The Sullen Wake to Flowers
Poetry of a Pond
by Leila Rousseau
-
When I don't want to write, I read
When I don't care to read, I sleep
When I am not writing and not sleeping, I am listening to the stories
When I am not reading and not sleeping, I am recreating the stories
Yet, when I am not dreaming and not floating, I am not awake.
I am only existing until I write, read or sleep.
-
Never starting a fresh, but moving to breathe the new air.
Never turning for a new leaf, but replacing the stylus
What do I become when I change my habitat? Never settled. Always making my escape.
-
Strides, side by side. In love, together.
One turns back to re-step for a different future.
The other wades through emptiness, and reclaims life in the name of his old love.
So important to smile, and give way to pedestrians.
-
Every pen, every powerful pen.
Every weak pen. Engrave not your name or your destiny, but your past in neat time.
Scribble not your troubles, or your fears, but your cravings and discoveries.
Tiresome is the talk of static, the fatigued and the woe some. Inspiring is the talk of moving reflections in glass, in water and in time.
-
Anything could be a surprise. The shock may kill or devastate.
The innocent may wonder.
The experienced may plan or ignore. The shaken may never thing again.
Everybody could be homeless.
How do I remind myself I am lucky, every breath and every sleep?
-
If there was ever a time to escape, it would be given to me now, as a jet.
Now I am jumped through to a void, a holding yard of distressed but fortunate women.
Heavens, don't open up to this one, let the ocean take care of her.
With her gut, she wail stand to avoid the wave of soft glass, and stand aside the twirling winds that wrap around all those under suspicion.
-
These righteous men travel in the Trojan of love and admiration.
The play cart puled by a mother, later, a carriage heaved along gravel and mud by horses.
Strength carries, weakness breaks.Youthful king, spiteful louse.
A tear in the bosom of the nurturer.
-
This stylus is fine, it tells a truth that pours over questioned days.
Rhetoric has come to virtue, as light has come to vision.
-
A passage short, is a thought mistaken.
A road so long, is a while when taken.
Think so quick and walk so far.
To find the troubles, here they are.
-
I miss my cat. I miss him jumping about.
I miss him annoying me. I miss him being annoyed.
I miss his fluffy cuddles. I miss him running through the house, bringing in a cloud of dirt and dust.
I wished he would walk on my back and get comfortable on the nape of my neck.
I miss lifting him up to show him the sky and the ceiling.
I miss choosing his food.
I miss him being fascinated by his funny tail.
I miss him running frantically, up and down trees.
I miss him waiting for me suspiciously.
I miss him complaining all the time. Meow Roaw.
-
Pondering my whereabouts, I will be asked by many - why did you do that?
I will have to answer, first with denial, then with a smile.
-
Days in Paris are not glamourous.
I am not in action, I am out.
I must stay 'til at least Spring is over.
Meanwhile, I hate Paris before les Printemps.
-
A head full of cliches, is a tower full of junk.
Please, hope it is drained, so a paragraph may start the story.
Give the noise to the public, so the still quiet gaze can rest, and discover a bare night, and fill it with particular people and props.
The reader wants art.
Cliche is not art, nor is it wit.
Wait, until they have cleared the tower.
-
That vision could not be drawn
onto the face of the unborn
Whether he white or he black
he will not know until he go.
Tremblin so as he follow
his brothers into the night
He don't fight
til he use his might.
Step by step his feet meet the beat
Go, go, go, don't see your foe.
-
The Present, a Souvenir of the Past
I'm going to take over the world
after I have taken over your attitude.
I'm going to think like you and talk like you,
after I colour my hair and paint my nails,
I'll look like you.
I'm going to walk down the street
in very high heels, and I'm going to fight off
every barren whistler and chatting gypsy.
I'm going to run my life like you run your business.
Every coffee I drink with myself will be important.
Every piece of ravioli will be counted.
Every step I take will be fast,
and every mouthful of water will be fresh.
I'm going to use you like you use me,
after I take over your attitude.
I'm going to call you like you call me,
and not at all if you put me down.
I'm going to buy you a present,
after I go shopping for myself,
and you can take it as a souvenir of how nice I was.
Because I'm going to take over the world,
after I have taken over your attitude,
and you won't get to know me when I do.
-
Baby bump, we go on holidays
Find our paradise in the sun
Don't look at him, he's writing stories
He'll take one of yours and tell me.
Baby bump, we stay here in the shade
Why we brown in Summer?
Don't open your eyes, they see the world
And the world will be on holidays.
-
Isn't it traversing cold steps on a wintery day?
The day you say no to an addiction
Ridding your body of this enslavement
comb your disgusting hair, an effort you think is progression.
The night you turn off your phone to stop the calls to your dead soul
Ridding your head of the entrapment
Make your bed, a chore you wouldn't ever have had to do.
If you didn't choose to go out in this weather.
-
Hurrying to the counter, before you go missing.
Not a person on this earth will believe you are alive if you have not checked in.
-
My Love as a Cloud over Paris
Distance of clouds, how long until they meet again.
To us they are forms of the same mass, the same purpose, the same life.
If they whisper close does it mean they will never part,
or will they long for the words repeated, all around the world.
Some formations are broken, by jets and a hurricane,
Some live fast, with the wind and in the desert
Some live slow, in the valleys and with the snow.
Some rise again, as the mist over icy grasses,
Some fall forever after a storm in Paris.
-
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
2. Now He is in Naples
The Sullen Wake to Flowers
Now He is in Naples
by Leila Rousseau
- - -
Olympia is for love. Tides are for taking.
There was a time when a certain Olympia would sail the archepelagos, from the Canary Islands both to Aland, and around the waters of Sardinia. Every journey was, to Olympia, better remembered through an awkwardly animated story, much more so than returning to the boats with the company she kept. The binder; the crook in her neck when she told of the adventures; was the verniculous purpose of her soirees with the sea. No tale of the voyages would ever be revelled in the same manner, nor could it, for she had a terrible memory. So she urged her friends to talk of different subjects in case she was encouraged to start her spiel. "Ask not I, whose phantom soul endures weeks on the water. I fear not the plough of the paddle, but the anchor at shore. And when we swim to the beach, I forget everything. Only that it was night and that I did not drown. But maybe someone did. I say to you also forget, now tell me a story."
