[Carol Taylor]

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For Claire

I have begun to dream each night of Claire,
pale childhood ghost, her image not quite clear.
We were lovers once and young, and unaware.

Ash gray eyes, short-cropped-straw-light-near-white hair,
Breathless street waif look, so au courant that year.
I have begun to dream each night of Claire,

who found me at a bleak Bruxelles affair:
You’ve not yet been? It is, you know, so near.
We were lovers once and young, and unaware,

and drove all night to Paris on a dare:
We go? I know <u>le tout Paris</u>, my dear.
I have begun to dream that each night Claire

arrives with Muscadet, les fruits de mer -
fills my anxious mouth, and wipes away my fear -
she was my lover once, and young, and yet aware

that food and wine, and softly perfumed air,
would make my awkwardness soon disappear.
I have begun to dream. Each night now Claire

and I ascend to Sacre Coeur, her bare,
skin warm beneath a street-length cloak; and here
I am her lover, yes, and young, and unaware

that one day reveries of times this rare
will have an old man blink to fight a tear.
I have begun to dream each night of Claire;
we were lovers once and young, and unaware.

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Funny, clever take on aging, a rueful preview of "memory lane"--that dreadful neighborhood we all end up in--and charming in its use of French, of dialogue with an accent, of irony, and of food! I recognize this poem, and know that the poet is not just pretending when he discusses food.

Or when he tackles any of the strict forms of poetry, either: this is extremely skillful, so fresh and imaginative it almost disguises the sadness.


~Rhina

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[Janet Kenny]

I remember this delightful picture of a young man's initiation into the world of sex and garlic. The repetition of the villanelle is used with wit.
Lovely stuff.
Janet

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited November 27, 2004).]

[grasshopper]

I loved this when I first read it here, and I'm sure I'm going to repeat what I said then. It is an entirely charming poem -romantic and nostalgic. The only thing that doesn't seem quite right to me is that 'childhood ghost' because this isn't a 'childhood' memory, is it? Claire was young but certainly not a child, neither was the narrator. But apart from that, lovely stuff, and an exceptional example of the villanelle form, which is not an easy one to master.
Regards, Maz

[Terese Coe]

This seems to have been further refined since I last saw it (and I may not have seen the final draft at D.E.). It's a superb villanelle. The sentiment is handled with great skill as well, and one can't easily forget whose work this is.

Nothing like driving all night (to the City of Light, among other places) together to put a fix on you for life.

By the way, when I said in my reply (back then) that this was "spare" in comparison to the poet's other work, it's possible that I was (also) influenced by what I now see as the paring-down quality of the repetends. A villanelle, like a song with refrains, allows one to linger over thoughts, see their relationships with one another more, and move both backward and forward in time so as to entice it to stand still a little longer. There is less quantity and more depth when it's done well.

"'Memory lane'--that dreadful neighborhood we all end up in": ha! That's such a scintillating line, you should write a poem for it, Rhina.

Terese

[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited November 30, 2004).]

[Margaret Moore]

A tour de forceindeed. Felicitations!! to whomsoever,

Margaret.

[Marion Shore]

Tender, lovely, sad and romantic. My one nit is the "childhood ghost" --as Maz pointed out, though this is about being young, it's not about childhood.

Très charmant!

[Tim Murphy]

I agree that this is a very acomplished villanelle. At the Deep End I told the author "We'll always have Paris." His response? "The Nazis wore grey, and you wore a green blazer!" Wonderful poem.

[Maggie Porter]

Funny and charming. Not much you could say about this kind of thing is there?

I'm not sure I'd like to have the poet to dinner though

Maybe for a triste or something like that, but definitely not for chicken pot pie.

[Rhina P. Espaillat]

Maggie, I'm intrigued by a dish I've never heard of! What's a "triste"? That's the Spanish/French/Italian word for "sad," which doesn't bode well for a recipe! As it happens, this poem is one of the only three I recognize among these 18 poems, and it would be a mistake to pass up a dinner cooked by this poet.

[Maggie Porter]

Uno chiste eh?

I suppose I am to be embarrassed by someone's lack of wit.

I'm not. Nor sad.

Living in phonetics ville has left me out of the spelling competitions. But it has given me much more to think about than the usual love found/love lost kinds of things.

Nothing wrong with that though and this poet must be one helluva lover not to mention, somewhat of a show off.

And, nothing wrong with that either in the proper setting