Graveyard on the Point:
A Survivor Remembers his Catechism
Ste. Luce-sur-mer
The survivor at the cross roads,
wreathed in his personal storm:
… et discerne causam meam /
… and distinguish my cause
de gente non sancta… /
from the unholy nation.
Rising waves:
bells on buoys
peal out sea warnings.
Tonight there is a grief across the grève.
Sa griffe / his claw,
ma griffe / my claw
homophonic puns
scratching at reality’s surface,
hiding inner meanings,
leaving the depths unplumbed.
Did he really paint
the reality of the shipwreck,
this Magritte?
Cette pipe, qui n’est pas une pipe! /
This pipe which isn’t a pipe!
Mi grito que no es un grito! /
My cry which isn’t a cry!
Cette vie qui n’est plus une vie!
This life which is no longer a life!
This littoral bay
no longer a literal bay.
ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me /
from the unjust and deceitful man deliver me.
Over bird frosted rocks,
a ring billed gull cries out whose name
on its early journey to greet pale stars?
On the beach at the cross’s foot,
a grey robed pilgrim
stands in dusk’s failing light.
et introibo ad altare Dei:
ad Deum, qui laetificat juventutem meam /
and I will go unto the altar of God:
to God, who giveth joy to my youth.
Mouettes, göelands muets:
sea gulls, silent sea gulls:
white arrows shot over sea wet sand.
He stands solemn before this graven stone
waiting to be blessed:
sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper /
as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be …
The eider duck sigh for their siblings,
tossed from the crèche and lost
in the long low swirl of the sea.
rogermoorepoet 
What a lovely way to gain a history lesson! If textbooks were written thus, everyone would get top marks 😀
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Thanks, Pearl! I have written to you separately in reply to your e-mail. The photo was taken at Ste. Luce, looking out towards the place where the Empress sank, about six miles from shore.
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I think you told me about this a few days ago. The history that you related was fascinating…it’s hard to imagine that the world would not have heard about a ship sinking with that many souls on board, as you said, more than either the Titanic or the Lusitania…shaking my head.
(got it)
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I love literal/littoral
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That’s because you understand it, Jane! So many readers don’t; they have forgotten their Latin. There are so many layers to be peeled here, in and out of the various languages, and their Latin derivatives.
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I should clarify that statement. The Empress of Ireland was first circulated in 2008. Many of the original readers did not pick up on the linguistic plays upon words and languages. Many of the readers of this blog have done just that. There are readers and readers … as we all well know. And you, Jane, are a very good reader. Thank you for being here with me.
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Botanists ooze Latin, or did once!
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All that Linnaeus … I suppose Botany and lineage in science form two good reasons why Latin is still useful. Plus the ability to put the Romance Languages (once the centre of the world) back together again.
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Did Magritte really paint the shipwreck? I love the opening line: “The survivor … wreathed in his personal storm.” So moving.
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I don’t think so, Meg: that’s why I left it as a question. I wanted to play with his artistic concept — cette pipe n’est pas une pipe. How much of what we see isn’t really what we think we see. This littoral bay that isn’t a literal bay … I want the mind to dance with this poem, dance, even though it is in sorrow.
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Aha! Ok, now I see! Very clever. My French is rudimentary, although I’m working on it. And then I’ll run off to Paris to that flat above the patisserie!
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I like the idea of the flat above the patisserie … but the workers will be up very early making those croissants for the early morning breakfasters …
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Good point! 🙂
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Saves you setting the alarm, though, and they usually go to bed quite early.
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And it would be absolute heaven to wake up to the smell of fresh bread every morning!
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Indeed: that was one of the joys of living in Oaxaca. Day starts at about 6:00 am and the breakfast smells are there … I used to love the pan dulce … a sort of sweet bread pastry … with Oaxacan coffee.
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Oh my! Sounds wonderful!
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So much we forget in the mists of time. My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings…. Maybe he existed on some plane other than in the poet’s mind.
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“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” Except my works are like sand in the desert … or flowers blooming in the desert waste … so few people read them. I guess it’s the wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command … read my poems … dammit!
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Beautiful, Roger, and lucky for me to get back to these poems from my busyness. Thanks, as always, for posting them. White arrows shot over sea wet sand; bird frosted rocks; are we not all tossed from the crèche? Take care –@
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Thanks, allison: I have been missing you. So glad you like the Empress. Did I give you a copy? I’ll e-mail you later.
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