A November Morning: Poetry of Mourning

The Seine.

One month ago I returned from France.  My reflections of time in the village of Marnay-sur-Seine at the     CAMAC artist residency wrapping my soul with threads of gratitude.  This morning as I re-read my   journal entries from time at CAMAC I found these lines from the French poet Philippe Jaccottet.  They seem particularly poignant as another senseless massacre occurred in a small Texas town on a Sunday morning.

 One would like, for the crossing s/he has to make
– if we can speak of  a crossing
 when the bridge seems broken off
and the other bank in a mist
or itself a mist, or worse, an abyss –
in this barbed wire wind
to wrap them in music, hurt as s/he is . . .

  On voudrait, pour ce pas qu’il doit franchir
 – si l’on peut parler de franchir
la ou la passerelle semble interrompue
et l’autre rive prise dans la brume
ou elle-même brume, ou pire: abime – 
dans ce vent barbelé,
l’envelopper, meurtri comme il l’est, de musique . . .