If words are stones, what is silence?

Answer, I do try! Not always on target, I dare say.

Here follows the answers

I have tried to give…

They costed me.

As they left me feeling

Like in a desert…

Were the stones

Have the shape of words.

That’s why I consider

Them

Now as mine,

Very much.

Even if inspired

By someone else.

Reflections…

If not perfect,

They are honest.

Of course, for a young medic,
War is about the worst thing.
As for the same man,
Many, many years later.
And it is.
For a girl of seventeen
Learning the job of nurse,
At a special unit for cancerous,
It might be the same.
Why didn’t she quit?
Pride? Yes and no!
How to admit,
When you fight hard for it,
You were as wrong
As your parents were right?
Except, that not for one moment,
The thought and even the desire
To call it a day enter my mind.
Now, I think,
Why on earth did I did that to myself?
Seeing people of all ages
Dying of that so mysterious disease
Is putting your mind
Into just doing your damned best.
Or in such a kind of oblivion,
People think you are very shallow.
Some are dupe.
Others?
My dear unforgettable patients.
Meeting mute autistic children,
Some few months later, yet,
Makes you enter an inscruptable world.
Without speaking about cerebral palsy,
Epilepsy, and so many, yes,
Uncountable pains and illnesses.
Are we ever going to understand all that?
When later, I worked as nurse,
Again in a dying cancer unit,
My apartment was full of cats
And very much like a green house.
To compensate, I always thought.
I have been on and off from nursing.
The last places were:
A multisclerosis hospital:
I adore those patients. Yes, I do.
Adolescent Unit in Glasgow
Where young girls are starving
Themselves to death by all means.
How clever they are to do it,
You will never imagine.
And the very last time,
I was working with Hasidim’s
At their nursing home for the elderly,
The doctor there, was so obsessed by life,
You could call it therapeutic harassment.
So, maybe, it is the reason why now,
I rejoice in simple things.
And while I was plodding to find a new way,
I have been help greatly by a certain poet.
And I try too
To give mere love and friendship…
As a nurse,
Better to achieve
A kind of distant compassion.
Never was I really able to feel
That healthy form of indifference.
But it is self-destruction
To go on in that job
With your heart on your sleeve.
So, as I say.
Flowers, birds, dog’s and some humans.
Yes, of course.
Some humans.
I love humans.
O! Should I dare to say?
I don’t understand the title very well.
For the rest, my answer may not be on target.
What I try to say is that many of the diseases
Are also related to the dangerous enterprises of humans.
Many doctors nowadays will tell you about:
Why cancers, why autism, why anorexia nervosa
And so forth and so on.
The terrible thing, Poet,
Is that even if people are still killed in war,
Many more are by hunger or
The mismanagement of our resources and
Of this patient planet.

And of course, here follows exactly what I try to do…

But, as always I did the things in reverse…

Here at leastt, they are in the order

They should be…

About Diversity and distant Worlds

The contrasts or differences between our places are infinite,  

I never realised before how Minnesota was close to Canada…  

Compare: the tardily storms raging in your Northern Country

And the Gulf Stream which as always is warming our shores…

The Ice Queen visits you still, here, Scotch mist is outpouring,  

Or simply” brown rain” as they describe it in the verdant Erin…

Those showers are lush and abundant in our youthful spring.

As much in mine than au Beau Pays des plus Grands Bardes.  

Do I tell you I was so obsessed that I possess a Celtic harp?  

Does it come from the Mists of Avalon and Morgan le Fey?

Or is it by reading and reading, the Mary Stewart’s version?  

She is the voice of Merlin, called by her, yet, another name…

If you don’t know, would you trust me when I enlighten you?

How many times, does she not make the poor guy drew rains?  

Quite a lot! As it is required of him to be where he had to be.

Cruelly, she deprived him of witchcraft or his gift of ubiquity!

Ireland! My Enchanted Country, how I do long to be with you…  

“Wake up! Clarté! Where have you been? What the matter with you?”

“O! Poet, I can’t help it! Pardon me! From Bantry Bay to Dublin city,

I am enthralled or spell-bound; the conjuring words are not too strong.”  

Please, Clarté, this is no proper job, you can better, give it a finer try”  

“Yes, Poet! You are honest! I can better; I have that curious tendency…”  

Another divergence is your grass so dead when it shows at all.  

Now it plays hide and seek under the so cold and virgin snow.

I dread and fear the cruelty of your everlasting blasting winds…  

But then, the men, there, are so sweet; they enfold their ladies   

With woven woollen plaids or handmade Hamish patchworks…

Meanwhile, our buds bloom in forests, gardens, groves, lanes.