- - -
Olympia lay on the beach in a black and white Chanel bikini, and squinted through her sunglasses as she turned over. Facing the sand was so pleasant, Olympia relished. Though she didn't really enjoy the summer, Olympia certainly did brighten up under the suns ray. She looked healthy, and appeared and felt happy. A few Greek men passed her toned behind, and she watched them with mutual interest. Olympia knew better than to take on a Grecan. She much preferred Italians, there was so much less fetta cheese and olives in cucina Italiano.
Stretching her legs through the sand, granuals stuck in her toes. Covering her violet carry bag with her sarong, Olympia jumped up and ran to the water. The Cote d'Azur was white today, and the ocean was fresh. The pale hair glistened, and was dunked in the shallow, where wading slowly was recommended. A beach ball arrived asa present from a dark admirer. Olympia playfully threw it back, and the man asked if she wanted to continue, as he pushed the bubble back through the air. Some to and fro of the ball, and a lunge into the water, and a splash closer and closer, and Antonio introduced himself to the most beautiful woman on the Mediterranean coast. Olympia dragged her lovely legs to the shore and Antonio ran to collect his towel.
Antonio was a property developer from Peru. "I'll be here for three weeks, then I go to Torino, Zurich and Johannesburg. Olympia told him she'd be here for two weeks, and then go to Paris and Germany. She wasn't going to either, she was waiting to go to Naples. Antonio enquired as to her residence, and she told him about the cramped apartment a few kilometers from the seaside. "I'm staying at the Emperial Domain, if you'd like to join me for your remaining weeks?" "Oh, that would be devine." Spagetti Frutti di Mer, and a watermelon splice. They ate, they drank, they were very refreshed and excited about their next two weeks.
Olympia had her own room and ensuite. The penthouse over looked half of the city, and the sunset was so beautiful and the Saint Tropez marina was in clear view. Every morning and every evening Antonio made love to Olympia. Loving the time they spent together, he thought about her all day while he closed deals and threatened competitors. His life seemed glamourous to Olympia, he must treat all women like this. But she didn't know that he would go onto the international destinations alone, without lovers. She was the light in his busy life, and he grew exhausted after the first week.
Olympia ate breakfast, lunch and most dinners at the hotel alone, and she grew tired of this. She met a young Italian at the bar by the pool. He promised to take her to Naples in three weeks. She told Guyan that she was looking after her friend in hospital for a week, until the girl's mother arrives. Then she would be able to live at his condomonium for the remaining two weeks.
Antonio's face was so lovely but distracted by business. He said he'd like Olympia to stay for another week and go to Zurich with him. Olympia knew she must go to Naples, and that Guyan was her ticket there. She'd like to go, but her friend in Paris was expecting her to look after the flower shop for a month. He would be in Peru in late November, and she should visit him there. That sounds perfect.
Landing in Naples was extraordinary, and Olympia belonged here. But she was to be focussed for the week. Guyan was hounding her, and offering her gifts to entice her for another weekend with him. No time for romance, she was there to search for one man.
Olympia had had some realisations about those unlike her. Love was important, and not found daily in different expensive bed spreads and fluffy towels. As much as she would like for her friends to be similar to herself, it was best if they were not. And they were not. They listened to her intently and revelled in her ideas and follies. Sometimes they listened and learned. But it was not a lesson for her friends. It was not anything they should take notice of or care for. Humouring her only encouraged her, and for weaker people, she was dominant. Dominance was okay for her man, her support group. But not for her friends. And one of her friends had succumb to Olympia's opinion and was ever after miserable. The only human care Olympia possessed, Olympia used during this purposeful visit to a sunny city of love and mafia.
The one man who would help her stood at a street cafe with an espresso and a cigarette. The darkness surrounded him so, the ash suit, the moustache, the hat, the shoes looked like they had walked across the earth looking for debtors, the smoke surrounded his head and his hands in a very black cloud. Olympia drew spritely closer to her target. Played in a scene, she'd be very much like a schoolgirl in a red dress with polka dots, running up to the Head Master, asking for directions to the loo. It wasn't that Olympia had guts, she was oblivious to ego, status and red tape. After her lifetime of tales, she had met many men. They were all the same. The barrier around this man was obvious, no one would dare enter his space. There was surely seventeen gunmen watching the man's arena of old town suburbia, and Olympia was prancing into their fire. She looks fiesty to women, just for marching those cobbley stones in her patent peach pumps.
The man didn't look like he would say much, and indeed he didn't. Olympia loved the Italians and tried to not drift away into dreaming of his abode, for even this ancient mafioso was alluring to a common broad like Olympia. Concentrate. Olympia took a cigarette from a neat lilac packet, and offered her aide one, just as he butted out his last. He took it and eyed her like he would offer her money. They enjoyed the smoke in silence, she with grey smoke, he with black smoke. Must be tarred up lungs. Concentrate. Okay, so she asked for a macchiato to stand, and gestured at his hat. He offered it to her like he would take her photo wearing it. She was here for an important cause. She must concentrate. No flirting. But maybe this was a way. So she asked his name, Beau Fozzi of Lazziro. She asked him if that meant he was local, or was he instated with that title like a tourist. He laughed. Olympia de la Ritz Paris. Another cigarette, they were both on the way to hospital at this rate. He asked her what she was doing in the back streets of a city that offered more than coffee with grey men. She said she was there for love. Not for her own. For a love she feared she had broken.
