The Poet

I was on my second vacation in France - perhaps 10 years ago - with my husband and another couple, Boots and Larry Boggs. After an eventful week in Paris (of which I have many fond memories), we rented a car and headed toward Normandy and the Sacred Beaches of D-Day, with our ultimate destination the Loire Valley, and Mont St. Michel. We were in no hurry, and decided to stop for the night at the charming medieval fishing village of Honfleur. Unprepared for the shocking reality that in the countryside (which means anywhere 5 kilometers outside Paris), there is no food for sale between 1:30 and 7:00 p.m., we were famished and chose a charming little restaurant with a promising menu and a terrace with a view of the harbor. The sun was setting, a cool breeze was tempered by temporary walls of plastic sheeting and space heaters, and we were eagerly sampling our entrée when an odd sound broke the ambience, clackety-clackety-clack! Louder and louder, it approached with the rythym of a freight train toward the restaurant, we dropped our forks and prepared to dive out of the way! CLACKETY- CLACKETY- CLACK, it was right on top of us now, this mysterious monster bearing down upon us from the seemingly tranquil cobbled streets of a sleepy little village. Suddenly, silence; a pregnant pause before the dramatic entrance of a silver haired Don Quixote in a white starched collar, black silken scarf tied in a bow at the throat, and a long flowing black cape. With great aplomb he approached the table to the left of us, produced with a flourish a book, and began to recite poetry - in française of course! As he moved from table to table it became apparant that he was a fixture in town, and the locals were clearly over it. Ignored by the diners at each table, he saw a glimmer of hope, four wide eyed tourists obviously seduced by a scene trés french; semi-outdoor dining with a romantic table side poetry reading by an old french dude in a cape! He introduced himself as "Moineau", and sensing by our clothing we were anglaise told us in perfect english all about himself. Born Grégoire Brainin in Québec, North America, he married the love of his life Micheline, and together they spent their lives in their homes in Honfleur and Québec. He explained that dear Micheline had died of cancer two years prior, and he had composed this book of poems dedicated to his amoureuse. He selected carefully a heartfelt passage, and recited in french with all the theatrical presence of Richard Burton or Sir Lawrence Olivier a beautiful homage to the long lost mother of his children. Not knowing a word of french, Boots and I were nonetheless charmed, seduced by the moment into opening our hearts - and our wallets. Presented with a beautifully composed book, illustrated by various friends of the author and complete with a personalized autograph, it is a lovely souvenir. Moineau took his money, his rolling case filled with books, and with his cape flowing dramatically behind, disappeared into the darkness as conspicuously and mysteriously as he had arrived. Poetry being an intregal part of french culture since the days of the troubadors, my blog would be incomplete without it! Therefore it is my pleasure to offer you a short reading; first in french, then in english (translated the best I could), by Grégoire Brainin, dit "Moineau" from his published collection entitled; "Moineau 2000, Poèmes du Temps de l'Amour". This is "Le jardin de notre amour" or "The garden of our love": Dans l'infini, il y a toi Dans l'infini, il y a moi Il y a lui Le jardin de notre amour Dans l'infini, il y a elles Le jardin de notre amour Si de chaque graine Le temps fait une rose Il y a fait de notre amour Un jardin. In the infinite, there is you In the infinite, there is me There is he the garden of our love In the infinite, there they In the garden of our love If each seed Time is a rose He made our love A garden.