That’s better – I like your laugh.
Think we could go Saintes Maries de la Mer?
I quite like it there, the chapel is perfect and,
you know if we go in May we’ll be just in time
to catch dear Sara-la-Kali. I remember the Catechism too –
We should take her some money – she might help.

The funny look isn’t needed – I’m not silly.
She might like a robe too and,
Some jewels to decorate her chamber wouldn’t go amiss.
Might make up for the Carmina Burana we’re so bad at.
I just adore those cute little candles everywhere –
The Gitans and their beautiful melodic pieces – so enchanting.

I like your smile – makes you look radiant.
You know Marie-Jacobe will be there too and,
Marie-Salome. Think we’ll be kissing them again?
I hope they remember me, it’s been a while.
Just remember they like it when you sing –
A thousand times – ‘Vive Saint Sara…vive vive!’

Opus

When you sit it begins. A libretto[1] won’t help you
understand it better. There’s no ordinary motif],
just that resounding drone hiding under the overture.
So grandioso[2]. The power of the opera where a little make-up and,
expressionist mime become a hoax. All of a sudden –
you’re somebody else.

Through the binoculars you see the lights out on the sea,
thoughts of nocturnes long ago. They were only
the scattered fisherman’s lamps.
An interlude in between the shadows. The wind howls and the sea shines as,
you watch your life revolve like the white wash astern before your eyes –
and you stand forte[3] on the terrace.

The pain chases you verismo[4]. The melancholic ghosts
take a minor hold of you. Their falsetto[5] embodies your desire for life,
but the moon emerging from a cloud makes death sweeter.
A glissando[6] from one moment to another. You find yourself
shedding a tear and you’re drowning…presto[7]. It’s life that has a finale[8] –
not its capriccio[9] melody.

___________________________________________________

[1] The text of an opera or any other vocal work.
[2] Played grandly.
[3] Loud /strong.
[4] Modeled after every day life.
[5] A style of male singing where by partial use of the vocal chords, the voice is able to reach the pitch of a female.
[6] Sliding between two notes.
[7] A direction in sheet music indicating the tempo is to be very fast.
[8] Movement or passage that concludes the musical composition.
[9] A quick, improvisational, spirited piece of music.

Nighthawks

Sombre reflections around the corner,
where quiet old Phillies’ lies.
There two lovers seat,
her arm graciously curved
into him –
his fingers rest gently on hers.

Two cups of coffee
and a white hat
highlight the shell of a gentleman.
His face shadowed,
almost like a black veil –
he’s no innocent treat.

Her neatly swept red hair,
like a copper helmet,
falls in a cascade of angelic curls.
Her attention stolen, kidnapped,
by a small pack of sugar –
she’s intrigued – ignoring his presence.

He speaks in whispers,
as though the tired waiter
has not yet suspected their crime.
His tanned wrinkled face
has shone on others alike –
he knows their story – their owes.

Even the lonesome fella,
he reads him
like an open book.
There’s no-one in the street,
the silence is loud, the guilt floats in the air –
like in a courtroom.

As a nighthawk painted
with luscious brushes,
freely flowed, devoted
each stroke to a character
in the story. Now he sleeps –
a long rest is needed – as he puts out the cigarette.

Nue

Afraid to forget, it might break me.
A revenge on the lack of absence.
At about five o’clock the sky will leave, disappear – again.
Upsetting life and common sense. Double crossing me –
just like that.

Disappointed as everything rhymes with nothing,
nothing – it’s pointless.
It didn’t keep you here, not a smile or a tear.
It was time – selfish time.

Nothing but space and
one very, very small trace.
Yes! A small evil remains inside me – it grows,
just like everything I detest.
I take my place and watch small trails of tears erase – I’ve cried enough!

Memories of the Earth trail along my eyes,
they frame the towering clock.
Sitting I watch as you are replaced, another aria.
Bambina, leaving your setting – I think I would have missed you,
but the street’s perfume of where I will soon hunt
already haunts me. Like the old sepia photographs.

I never rewrite the story, not even what seemed insane.
All I recall is the moment my heart chose to beat a little faster – again.
I feel the awakening, I’m standing on the good side of my soul –
it was for passion I was falling, but now I’m on my feet again.
Life is a big game of chess, when all my dreams are a mess.

The sea doesn’t rock, as the earth rests – it’s stopped turning.
Now darkness chases me away from the calm and the right –
making infinity my flame.
What shall I make of hell? – Your fiery paradise.
‘Je n’y descends pas!’

I wonder – do you understand?
What do you understand?
Words don’t keep. You should know they become stale, like old bread.
What do you hear as my fairness disarms?
Lies cut like blades, which I can only feel when my tears sting.
It’s necessary – I prefer it that way.

My instants of misery.
I grow only through the madness of my dreams.
It wasn’t your silence that helped me – rather my screams, noise.
Your silence is a challenge,
which fills the space no word can replace.
The friend which those at rock bottom look to. It screams at them,
shows them what they don’t want to see - believe.

A last chance to tango, mi amor!
You hurt me and my fate. The good which devours me
when my body writhes.
One of us is stronger. Who?
The animal or bullfighter?

I feel the rush as life pushes me into the running. I dance and I fight.
My body pushes back at yours, when your gestures
remind me of that which you cannot have over me.
Remaining yours alone is a challenge, as
I dance and you fight.
So, if I were to tell you I was yours – alone,
you’d dance as I fight… harder.

Lost in the sky, I have only one wing –
since you tore me apart.
Just like Icarus, you burn me.
I’m forgotten by the Gods, as you trail
along my ruins.

Oh, if words are wounds, my skin is paper.
Nothing can be erased, just like the evil which,
makes me immortal.
You told me nothing is worth anything.
Well, all is nothing, and
nothing is me.
Nue moi.