The man came out of his guise and chose a story from his past. Looking for words he had not spoken in fifty years, he struggled with an explanation. A boy. A girl. A river. A rush. A storm. Come together. Cannot swim, the boy. Throws log, the girl. Runs, the girl. Jumps to save, the girl. Drowns, the boy. Visits grave. Love stays true. Animated so, trying to tell her that she is the river, the winds. The test. If in life they can't endure the weather, then after they may have a chance. Olympia was not satisfied with such symbolism and per chance. She needed to repair the damage she had done. She must join the two in a matrimony of sorts. She must find the boy. Olympia wished the man would return to his tough exterior and help her. She mentioned a name, and he shrugged. Were there others not into love, not believing in this? She hoped the world was not so jaded and petty as she. Olympia repeated the name and then San Giovanni Deli. He pointed and mumbled something about a river. Not that stupid river story. She called Guyan and he would take her to the deli in the morning. He was really too good to her. Had he known just what she was like, he would surely refuse her completely.
Sometimes it was easier to forget the past and focus. Concentrate. Okay, so they arrived at the deli and the lady behind the counter was dressed pretty with her apron. Olympia wandered what other slices she did. Olympia asked for the duck terrine, and she asked about a boy who might have delivered some frozen goods here. She wouldn't have remembered if it wasn't for his tears. He wept every delivery, like he was upset for days. He had carried on like this for a month. Did she know where to find him? Where was that? Guyan could take her there. Gracias.
Olympia stepped off the Vespa and onto dirty pavement, to find a dry old hut, that looked like an old guard's house. All wrapped up in the beige Louis Vuitton overcoat, with a powder blue dress spraying through at her beautiful knees, and similar coloured snake skinned high sandles, an outfit Guyan treated her to the previous afternoon. Olympia was very sassy. Guyan was in love. She looked into his eyes and turned to ignore the passion. She pulled the gate open and Guyan rode through. They arrived at an enormous house, with some sad tune playing, old guitar and violin, and a gypsy singing lost love. Olympia did not blink. Instead, she took strides to the large door and knocked. The sun was shining to remind the residents of summer and the beach, but they did not seem to notice. The boy appeared at the window, and Olympia was startled. As she waited for the process of unlocking, the jasmine lay droopy in the sun. She should tell him to water it.
Olympia explained to the boy, red eyed and in despair, about her friend. The girl in Saint Tropez was sad too, and longed for him. Olympia was there because she needed to see such deep love united, and though against her principles, her own ideals, she could not stop these lovers from being together. That dear old man must have convoluted this boy's mind with his homemade proverbs, as the boy began talking about a hurricane and flowers and the lost hope. Oh. She had travelled all this way, forfeited Germany for a little brat who daren't follow his heart. Olympia enquired his console. He told her of a job he was doing for the locals, and most of his time was with them if not working for his father. There would be no travel to see her friend, only letters and wishful words. Did Olympia have it right or what? This boy was simply obsessed, he was not in love with her friend, and Olympia had thought if her friend would see the boy in this state she would realise how very right Olympia was in cutting off the childish play of hearts. Now Olympia was satisfied. But what would she tell her friend? Though she didn't know of Olympia's trek, there should be some news to quell this crying soul. Perhaps she should send a telegram to her friend to go to Zurich. Guyan was waiting in the shade of a big leafy tree, over hanging the roof with hard red flowers. They rode back to Naples for ice cream and found a spot poolside to rub oil on each others' legs. Olympia was so happy to not have a pathetic boy in love with her, and she was worried now about her friend. Olympia would have to return to Cote d'Azur before too long. She thought about the river and the storm. Maybe she wasn't the weather, it was love. She was happy she wasn't ever so deeply in love that she would drown. Perhaps the girl in the anecdote threw the log at the boy's head?!
Leila
Now He is in Naples
by Leila Rousseau
- - -
Olympia is for love. Tides are for taking.
There was a time when a certain Olympia would sail the archepelagos, from the Canary Islands both to Aland, and around the waters of Sardinia. Every journey was, to Olympia, better remembered through an awkwardly animated story, much more so than returning to the boats with the company she kept. The binder; the crook in her neck when she told of the adventures; was the verniculous purpose of her soirees with the sea. No tale of the voyages would ever be revelled in the same manner, nor could it, for she had a terrible memory. So she urged her friends to talk of different subjects in case she was encouraged to start her spiel. "Ask not I, whose phantom soul endures weeks on the water. I fear not the plough of the paddle, but the anchor at shore. And when we swim to the beach, I forget everything. Only that it was night and that I did not drown. But maybe someone did. I say to you also forget, now tell me a story."
- - -
Olympia lay on the beach in a black and white Chanel bikini, and squinted through her sunglasses as she turned over. Facing the sand was so pleasant, Olympia relished. Though she didn't really enjoy the summer, Olympia certainly did brighten up under the suns ray. She looked healthy, and appeared and felt happy. A few Greek men passed her toned behind, and she watched them with mutual interest. Olympia knew better than to take on a Grecan. She much preferred Italians, there was so much less fetta cheese and olives in cucina Italiano.
Stretching her legs through the sand, granuals stuck in her toes. Covering her violet carry bag with her sarong, Olympia jumped up and ran to the water. The Cote d'Azur was white today, and the ocean was fresh. The pale hair glistened, and was dunked in the shallow, where wading slowly was recommended. A beach ball arrived asa present from a dark admirer. Olympia playfully threw it back, and the man asked if she wanted to continue, as he pushed the bubble back through the air. Some to and fro of the ball, and a lunge into the water, and a splash closer and closer, and Antonio introduced himself to the most beautiful woman on the Mediterranean coast. Olympia dragged her lovely legs to the shore and Antonio ran to collect his towel.
Antonio was a property developer from Peru. "I'll be here for three weeks, then I go to Torino, Zurich and Johannesburg. Olympia told him she'd be here for two weeks, and then go to Paris and Germany. She wasn't going to either, she was waiting to go to Naples. Antonio enquired as to her residence, and she told him about the cramped apartment a few kilometers from the seaside. "I'm staying at the Emperial Domain, if you'd like to join me for your remaining weeks?" "Oh, that would be devine." Spagetti Frutti di Mer, and a watermelon splice. They ate, they drank, they were very refreshed and excited about their next two weeks.
