Marseilles

I post this poem in memory of my mom, Laura Visser.  I've been working it over the past two years and will probably continue to add to and refine it every time I come back to read it.  I find writing poetry such an efficient way to pull together images, words and phrases that may not  make any sense in a narrative.  The images here are of a poem that my mom became enamored with during her last year called "The Hound of Heaven," her wake and funeral, and the cruise to France that we took shortly after her death -- all this two years ago this June.  


Special thanks to Rachel who just yesterday encouraged me to keep blogging and to Beverly who asked about my blog in her birthday wish to me.  And to Nick, my faithful reader, who isn't really into poetry.


There we stood (orderly) in front of the ancient stone wall,

Shining pink bougainvillea in the midst of our hair,

Framed by the shade of the high reaching Cyprus trees

That lined the coast in the afternoon sun of the Cote d Azur.

We carefully arranged ourselves, 
The result now to set upon the mantel next to all of the others.

We followed, followed, followed;

Listed like every one thing to accomplish and check off.

The children standing by with strong smiles,

Beautiful in flip-flops and oddly pressed light shirts.

We set our new sunglasses preciously on our foreheads

And the bright jewel of the day burned deep lines into our dark brown eyes.

We kept quietly to ourselves, the labyrinth a pleasure to unwind

As we faithfully perched on the rocky cliffs, confounding sea below.

And then it came to us, as if we should have known,

As if someone had planned exactly how it would all fall together,

The shock of it taking us by storm, the road absurdly over flowing with

The mammoth effort of your place and time,

Keenly defeated by your simplicity and grace. 

We took the easy road (for good reason),

And your clear breath released us into the ferocious arms

Of the strong and screaming Mistral winds.

“Behind the Mistral is the beauty of Provence.

Its fierceness blows away clouds and grime and doubt,

Leaving colors the depth of dreams

And a freshness that can come only after the Mistral's scouring. Provence needs the Mistral or it ceases to be the Provence of my dreams.

I need the Mistral to cut through those dreams to truth - beauty comes after the wind.” 
Kamiah A. Walker

Marseilles, France

July 4, 2009