Mary M. Payne
Postcards from an American in France: People, Places, Art, Food and goings on....
Friday, July 1, 2022
The Player...by Mary Payne
Thursday, October 21, 2021
My Father's Goose
My Father with his Goose, circa 1985 |
Gus
“See he just bought the one and put it under
a bulb and when it hatched it was a
head taller than the chicks and twice as hungry
so your dad just started feeding him separate.
That little guy used to follow him around ,
with those long legs a his….curious about everything.
Then one day he was a big 30 pounder and
still thought of Harvey as his mother.
“Your old man couldn’t get in the car what the
goose flapped in after him….wanting to squeeze
in under the steering wheel and be petted,
big ole head hanging over Harvey’s shoulder.
And your daddy would stroke him, talk to him
a good fifteen minutes til he got him out
the car and locked in the pen. Otherwise
he’d just run down the road after him.
See ,your dad was a city boy, Richmond.
Didn’t know nothing 'bout raising farm animals.
To him it was nothing but a love story…
nothing but a goddamned love story.
When your father passed, that big ole bird
didn’t know what to do with” hisself”,
didn’t even know he was a goose,
kept on moping 'round the yard,
Your ma finally gave him to the farm
down the road where there were lots just like him….
hoping maybe he’d come to understand
that he was a bird.
I wrote this piece from the point of view of the midwestern farmer who lived near my parents place in Newcastle, California.
Friday, October 1, 2021
Poet's Club
My photo image showing that you can't quite capture the periwinkle sky I Nice with pixels, |
Poet’s Club
by Mary Payne
Having just read thirty random poems
I feel that I’m not authorized to call myself a poet…
to be in that revered club with Henry VIII
and his “Some Sayeth Youth Ruleth Me”
or with modern poets of dark disquiet,
for I am a sanguine soul
and I had a happy childhood.
There were three dresses in my closet
that my mother had sewn for me
and on Friday my father drove
on the road to town with a list…
including a peach and a pear
for each of us, a five cent sherbet cone, and
a trip to the public library.
No gangs threatened our look-alike dwellings.
No rogue uncle roved at night to
unsettle my sister nor I.
No one even drank!
But I love words too…how they leap
from my head when I least expect it
to explode on the unsuspecting page.
And I am old. Does that count for this club…
senior discount perhaps?
Not many years left
to tell all I want to tell…
about the crab man who runs sideways,
about the infant gecko with his clown-like grin….
eaten by ants on his third day,
How my father tamed the meanest man
or how the Mediterranean sun
can turn the sky a purple/blue
so rich and full-throated
that it can’t be caught
by either film or pixels
but perhaps only in a poem.
Sunday, September 26, 2021
Libération
Tuesday, September 21, 2021
Medium Rare
Image by Frenchentree.com |
When I was still in high school I got invited by a boy to go on a real date. These were few as my parents needed to meet the boy before they allowed me to go out and I refused, in some cases, to suffer this indignity.
My first boyfriend was from the church youth group so he was approved. But I eventually got so tired of my routine with him that I hid under the house one day (with the black widow spiders) when I heard the sound of his motorcycle coming up the drive.
“Well, that is strange . She was just here. You can wait if you like” I heard my mother say.
The wait in the crawl space seemed interminable but finally my suitor left. The next day I complained to my friend, Jane. “Well, I wish I were going out with him. You are lucky,” she said.
An introduction was arranged and soon, Gene, was off my hands. They made a fine couple for about a year, as I recall. I stayed “single” throughout that year and sampled here and there.
The second lad came later and he actually had money to take me to a restaurant. My parents consented and off we went to a steak house. I had never been to one.
To raise five children and insure their college education was paid in full, my parents took us to only two kinds of eateries. The first was for a lovely bean soup served at the counter at the A&P market. We ate lots of saltines with that or “healthy” crackers that my mother brought with her. …some sort of hard tack which were enticingly called “rye crisps”.
The second was a child’s dream of a place called “Cliftons”. It was a cafeteria but was dark inside and decorated like an exotic island. There were favors for the kids and little parasols in our iced drinks, …the kind of kitsch which kids adore. That is where I had my first Salisbury steak and my first restaurant turkey slices with mashed potatoes and cream gravy.
But never in my life were “ t-bone”, “prime rib” or any expensive cuts of meat on our family menu. So really I knew nothing about what the French call “ saignant “ ( rare) , “a point”, ( medium rare), “cuit” ( medium well) or “bien cuit”( well done) not to mention…”trop cuit” describing a tortured piece of beef …black and hard. Actually, a steak cooked just over a minute on each side is called “steak rose”.
So on this date, when we got to the restaurant and the waiter asked me how I liked my meat, I hesitated. Was “cooked” the word he was looking for? Finally, he asked “medium or well”? I had no idea what he was after so I said I like it cooked all the way through.
The conversation was labored as I tried to tackle the shriveled morsel of steak with the inadequate knife I had been given. The date dragged on with this shy boy and my chagrin kept our conversation forced and embarrassing. We were probably both relieved when it was over.
It would be some years before I found myself ordering steak again. By that time I had learned that I like meat grilled “medium rare” and it would be many more years until I would be saying “Je voudrais un steak rośe.” As I say now, “Sil vous Plâit.”
Thursday, September 16, 2021
Storm Alex, Oct 8, 2020, Nice France, Image by Sky News |
Septuagenarian out along the sea, 5am, Nice France
She hadn’t wanted to go out today.
rain they said…
A tussle with stalactite mind,
bristling at a dare,
No rain yet, she pulls on layers, resigned.
Starting out’s a doddle.
Breezes almost warm,
palm trees in sway recall
a Hawaiian moment
restoring rare resolve.
The body is a kingdom, ancient but revered, connections purring,
wizened workings stirring,
Spider knees holding, folding.
King’s laborers working as one.
The waves are drama now,
even for a sea,
the prologue Shakespearean,
tempest primed though barely birthed,
an hour, perhaps, before cloudburst.
There is frenzy. There is fanfare
A drumroll dervish follows the wheels.
Clattering flagpoles tap, tap, tingle.
Beach stall flags in tatters now
whip the air like sea snakes.
Most days in muted dark
she recites poetry aloud
No answer but the crack of a gull.
But all that's aside now
As the gale grows full.
In record time she’s up the hill
on descent, a cobra’s clench.
A new wind joins the first.
The clutch/ hold thrill
of a child’s tag game.
Nothing for it but to go inland.
She pumps furiously to be off the street.
She gropes the last slope.
Meters away from the gate,
she feels the first drops.
If the storm passes, tomorrow she’ll go.
Four days, she’s promised herself,
four in a row.
On Friday she’ll revel...marveling again at what it takes to tame one small habit.
This storm turned out to be the start of Storm Alex which devastated many villages and the only rail line going through villages from Breil sur Roya to Tende, France. Oct. 8, 2020.
Wednesday, September 15, 2021
Can a Rose be...by Mary Payne
Can a Rose be…
To gaze upon a life of dreams fulfilled
to count among the years, but common strife,
to be seen guileless but illusion filled,
One still can boast a full and wondrous life.
And yet the spur of youth was always there,
insuring years that held more promise still,
but now no hope of strength, nor skin so fair
can make the roles we choose an ease to fill.
The battle’s in the mind where thoughts are born.
Creases don’t halt the mischief in the eye,
And we are free, if from the mirror torn,
we love ourselves the same as time goes by.
The challenged life starts as the body fails.
Can a rose be yet treasured, as it pales?
Practice in writing a sonnet
alternate rhyme. ABAB, CDCD EFEF GG
Iambic pentameter