Olympia had her own room and ensuite. The penthouse over looked half of the city, and the sunset was so beautiful and the Saint Tropez marina was in clear view. Every morning and every evening Antonio made love to Olympia. Loving the time they spent together, he thought about her all day while he closed deals and threatened competitors. His life seemed glamourous to Olympia, he must treat all women like this. But she didn't know that he would go onto the international destinations alone, without lovers. She was the light in his busy life, and he grew exhausted after the first week.
Olympia ate breakfast, lunch and most dinners at the hotel alone, and she grew tired of this. She met a young Italian at the bar by the pool. He promised to take her to Naples in three weeks. She told Guyan that she was looking after her friend in hospital for a week, until the girl's mother arrives. Then she would be able to live at his condomonium for the remaining two weeks.
Antonio's face was so lovely but distracted by business. He said he'd like Olympia to stay for another week and go to Zurich with him. Olympia knew she must go to Naples, and that Guyan was her ticket there. She'd like to go, but her friend in Paris was expecting her to look after the flower shop for a month. He would be in Peru in late November, and she should visit him there. That sounds perfect.
Landing in Naples was extraordinary, and Olympia belonged here. But she was to be focussed for the week. Guyan was hounding her, and offering her gifts to entice her for another weekend with him. No time for romance, she was there to search for one man.
Olympia had had some realisations about those unlike her. Love was important, and not found daily in different expensive bed spreads and fluffy towels. As much as she would like for her friends to be similar to herself, it was best if they were not. And they were not. They listened to her intently and revelled in her ideas and follies. Sometimes they listened and learned. But it was not a lesson for her friends. It was not anything they should take notice of or care for. Humouring her only encouraged her, and for weaker people, she was dominant. Dominance was okay for her man, her support group. But not for her friends. And one of her friends had succumb to Olympia's opinion and was ever after miserable. The only human care Olympia possessed, Olympia used during this purposeful visit to a sunny city of love and mafia.
The one man who would help her stood at a street cafe with an espresso and a cigarette. The darkness surrounded him so, the ash suit, the moustache, the hat, the shoes looked like they had walked across the earth looking for debtors, the smoke surrounded his head and his hands in a very black cloud. Olympia drew spritely closer to her target. Played in a scene, she'd be very much like a schoolgirl in a red dress with polka dots, running up to the Head Master, asking for directions to the loo. It wasn't that Olympia had guts, she was oblivious to ego, status and red tape. After her lifetime of tales, she had met many men. They were all the same. The barrier around this man was obvious, no one would dare enter his space. There was surely seventeen gunmen watching the man's arena of old town suburbia, and Olympia was prancing into their fire. She looks fiesty to women, just for marching those cobbley stones in her patent peach pumps.
The man didn't look like he would say much, and indeed he didn't. Olympia loved the Italians and tried to not drift away into dreaming of his abode, for even this ancient mafioso was alluring to a common broad like Olympia. Concentrate. Olympia took a cigarette from a neat lilac packet, and offered her aide one, just as he butted out his last. He took it and eyed her like he would offer her money. They enjoyed the smoke in silence, she with grey smoke, he with black smoke. Must be tarred up lungs. Concentrate. Okay, so she asked for a macchiato to stand, and gestured at his hat. He offered it to her like he would take her photo wearing it. She was here for an important cause. She must concentrate. No flirting. But maybe this was a way. So she asked his name, Beau Fozzi of Lazziro. She asked him if that meant he was local, or was he instated with that title like a tourist. He laughed. Olympia de la Ritz Paris. Another cigarette, they were both on the way to hospital at this rate. He asked her what she was doing in the back streets of a city that offered more than coffee with grey men. She said she was there for love. Not for her own. For a love she feared she had broken.
The man came out of his guise and chose a story from his past. Looking for words he had not spoken in fifty years, he struggled with an explanation. A boy. A girl. A river. A rush. A storm. Come together. Cannot swim, the boy. Throws log, the girl. Runs, the girl. Jumps to save, the girl. Drowns, the boy. Visits grave. Love stays true. Animated so, trying to tell her that she is the river, the winds. The test. If in life they can't endure the weather, then after they may have a chance. Olympia was not satisfied with such symbolism and per chance. She needed to repair the damage she had done. She must join the two in a matrimony of sorts. She must find the boy. Olympia wished the man would return to his tough exterior and help her. She mentioned a name, and he shrugged. Were there others not into love, not believing in this? She hoped the world was not so jaded and petty as she. Olympia repeated the name and then San Giovanni Deli. He pointed and mumbled something about a river. Not that stupid river story. She called Guyan and he would take her to the deli in the morning. He was really too good to her. Had he known just what she was like, he would surely refuse her completely.
Sometimes it was easier to forget the past and focus. Concentrate. Okay, so they arrived at the deli and the lady behind the counter was dressed pretty with her apron. Olympia wandered what other slices she did. Olympia asked for the duck terrine, and she asked about a boy who might have delivered some frozen goods here. She wouldn't have remembered if it wasn't for his tears. He wept every delivery, like he was upset for days. He had carried on like this for a month. Did she know where to find him? Where was that? Guyan could take her there. Gracias.
Olympia stepped off the Vespa and onto dirty pavement, to find a dry old hut, that looked like an old guard's house. All wrapped up in the beige Louis Vuitton overcoat, with a powder blue dress spraying through at her beautiful knees, and similar coloured snake skinned high sandles, an outfit Guyan treated her to the previous afternoon. Olympia was very sassy. Guyan was in love. She looked into his eyes and turned to ignore the passion. She pulled the gate open and Guyan rode through. They arrived at an enormous house, with some sad tune playing, old guitar and violin, and a gypsy singing lost love. Olympia did not blink. Instead, she took strides to the large door and knocked. The sun was shining to remind the residents of summer and the beach, but they did not seem to notice. The boy appeared at the window, and Olympia was startled. As she waited for the process of unlocking, the jasmine lay droopy in the sun. She should tell him to water it.
