13.8.10

French on Fridays: After the Rain

woman at dusk

I listened, as she told her son in French, "Here are your shoes." I lost the rest, focused on those few words I understood.

And each time I hear a French song, my mind picks out little things I've come to know... tomorrow, I love you, doll, don't leave me. I try to cherish moments of understanding, lose myself in the music, forget to be afraid of all I still don't know.

Today, the words of novelist Anthony Trollope echo my hopes for me and French. "A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules." Yes, yes. I want this to be true. And so I whisper to my French, Tomorrow, I love you, doll, don't leave me.

Here is another phrase I am tucking away, part of my small daily task of study. I will keep it, to whisper as I need...

Après la pluie, le beau temps. After the rain, good weather.


Après la pluie,
le beau temps


After the rain,
après la pluie. After.
Après the weight of grey,
words that stray, slant,
sending swallows
(hirondelles) to hemlock
arms— sway,
spring, sway. After
the rain, après.
Le beau temps come.
Good weather hurries in,
on heels of wind. So
they say.

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Want to participate in French on Fridays, but don't know French? Type any English word here and get a translation into French. Include your word in a poem or vignette. Or just write about anything French (music, history, art, food). We're flexible. If you feel comfortable doing so, link back here in your post. That way we have a meeting place.

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5 Comments:

Anonymous amanda said...

there is a great poem by verlaine that starts out -

il pleut dans mon coeur
comme il pleut sur la ville...

so very good!

8:05 AM  
Blogger Maureen said...

apres la crainte
yet still craintif

after the fear
yet still fearful

of le doigt
shaking itself

at the self
before folding

again into la main
the finger

folding itself
into the hand

become un signe
to be confident

les cadeau are many
the gifts are many

11:04 AM  
Blogger Erin said...

Zinnias don't
meet me
on the streets of my Parisien
past, and murmur

Je ne me souviens pas
I don't believe
we've had the pleasure

Zinnias pull me by
the hand
Into Grandma's back room-
dusty and wood-floored

They creak open
the card table of my heart
and hopefully ask
Where did we leave off?

6:25 AM  
Blogger L.L. Barkat said...

Maureen and Erin, brava! I love these. You are writing the best ones. :) (Erin, I loved how you played off of the Solace post. Really beautiful.)

6:35 AM  
Blogger deb said...

I was thinking of you last week when I was in downtown Montreal bringing my daughter to McGill.
It is one of those circles in our life. We've visited briefly over the years, work functions, a funeral, some touring with the kids. But this was an opportunity, amidst the chaos and angst and uncertainty, to listen, to hear, to remember.
I absolutely think that there is a Quebec french thread that is weaved into my story. As is there an Anglophone one. I am so intrigued to see how this is going to go.

with me.

with you. and you will no doubt tell it more beautifully.

10:44 AM  

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