Our fields shine green emerald, other by now are ploughed up,

Waiting for crop growing or cattle’s, mainly cows, to pasture!

Poets, for me –don’t ask me why –the first flowers are yellow.  

Not true! To proof me wrong: Here is the orchard of Philemon!

Trees “whitening”, his meadow is whitish-green by snowdrops.  

If some crocuses are of gold, others are pale or violet. Violets?  

Are violet! In a few weeks, at one of the nicest neighbourhood  

Of Brussels , at a stone toss from where Marco, the dear friend  

Lives, the Japanese cherry trees will blossom so exuberantly or

So deliriously, they’ll paint the streets all pink with their petals.  

But, forsythias and how do you call those little round flowers?  

Are they Bamboo bushes? And do agree, buttercups of all kind,  

Are they not yellow? Do you know that magical, musical piece  

From Sir Edward William Elgar? Titled: “The Starlight Express”.  

It is all about fairies and children’s dreams. There, the song of  

Dandelions and daffodils comes to the tune of the goats’ bells!  

Sure, here are the culprits that are colouring my spring yellow!

It could have been the end, then dog and hen food were needed

At the supermarket, how to resist those multicolour primavera?  

My heart was full of a gentle and silent joy, but blood and joy…

O! Please, dear Angel, heal broken hearts, I hope and pray and …  

Many of the bulbs I chose had to be like the vital fluid: scarlet.

Except for the lilies, they are such a pure gift: White lilies! But

The only ones were called Oriental or Cassandra! Yes! Dragon!

I don’t know why! And what a name for such a pristine flower!  

I prefer the like of Canna’s or Calla’s also said Zantedeschia’s…

For Primavera, I buy a red Shirley and a few pompon Dahlia’s!

Coming happy from the shop; I heard the joyful trills of a bird!

Is it a Merlin call? I searched, watched: there on a cypress’s top.  

O! What a small one! O! Bliss! I fetched the binocular! Too late!  

A turtle-dove! Yes, dear, he was all alone, perching in its place.

Believe me; all in all, I was comforted it was not the Peregrine.  

To LSR 

My Dogs as White Wolves

Here is another dogs’ story, older than one year, at least…

Things keep going on, moving, evolving revolving…

While others seems completely unchangeable!

Just fun, my introduction as I never blog then.

I hardly knew what the word mean, in fact…

Hello everybody!

I was going to tell you something new about two little dogs, which, by the way, are not so little anymore!

The story came upon me while I was walking them for their morning daily outing…

There, they were! So in harmony!

But first, I want to recount you the joke, which was not meant to be so!

Earlier that same morning my friend and I we heard a strange sound…

It sounds like an âne (ass), does he tell me all in French…

I must have been still a bit sleepy because while he said it in the most correct French,

I heard the word haan in Dutch…

But then I realised….

And he was quite right about it!

It sounds truly enough like a donkey and not at all like a cock!

In fact, later with the dogs, yes the same ones of the story start;

I heard that sound again…

And guess what it was?

Geese, yes dear…

That sound of the morrow has been quite muffled because we were indoors!

OK, this is it!

Now let us go back to the dogs!

First things first!

They are twins…

I think, I already told a couple of things about them some while ago,

I don’t remember exactly what…

This time it is about a beautiful dream I had about them….

The three of us were in a strange never seen before place.

Ben as always was ahead because we usually unleash him…

And there he goes, running very fast straight to the top of a kind of hill…

Maybe I read too many an Indian story when I was young because

I do always strain my eyes trying to catch what on earth can make him so swift…

And all at once it dawned on me!

Listen first to this…

Many ones believe Ben to be my dog…

I bet people are always impressed by stories, which fit their own ideas!

You see there is that common notion about dogs

Being the portrait of their masters or reverse…

Mind it!

Little Ben and I we tend too look sturdy,

While Camden is higher on his legs, just like my friend and ex-hubby…

Fact is those people are totally wrong!

Just looks does not mean much as always!

There is much more than the eyes meet…

OK, what was my revelation?

What was driving Little Ben,

Whom did I tell you, is turning ten next January,

What was is, which calls him to the top of that hill?

If by any ways, he is like me, I thought….

My unconscious self must have been more impress

By that last reading about poodles,

Chihuahuas and the likes that I wish for,

So much so that even in my dream,

It leads me to think that if by a strange twist

Ben is like me at all…

He will indeed be very curious to see what it is

That hides and comes after that top….

I am also that curious!

I find it fascinating to be in an unknown place

Going up hill and imagining that a totally unexpected world

Will be a-waiting for me just to be discovered…

One of the other things I was going to say is also about a…

I had a dream about a wonderful dog…

It was a she-dog.