Olympia explained to the boy, red eyed and in despair, about her friend. The girl in Saint Tropez was sad too, and longed for him. Olympia was there because she needed to see such deep love united, and though against her principles, her own ideals, she could not stop these lovers from being together. That dear old man must have convoluted this boy's mind with his homemade proverbs, as the boy began talking about a hurricane and flowers and the lost hope. Oh. She had travelled all this way, forfeited Germany for a little brat who daren't follow his heart. Olympia enquired his console. He told her of a job he was doing for the locals, and most of his time was with them if not working for his father. There would be no travel to see her friend, only letters and wishful words. Did Olympia have it right or what? This boy was simply obsessed, he was not in love with her friend, and Olympia had thought if her friend would see the boy in this state she would realise how very right Olympia was in cutting off the childish play of hearts. Now Olympia was satisfied. But what would she tell her friend? Though she didn't know of Olympia's trek, there should be some news to quell this crying soul. Perhaps she should send a telegram to her friend to go to Zurich. Guyan was waiting in the shade of a big leafy tree, over hanging the roof with hard red flowers. They rode back to Naples for ice cream and found a spot poolside to rub oil on each others' legs. Olympia was so happy to not have a pathetic boy in love with her, and she was worried now about her friend. Olympia would have to return to Cote d'Azur before too long. She thought about the river and the storm. Maybe she wasn't the weather, it was love. She was happy she wasn't ever so deeply in love that she would drown. Perhaps the girl in the anecdote threw the log at the boy's head?!
Leila
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
3. Snow House
The Sullen Wake to Flowers
Snow House
by Leila Rousseau
- -
Softness is comparable to the findings of the day. Find them innocent and pretty, their light touch will never betray virgin purity. Find them buoyant and tough, their eager hands will be tiresome and the comments obscene. They are as you are, treading on this earth, often lifting the dead leaves from the undergrowth to spare the new. You may find them tender, as powdered layers of snow over a pillow for dreams, or as a flame seducing hard ice, flickering its eyes of love, while vapourising every layer. Softness, watch now until it is tainted, in you and in her.
- -
A tiny rose. Mauve bud, held in her hand. The sun awoke this girl on the same day she had clipped the flower from the estuary. Morning walks were focussed, breathing fresh air and thinking about life and the day to ensue. Some places more spirited than others. Her legs were as beautiful, when compared to passers' by. Laziness was not her fight. It was day, rushing to the night. Some small reason to memorise the day, remembering the colours and the flavours and the perfumes.
Never to remember words, just washing away would cleanse her skin from the phrases and whinging that could gnaw at even the most armoured soul. This girl could hear all of the sniggers and they were far out-weighed by laughs and funny jokes. But still, she couldn't bare it. She would rather live in silence than to hear superfluous chatting and the awful female pitches.
Gathering speed, the feet wanted to jump. Energy to cut a glacier with only several pounces. Always breaking free from a stagnant challenge, Tandra was completely oblivious to other walkers. This was until she saw a family of ducks, a mother with two ducklings bobbed along the mangroves peacefully. Then the mother paddled much farther from her followers, their pace without her mature tenacity. Perhaps it would emanate. Tandra slid back into the roaming thought, avoiding her social habits of narcissism and flirting. The larger her strides, the happier she became in recluse. She wasn't shutting herself from the world, she was shutting herself in wide-open spaces.
Slow spitting motion was the way the town, the city, rejected her. Tandra knew she'd be welcomed to others in the country, but the hallow spat her across the waters. On the last day she paced the riparian, she saw two grown ducks, dipping under the clear shallows. Tandra wandered what would be so close to the land, that made the shy ducks dine in. And, why was it so unmudded here? Further the dirty way, nearer the cleaner, and post for remote ideals, untravelled distances. Was it possible that the traffic moved the junk around so much? Why wouldn't yachts and ferry boats be banned from swimming, it must be too cloudy to see, for the fish and the ducks.
Tandra was known to talk. She listened to others too. Always in an effort to be inspired and learn the ways of others. She was popular, her laughter responded kindly to good and bad humour. Her sharp colours and super style were much appreciated by the dull and she was admired by her peers. Her toned back and forceful arms ensured she wouldn't be talked back to, even after creating a stir with bold suggestion or poor wit on a slow day.
Tandra looked through open windows, as though waiting a red wren to fly in to tell her an important truth. Instead, the sunshine glared on the panes, and the wind shut them abruptly. The apricot clouds darkened to avoid her gaze. Why are only the inside of her eyelids the acceptable look for Tandra? Must she be invisible or must the world be black? She grabbed the curtain and dragged it across. Then she almost tore the other, sheltering the earth from her staring eyes. She daren't take a mirror in her hand. Tandra dreaded her morning walk in the morrow.
Tandra was is love with so many things, a collection of things: some gypsy music with violins and guitars strumming wildly, dandelions. When she was a child, she picked bunches of yellow spots with long furry stems with her sister for her mother, much to the annoyance of her father. Though she, with her little sibling, was only alluding to her mother's amusement. And again, not in spite of her Father, though his temper was tipped with a sprinkling of flour or salt. Sometimes it seemed the balance weight was a pale of vinegar. Tandra loved deep crunching snow like in the north, it fell so thick among the pines. Squirrels and little animals running around on important business. Bright woolen jumpers to avoid the winter blues. Cafes with only candle lighting and couches to snuggle on.
It was a long interval between the bad day and when Tandra left the house. A lot of berry and ginger tea was drunk, the wooden floor was thoroughly wiped down by her warm socks, and she didn't know what the weather had been doing outside. Tandra decided to leave the house, because she thought it was her duty to understand what was happening far and wide.
She took the train north, the hours and hours were spent watching the fir trees grow blacker and bleaker, and then like a flock of sheep, they were white, and so powdered with snow. Tandra was not sure if the snow was worse than the blackness before. Was the snow the after effect? She remembered a time when, from her window, she would see rolled up snow. The ball would forever gather snow until it was so big it could be a mountain, and melt in the spring, after a lot of sun rays, into a lake.
