Tropical Climes

The last song hits the evening,

Sudden sound alone in the fading light.

Darkness comes soon in these parts.

In seconds day has turned to night

And the sleep calls fade off to the

lush green jungle, screeching song, plain,

Sheltering in the night noises, sight

Hidden till the sun rises again.

And then!

Alive are the trees with the calling,

The chatter, like women who wash

Down at the river, pounding, stalling,

Fending off the heat, babies cling,

A million tiny creatures, moist falling,

And the birds.

Always the birds.

Catherine Broughton is a poet, a novelist and an artist.  Her books are available as e-books on this site, or can be ordered from Amazon/Kindle or from most leading book stores & libraries.

e-book links:-

https://payhip.com/b/tEva    “A Call from France”

https://payhip.com/b/OTiQ    ”French Sand”

https://payhip.com/b/BLkF    “The Man with Green Fingers”

https://payhip.com/b/1Ghq    “Saying Nothing”

http://www.inpressbooks.co.uk/author/b/catherine-broughton-8066/acumen-issue-73/

- See more at: http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/poems/tropical-climes/#sthash.IviUICne.dpuf

For my Father

Yesterday was Father’s Day, so I thought I’d show you the very first poem I ever had published:-

Prose.   (for my father – Shadows)

I went back to Africa, so sure I’d find you.  But you were not there.   On the boat – for a moment – was that you ?  Smiling in to the sun ?  The wind in your hair ?   Oh, the shadows of the yachtsman you once were beyond the African soil you loved so much.

I drove through Africa and I looked at the dust to find your footprints where you once stepped.   And there – for a moment – was that you ?  In that sound ?  Oh, my heart leapt at the shadows of the father you were.  On the African soil you loved so much.

I did not find you.  You were gone from that place.  Barely the touch of your ghost in the lands.  Or in the heat of the sun in the tropics.  Or in the waving darkling hands.

I think you are where I last saw you.  And I cried.   Your shadow moves in that garden in Kent.  Where you died.

Victor Hugo continued

After I had finished yesterday’s item about Victor Hugo, I thought I should have included his lovely poem, written just after Leopoldine died.  The translation is my own – I daresay there is an official translation somewhere – with apologies to all concerned.  (There should be a grave accent on that e in the title - è – for scholars of French who are screeching at me, but not for love nor money can I persuade the “insert symbol” whatsit to obey me …)  Anyway, a heart-wrenching poem:-

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

Tomorrow, at dawn, at the hour when the countryside is white,

I will leave.  You see, I know that you are waiting for me.

I will go via the forest. I will go via the mountain.

I cannot live far from you for long.

I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts

Without seeing anything else, without hearing a sound,

Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands crossed,

Sad, and for me day will be like night.

I will watch neither the gold of the falling evening,

Nor the sails in the distance going towards Harfleur*,

And when I arrive I will put on your tomb

A bunch of green holly and heather in flower.

* Normandy (France) coastal town