It was before we adopt Camden,

While Ben was already part of our household.

So, that she-dog, she was also on a mound…

A very strange place indeed,

Likes a kind of little hill in the middle of an endless plain….

Somehow I don’t know why I always relate that dream

To King Arthur, yes the famous one!

Well, I know!

How strange…

How could I forget that!

In the dream, I was King Arthur!

And the dog was mine!

She was also a kind of seer…

The bearer of a foresight about a battle…

She was a kind of omen…

A good omen, for that!

She was a very important dog, she was!

Anyway, it is there and then that I knew Camden was her name!

That dog was a sheepdog. A Collie.

I can’t say they are my favourite dogs…

I wound lie…

But they seem to have a weak spot for me!

Always been so!

Wherever I go!

Also they are like showing me a way to absolute love and total trust…

Would you be surprise that just before the dream I had,

I met Ben’s brother and had a pang of a kind!

Yes, I felt in love with him, I confess!

The fact is that as far as mongrel can be a look-alike of the true thing,

He was really close to that she-dog I would have a vision sometime later…

So it is

That when his owner told us he wants to get rid of him,

We did not hesitated a second and Max became Camden….

A while before the Belgian pop group did, in fact!

Ben not just like his bro, of course,

As they are part Berner Senner, part of a lot of other things,

Ben, by the way, was supposed to be called Bern!

Man! What an idea!

You know, that means bear….

I must be one of the few who is seeing a bear for what it is: no teddy!

And I am forever grateful, that Ben is Ben…

This seems the right place here to say so!

As well as thank to the dogs to be so wonderful

Even if some time I wish them to be bald!

See, always been an obsession, that Camden story!

Tumut, NSW, Australia: Another Windy Plain…

From the Winding Valley to the Windy Plains…

And about bond…

I am reading Somerset Maugham.

And…

That bitter sweet song of Indochine follows me wherever I go.

«J’ai demandé à la Lune…»

Where Moon doesn’t care a dam about our Love’s misfortune…

Not much to do with the Moon-shadow of the Cat!

As I try to formulate some encounter…

And there too,

Like: even for non sentimental questions,

The Moon doesn’t have a shadow of an answer….

This time, the fact is the matter.

Like: how to speak about Camden?

Camden is one of my dogs; twins.

But except they were born the same day

From the same parents,

The two of them haven’t much in common.

Ben was adopted still a puppy,

At seven months, Camden was fully grown .

With all the problems of adolescence…

Especially as he wasn’t take care of by humans

And has been bitten by the dogs around.

One day.

I saw him.

And my heart missed a beat.

Or it jolted.

I didn’t know you could have that kind of thing for a dog…

Love at first sight.

And longing.

Until…

On a clear morning, the farmer called me…

Later.

I changed his name.

From Max…

As…

A while before,

A night,

I did have a dream.

The link to reality seemed to be…

Then, I was very much in Arthurian lore.

The most beautiful Tarots ever is based on it.

So, that vision went like this.

I could see a wide plain…

A typical Scottish Glen.

Very much like those on the pictures of the cards…

In the middle of it, was a small mound…

There, a beautiful sheepdog, a Collie, mostly red,

Stood proudly, watching the empty space, looking far away…

I knew for sure, it was a she-dog and her name was Camden.

Camden!

And she was mine.

Awakening.

That name, then, could only come through Iris Murdoch.

As she writes about people from Camden Town…

Reflect about it…

Long after…

I lived in Scotland,

And crossed London many times…

Waiting for my train to the North,

Would I not walk and picnic in Camden Town?

A little while ago,

I find the sense of the name:

From the Winding Valley…

And of course, wrongly,

I associate the wind and winding…

As in another language,

You can’t help seeing other links between words.

My Camden, being born in Flanders is not precisely that. But I am!

So…

A curious fact.

From the start, I find it a boogie name.

Camden walks like a dancer

Such a fiery sparkling spirit of a dog.

So fiery and so windy,

So brisk and quick,

It is extremely rare to leave him running free.

Yesterday, rainy, yesterday, the walk was pretty short.

Plodding our way on that dirt road as always.

I, disguised as a Russian,

Couldn’t help thinking of Kitano’s Dolls.

Some characters are linked for ever by a red cord…

The leash of Camden is red too.

And our anxieties tie us.

As well as his unpredictability.

Only the day before, a so sunny, wonderful spring day,

I grasped again how it reassures him to be attached.

We met the Australian Sheepdog of our neighbours,

An enough sweet and nice dog.

He was running free; his master calls were vain

As he considers our dogs a kind of shy friends.