The snow was there for sure, like it was falling all over the world. How would she know? It has taken so long already to find this. maybe if she goes back, the snow will be falling in the south. Tandra exited the train coach and stepped out to the meters depths, that she would press in almond shapes with her boots. The north was the only place now with snow. Somehow or other, there would be only one way to share the snow with the south. The tallest hill, the largest snowball, and the biggest push. If it was possible to avoid destruction along the way, maybe use a cleared road and put up signs for the animals.
An old man discussed her idea with the fluffy faced locals, and they decided that it was impossible. Another question came about, the same question Tandra pondered: was the world changing now, and if putting snow where the world would melt it, would it only be a nuisance and delay some bigger better plans made for the globe?
It bothered Tandra, that she didn't know why the sun had closed its eyes on her, and why it was pitch black in the south and without the white sprinkling. These Northerners didn't understand the confusion. She sell backwards into the mould and just thought that maybe she should move to this place, so she could be with the heavenly blanket. How long would it be though, until the winters grew dark and wet. Would the southern storms and vengeance push up to the north? How far, and when? A few years? A hundred? Where would the snow reside if there is no northern refuge? Perhaps the equator. Or would it float in orbit while it waits for the water to calm, and the sun to glow kindly.
For a decade Tandra tidied her cabin cottage in the north. Every winter wading through the front yard out to the firs. Every summer drawing the turquoise curtains just before sundown. Tandra had been photographing snowflakes. After 10 years of winters, she had 19223 specimens, almost enough to fill a whole bucket, or create a snowman's head. Tandra created a snow castle too. It took 12 days to have a nice one ready, and if she remembered nuts and seeds and wheat, then the beings of the the tundra would jump around the palace and it became quite alive and happy.
Tandra laughed at the animals playing about, and she fed them sometimes too. Later in the day, when the fun had been had, the rats came to finish off the seeds, and they scurried for shelter, somewhere warmer than the snow house. They wouldn't dare enter the cabin, but there was a tree stump with a burrow underneath it, that was cosy after supper.
Tandra received a letter from her friend in the south. She heard of a storm moving from the other side of the world. It was expected to go north and then approach Tandra's latitude. The storm was a snow storm, but it may excite rains. Creoleah would visit tandra by train and bring supplies and a helping hand for necessary renovations.
Several days after, Creoleah packed over the salty walkway, and hugged Tandra. There was no need to ask for toast, as Tandra had prepared pomegranate juice, blackberry tea, rye bread and salad toppings. Breakfast was served. Creoleah showed her the bolts and drills needed to tie the house down, and Tandra made her bed. Creoleah explained the problems in the south during the spring. The cities were predominated by wetlands and bullrushes were the most common flower. Water lilies too, imported from China and Nymphaes from Paris, the lotus and chestnuts too. But the daffodils and jonquils would only grow in pots in apartments away from the cold rains. Most of the city was so ugly and dirty now, not like while ago.
Creoleah didn't return to the south. Writing to her mother that Tandra needed help during the storm, and to send another tarpaulin in case the floors became damp. Sometimes Creoleah would wander off past the forest and come back with some machined wood palings. She intended to extend the cabin, so the both of them could live there. Actually, the extra room was for food stores in case the storms would keep them locked in for weeks. Tandra sadly pulled out a dinghy and its paddles. Creoleah said it was for the best that we have that, ready as we don't know what to expect. She tied the boat under the front porch.
Creoleah's family wrote, the storm was due on the 5th of January on the North Pole, so to expect it later in the day as it had grown rough. Tandra was not scared. Three days to go, they were ready. The two had been building a snow castle outside the cabin, to encase it. Part of the front yard and the tree stump were included in the structure. There was four squirrels and a few wrens, and a little hedgehog. The ice roof was attached to the cottage roof for the initial construction, and it was, excepting this, totally freestanding in a dome, like an Eskimo's igloo. Creoleah wiped the icy patches, so they could all see outside.
All four squirrels bounded into the house at once, The ground shook and the pantry rattled. The curtains were open to the ice view, and the wrens were perched on the rails. Their wings flapped a little as they jumped with fright. Tandra lit more candles, ready for a gust of wind. Creoleah was sure, the snow castle would hold, and the cabin would stay. She paddled to the door and shut it behind her. Wearing a coat made from local furs, Creoleah was sure, the house would not blow down. Her ears listened at the wall, through the earmuff, the ice and surely a layer of snow. Nothing. The wall and ground rumbled again and she heard the sound of picks smashing into the ice ceiling. Creoleah returned to the cabin. The ice meteors were still falling, for hours. The tarpaulin would be useless if the ice roof was broken, but Creoleah and Tandra climbed over the timber and fixed the plastic across to provide protection for their shelter.
How long would this last The pounding stopped and started again. They ate and slept and waited. Rivers and lakes would surely be formed mid Winter now, no tundra would survive, no reindeer herder would see his flock again. Perhaps go east for the winter, forever, if the Russians permitted. Not even a flux on the market this year, reindeer meat would die with their farmed and loved souls, and with the acres of former dry lands and snow fields, and with the ancient art of the farmers. The families of farmers would have to learn to boat and fish, and swim, and build their shelters on floating platforms.
How long would a thick wall last? Made from ice it would surely be molten in an hour if hit by water. Should rain like torrents of promiscuous ants falling from the sky, to scare those animals and people living peacefully. The walls would engulf the water, sinking everything protected by it, and the water would permeate the barriers by chewing through it like fast old gums, in a very painful manner.
Tandra and Creoleah hammered at the snow castle. The wall was strong, and the iron strikes only nibbled at the blocks. They decided to keep the enclosure. It was sturdy against their toil, and would surely be a marvel against the weather. With nothing to do, they thought a lot and waited a lot more.
For days and nights, black but for the fluorescent worry of the winter sky and the quivering candlelight fires, the question returned and re-question. How long would this last? How long would these thick walls last? How land would it be until anyone of them was sure it was safe to go outside? How long would it take to escape the lasting walls? Oh, would a mother of ours knock at the door with a box of answers, all reading <>.
