When I shine my walking boots
everything is underway
I remember the dusty sand trail that I didn’t walk
for long, but they were so present,
like the big rocks lining the path
leading to the limestone hill
One proved enough, a rock the size of a tree trunk,
to sit me down.
My boots are older now,
they stand together on the rack
When I shine them for another mile
they remember me, and crack a smile
When I shine my walking boots was originally published on Meandering home
Jacques Réda (b.1929) is a French poet and lover of jazz. His poetry often conveys small and innocent scenes. I read a poem about an old photo, wonderfully translated by Jenny Feldman:
A Found Photo
One day the three of us out in this boat.
The day black and white but clearly summer
For in the wavy-edged photo the trees
Stand full-leafed on the bank; and they’re all but
Naked, this trio, each with a paddle.
The air was hot, the light carefree, and where
The river’s now grey and inert, a breeze
Must have quickened its flow to a dazzle.
Kneeling astern, back arched and already
Womanly in the clasp of a swimsuit
There you are, Janine. And innocently
In love one boy looks cast in bronze, robust,
The other (me) a scrawny pale-faced kid.
Fifty years the scene has held unmoving
Though each day swept us further off. But I’d
Say they’re still aboard the skiff and drifting
On the spot, these three, radiant in the dull
Print where they squint against the sun and see,
On the other side, only my shadow
Through thickening time that has distanced me
So as to let this delight even now
It’s an experience that may be lost to future generations: watching an old yellowing photograph after fifty years. There is surely some magic in there, some connection to the “other side” where we live on. The description of the three young people (I think of an French film by Truffaut but you can have your own visual association, not that this is necessary). The womanly girl kneeling astern in her swimsuit, and the two admiring boys (assuming the other boy was admiring her also. Perhaps this was not the case and he rather was in love with the me of the poem, so we have a love triangle here).
Time is thickening. I have such memories from when I was 16, or 23. No photographs, but I know enough to reproduce them with thickening confidence.
Reading: A Found Photo by Jacques Réda was originally published on Meandering home
When I was born, my parents planted a birch tree
in our back garden. I could not see it
from my room at the front of the house.
The room in which I read my Winnetou,
in which I touched a breast
for the first time.
The room I painted ocher,
and decorated with beer coasters.
The birch is gone now, and
I have lost my right to the room.
Uprooted was originally published on Meandering home