No problem with Ben,

And as I kept Camden close to me,

For once he was not growing hysterical.

I’ll go as far as to say!

He was feeling safe because of the lead,

As this prevents him to get truly wild.

And out of his mind.

It was a strange moment…

Dog’s friendship,

Human understanding

Some kind of great peace.

Through a red leash.

To LSR

From the Winding valley to the Windy Plains

Sobered by a badly played…

Just another unusual day.

Nothing happened while walking the dogs.

I was in jumper and trousers, sun shining brightly

And really,

It shouldn’t!

So on market day, Saturday,

I went to the library and the organic shop.

On the way, by car, not one music to mention it.

I circled twice the inner city before remembering,

the shop has a client private parking.

Of course, even if home,

I took all the stuff to carry my shopping,

I forgot to even take a bag to go inside.

So, the seitan decided to call it quit,

Why not the bread or the muesli,

Don’t ask me!

Then, I choose the lovely road

I haven’t taken for sometimes.

Idiot idea, the romanticism of the canal was

Very bad for my blue mood.

Tears flowed and I was like: O! No! Not again!

As it was something you can tame!

Then  on Music 3, I recognized

The first tunes of my favourite concerto.

In this case,

The worst thing is to listen Tchaikovsky

As he has the power to move me deeply.

I am not ashamed to love that beastly difficult piece.

I was completely sobered after just 2 minutes

As I gave the musicians about that time,

The benefit of the doubt.

But, no!

No amount of compassion could changed that :

It was exceedingly screechy

And completely dastardly played.

It is a pity for me as for them

The first time I ever heard it played was

When I was a wee lass 

It was done by David Oistrach.

Or Arthur Grumiaux.

And nothing compares to them.

A meditation about softness and shaping winds…

Invisible, still, its and your influence, quietly instil and encourage me.

Also, to help it…

The sacred and geometric shape enters and gently sweeps and cleans the chakras.

Peace comes upon me and cures my impatience…

For once, I rejoice in emptiness. 

Would you believe it?

It happens I cry when the sadness of the separation leave me…

So suffering as I feel alike a vacant shell…

————————————————— 

My early morning visions were evidently in opposition.

Deserts and inundations …

Does the desert remember the flowers shower after a little rain?

Mauritania and Sinai…

Sand, wind, storms and huge waves…

And the little Prince and how I hate that story.

With its morality I resent as so false.

Why do we have eyes if the invisible is essential.

Even if important, it is not all…

The balance of life tells a different tale.

————- 

And the rest…

Those –mine –words and stories spilling over…

Is it like water over a broken dam?

It surely feels that way.

Of course!

Even to me it is overwhelming.

Then how long was all that stocked?

And not only words! Feelings too!

————————————————————– 

Always, until now, it seemed everything as to be a caricature.

So exaggerated!

That’s how I perceive the world…

Like, would I be able to see it otherwise?

Like: I am so anxious to be rightly understood.

So, I explain and explain.

———————————— 

Then, I really want to take the advice.

You know! About softness.

And only, slowly, slowly slow, it can grow.

But also accept this:

Only, if it is really possible, can I change…

And can I be sorry to be who I am?

If I don’t succeed…

————————- 

Then contradiction.

Going out with the dogs,

The wind isn’t soft, isn’t kind, isn’t gentle.

Only for the grass.

Shining green under a glimpse of sun.

Still, the softness remains in me…

I am slightly drunk…

Yeah! At 14.14 or if you prefer 2.14
But it’s far less funny.
I don’t know what I am gonna say.”
“O! Clarté: don’t be shy!
You know pretty well what is on your mind!”
“Yeah! I do!”
Censor-me seems even stronger,
When I am drunker!
Sorry, drunken.
So, rain and tears?
Why not!
Wine!
O! Funny!
Why, wine, when…
I am such a bad wine drinker, that I like moelleux.
Oui, le vin d’église!
Imagine!
Handy word, imagine!
Can be use in the two languages
Bla, bla, bla!
“Clarté, you are belittle-ling yourself!”
“Don’t care! Go to hell.”
“Clarté, I know you!
You are going to regret that post!”
“Don’t mind, done is done!”
“Clarté, for God-sake!”
“God? Don’t make me laugh!
When I cried…
Even Camden was more compassionate!”
“Clarté! Are you not afraid?
You exaggerate.”
“Yes, it is true!
But it sounds so good.”
“So, Clarté, for the sake of a good word,
Are you going to de-sacred all what counts for you?”
“Look, censor-me! If your God is so petty,
Keep him!
If he puts people on my way;
So mighty that I feel their power
But am always deceiving them
Even not knowing why and how!
Just let him go to hell!”