One of the squirrels jumped out to the yard when Creoleah opened the door. The little animal scratched at the wall. If the wall was to be melted from the outside, it would have by now. Creoleah and Tandra spared no effort, the wall of the snow castle was gradually broken away, revealing thick fluffy snow. Tandra drove her shovel through over a metre of the fluff. The castle would be snowed in during the week at this rate. Everyone evacuated . The ski racquet shoes were necessary to avoid plunging into the strenuous depths. The dinghy was pushed and dragged for miles. Possibly some houses were already covered, as there were no signs of road clearing or other people. Three was no wind to freeze them or compass to guide them.
Was it snowing everywhere? Tandra wanted to travel south to make sure. Perhaps it would be worse now, after the rains and the storms. The quiet crunching of their progress across the glistening white made Tandra nervous. If only it hadn't snowed after the floods.
Leila
Snow House
by Leila Rousseau
- -
Softness is comparable to the findings of the day. Find them innocent and pretty, their light touch will never betray virgin purity. Find them buoyant and tough, their eager hands will be tiresome and the comments obscene. They are as you are, treading on this earth, often lifting the dead leaves from the undergrowth to spare the new. You may find them tender, as powdered layers of snow over a pillow for dreams, or as a flame seducing hard ice, flickering its eyes of love, while vapourising every layer. Softness, watch now until it is tainted, in you and in her.
- -
A tiny rose. Mauve bud, held in her hand. The sun awoke this girl on the same day she had clipped the flower from the estuary. Morning walks were focussed, breathing fresh air and thinking about life and the day to ensue. Some places more spirited than others. Her legs were as beautiful, when compared to passers' by. Laziness was not her fight. It was day, rushing to the night. Some small reason to memorise the day, remembering the colours and the flavours and the perfumes.
Never to remember words, just washing away would cleanse her skin from the phrases and whinging that could gnaw at even the most armoured soul. This girl could hear all of the sniggers and they were far out-weighed by laughs and funny jokes. But still, she couldn't bare it. She would rather live in silence than to hear superfluous chatting and the awful female pitches.
Gathering speed, the feet wanted to jump. Energy to cut a glacier with only several pounces. Always breaking free from a stagnant challenge, Tandra was completely oblivious to other walkers. This was until she saw a family of ducks, a mother with two ducklings bobbed along the mangroves peacefully. Then the mother paddled much farther from her followers, their pace without her mature tenacity. Perhaps it would emanate. Tandra slid back into the roaming thought, avoiding her social habits of narcissism and flirting. The larger her strides, the happier she became in recluse. She wasn't shutting herself from the world, she was shutting herself in wide-open spaces.
Slow spitting motion was the way the town, the city, rejected her. Tandra knew she'd be welcomed to others in the country, but the hallow spat her across the waters. On the last day she paced the riparian, she saw two grown ducks, dipping under the clear shallows. Tandra wandered what would be so close to the land, that made the shy ducks dine in. And, why was it so unmudded here? Further the dirty way, nearer the cleaner, and post for remote ideals, untravelled distances. Was it possible that the traffic moved the junk around so much? Why wouldn't yachts and ferry boats be banned from swimming, it must be too cloudy to see, for the fish and the ducks.
Tandra was known to talk. She listened to others too. Always in an effort to be inspired and learn the ways of others. She was popular, her laughter responded kindly to good and bad humour. Her sharp colours and super style were much appreciated by the dull and she was admired by her peers. Her toned back and forceful arms ensured she wouldn't be talked back to, even after creating a stir with bold suggestion or poor wit on a slow day.
Tandra looked through open windows, as though waiting a red wren to fly in to tell her an important truth. Instead, the sunshine glared on the panes, and the wind shut them abruptly. The apricot clouds darkened to avoid her gaze. Why are only the inside of her eyelids the acceptable look for Tandra? Must she be invisible or must the world be black? She grabbed the curtain and dragged it across. Then she almost tore the other, sheltering the earth from her staring eyes. She daren't take a mirror in her hand. Tandra dreaded her morning walk in the morrow.
Tandra was is love with so many things, a collection of things: some gypsy music with violins and guitars strumming wildly, dandelions. When she was a child, she picked bunches of yellow spots with long furry stems with her sister for her mother, much to the annoyance of her father. Though she, with her little sibling, was only alluding to her mother's amusement. And again, not in spite of her Father, though his temper was tipped with a sprinkling of flour or salt. Sometimes it seemed the balance weight was a pale of vinegar. Tandra loved deep crunching snow like in the north, it fell so thick among the pines. Squirrels and little animals running around on important business. Bright woolen jumpers to avoid the winter blues. Cafes with only candle lighting and couches to snuggle on.
It was a long interval between the bad day and when Tandra left the house. A lot of berry and ginger tea was drunk, the wooden floor was thoroughly wiped down by her warm socks, and she didn't know what the weather had been doing outside. Tandra decided to leave the house, because she thought it was her duty to understand what was happening far and wide.
She took the train north, the hours and hours were spent watching the fir trees grow blacker and bleaker, and then like a flock of sheep, they were white, and so powdered with snow. Tandra was not sure if the snow was worse than the blackness before. Was the snow the after effect? She remembered a time when, from her window, she would see rolled up snow. The ball would forever gather snow until it was so big it could be a mountain, and melt in the spring, after a lot of sun rays, into a lake.
The snow was there for sure, like it was falling all over the world. How would she know? It has taken so long already to find this. maybe if she goes back, the snow will be falling in the south. Tandra exited the train coach and stepped out to the meters depths, that she would press in almond shapes with her boots. The north was the only place now with snow. Somehow or other, there would be only one way to share the snow with the south. The tallest hill, the largest snowball, and the biggest push. If it was possible to avoid destruction along the way, maybe use a cleared road and put up signs for the animals.
An old man discussed her idea with the fluffy faced locals, and they decided that it was impossible. Another question came about, the same question Tandra pondered: was the world changing now, and if putting snow where the world would melt it, would it only be a nuisance and delay some bigger better plans made for the globe?
It bothered Tandra, that she didn't know why the sun had closed its eyes on her, and why it was pitch black in the south and without the white sprinkling. These Northerners didn't understand the confusion. She sell backwards into the mould and just thought that maybe she should move to this place, so she could be with the heavenly blanket. How long would it be though, until the winters grew dark and wet. Would the southern storms and vengeance push up to the north? How far, and when? A few years? A hundred? Where would the snow reside if there is no northern refuge? Perhaps the equator. Or would it float in orbit while it waits for the water to calm, and the sun to glow kindly.
For a decade Tandra tidied her cabin cottage in the north. Every winter wading through the front yard out to the firs. Every summer drawing the turquoise curtains just before sundown. Tandra had been photographing snowflakes. After 10 years of winters, she had 19223 specimens, almost enough to fill a whole bucket, or create a snowman's head. Tandra created a snow castle too. It took 12 days to have a nice one ready, and if she remembered nuts and seeds and wheat, then the beings of the the tundra would jump around the palace and it became quite alive and happy.
Tandra laughed at the animals playing about, and she fed them sometimes too. Later in the day, when the fun had been had, the rats came to finish off the seeds, and they scurried for shelter, somewhere warmer than the snow house. They wouldn't dare enter the cabin, but there was a tree stump with a burrow underneath it, that was cosy after supper.
Tandra received a letter from her friend in the south. She heard of a storm moving from the other side of the world. It was expected to go north and then approach Tandra's latitude. The storm was a snow storm, but it may excite rains. Creoleah would visit tandra by train and bring supplies and a helping hand for necessary renovations.
Several days after, Creoleah packed over the salty walkway, and hugged Tandra. There was no need to ask for toast, as Tandra had prepared pomegranate juice, blackberry tea, rye bread and salad toppings. Breakfast was served. Creoleah showed her the bolts and drills needed to tie the house down, and Tandra made her bed. Creoleah explained the problems in the south during the spring. The cities were predominated by wetlands and bullrushes were the most common flower. Water lilies too, imported from China and Nymphaes from Paris, the lotus and chestnuts too. But the daffodils and jonquils would only grow in pots in apartments away from the cold rains. Most of the city was so ugly and dirty now, not like while ago.
Creoleah didn't return to the south. Writing to her mother that Tandra needed help during the storm, and to send another tarpaulin in case the floors became damp. Sometimes Creoleah would wander off past the forest and come back with some machined wood palings. She intended to extend the cabin, so the both of them could live there. Actually, the extra room was for food stores in case the storms would keep them locked in for weeks. Tandra sadly pulled out a dinghy and its paddles. Creoleah said it was for the best that we have that, ready as we don't know what to expect. She tied the boat under the front porch.
Creoleah's family wrote, the storm was due on the 5th of January on the North Pole, so to expect it later in the day as it had grown rough. Tandra was not scared. Three days to go, they were ready. The two had been building a snow castle outside the cabin, to encase it. Part of the front yard and the tree stump were included in the structure. There was four squirrels and a few wrens, and a little hedgehog. The ice roof was attached to the cottage roof for the initial construction, and it was, excepting this, totally freestanding in a dome, like an Eskimo's igloo. Creoleah wiped the icy patches, so they could all see outside.
All four squirrels bounded into the house at once, The ground shook and the pantry rattled. The curtains were open to the ice view, and the wrens were perched on the rails. Their wings flapped a little as they jumped with fright. Tandra lit more candles, ready for a gust of wind. Creoleah was sure, the snow castle would hold, and the cabin would stay. She paddled to the door and shut it behind her. Wearing a coat made from local furs, Creoleah was sure, the house would not blow down. Her ears listened at the wall, through the earmuff, the ice and surely a layer of snow. Nothing. The wall and ground rumbled again and she heard the sound of picks smashing into the ice ceiling. Creoleah returned to the cabin. The ice meteors were still falling, for hours. The tarpaulin would be useless if the ice roof was broken, but Creoleah and Tandra climbed over the timber and fixed the plastic across to provide protection for their shelter.
How long would this last The pounding stopped and started again. They ate and slept and waited. Rivers and lakes would surely be formed mid Winter now, no tundra would survive, no reindeer herder would see his flock again. Perhaps go east for the winter, forever, if the Russians permitted. Not even a flux on the market this year, reindeer meat would die with their farmed and loved souls, and with the acres of former dry lands and snow fields, and with the ancient art of the farmers. The families of farmers would have to learn to boat and fish, and swim, and build their shelters on floating platforms.
How long would a thick wall last? Made from ice it would surely be molten in an hour if hit by water. Should rain like torrents of promiscuous ants falling from the sky, to scare those animals and people living peacefully. The walls would engulf the water, sinking everything protected by it, and the water would permeate the barriers by chewing through it like fast old gums, in a very painful manner.
Tandra and Creoleah hammered at the snow castle. The wall was strong, and the iron strikes only nibbled at the blocks. They decided to keep the enclosure. It was sturdy against their toil, and would surely be a marvel against the weather. With nothing to do, they thought a lot and waited a lot more.
For days and nights, black but for the fluorescent worry of the winter sky and the quivering candlelight fires, the question returned and re-question. How long would this last? How long would these thick walls last? How land would it be until anyone of them was sure it was safe to go outside? How long would it take to escape the lasting walls? Oh, would a mother of ours knock at the door with a box of answers, all reading <
One of the squirrels jumped out to the yard when Creoleah opened the door. The little animal scratched at the wall. If the wall was to be melted from the outside, it would have by now. Creoleah and Tandra spared no effort, the wall of the snow castle was gradually broken away, revealing thick fluffy snow. Tandra drove her shovel through over a metre of the fluff. The castle would be snowed in during the week at this rate. Everyone evacuated . The ski racquet shoes were necessary to avoid plunging into the strenuous depths. The dinghy was pushed and dragged for miles. Possibly some houses were already covered, as there were no signs of road clearing or other people. Three was no wind to freeze them or compass to guide them.
Was it snowing everywhere? Tandra wanted to travel south to make sure. Perhaps it would be worse now, after the rains and the storms. The quiet crunching of their progress across the glistening white made Tandra nervous. If only it hadn't snowed after the floods.
Leila
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
