The FB finds the notion of a public poet entrancing. Like the public scribes in India who will write letters for any occasion, it seems an improbably delightful thing to find in an urban setting.
The FB came across Antoine, "poete public," as his sign said, on the rue Rambuteau by Beaubourg and nearly stopped.
Okay, here the FB must backtrack. The FB had had a bad day. The FB discovered that an old friend of hers had lost his father to lung cancer over the weekend. As every death recalls another (at least to the FB), she spent a sad morning remembering other losses, and she had the somewhat difficult task of composing a condolence email to her friend and his sister that conveyed both her respect for their loss and her fond, though brief, experience of their father. Without sounding like a prat, the FB believes in sending heartfelt condolence letters, which means she has to feel it to write it, which means she'd ended up in tears twice that morning.
Then, the HD called and he noticed the FB had what the French call a "small" voice. The FB told him about her friend's father, but then she felt awkward talking about it and changed the subject, though she was unable to leave the subject emotionally, which made the rest of the conversation with the HD a little distant. The FB could feel it but she couldn't help it.
She stayed in the rest of the morning, catching up on work, writing emails. It was unbearably muggy and hot outside, the thermometer hovering close to 35 C. Finally, however, the FB could stand the cabin fever no more, so she walked to the multi-plex at Les Halles to see "Beginners," with Ewan MacGregor, Christopher Plummer, and Melanie Laurent. She arrived at the theatre drenched in sweat, cranky, ready to bite the head off the man who, before he sat behind her, swiped her head with his messenger bag (though he apologized profusely) and ate noisily from a cellophane bag of something. However, the film was sweet and touching, featuring characters and scenes almost alarmingly relevant to what the FB is currently experiencing: the male character copes with the death of his father as well as the difficulties and joys of a new relationship.
Her mood lighter, the FB walked out of the multi-plex and into the still-muggy Paris evening and over to the Lebanese sandwich place on rue Rambuteau for white cheese and za'atar melted all over a soft, na'an-like bread. She passed the public poet. She stopped, turned around, and came back to him.
"Excuse me," she said, "What does that mean?" she asked, pointing to the sign that said "poete public." A young man with kind, ice blue eyes like an Alaskan Husky and a toasty tan looked up at her and told her that he wrote poems for people. He sat at a rickety fold up table, with a tiny, metallic green portable typewriter in front of him and the cardboard sign.
"And how much does it cost?" the FB asked.
"Whatever you want to give me," he said.
"Okay," she said, "Will you write me a poem for Pierre, who has green eyes?"
(
Note from the editor: yup, the HD's name is Pierre. He will continue to be known as the HD, however, until the FB changes her mind. Or messes up. Also, please note that "Pierre" in French and green eyes,
yeux verts, rhyme.)
"Yes," he said. "Tell me about him," he said. The FB felt shy, not wanting to give too much information. But she told the poet about knowing the HD for two months, about the fact that she'd been a bit sulky all day because she wasn't sure when she was going to see him next, and how he was a bit mysterious to her. She also ended up telling the poet that she was struggling, because she was very independent, and this was new for her. The poet said that he had to finish the poem he was working on and then he would write hers. Politely pointing to a
poteau, a short, cement barrier, for the FB to sit on, he gave her a sheaf of his poems to read while she waited. He wrote on a small, portable typewriter, on yellowed, uneven, postcard size scraps that had lines and punches going through them, like paper refugees from an antiquated computer from the 60s. The FB read his poems, and while some of them seemed repetitive, incorporating the same imagery over and over again, others were sparse and elegant, pleasing and full of the kind of puns French does well and that doesn't translate into English at all.
As the FB waited and read, a young couple came up to the poet and asked him to write a poem about them. The man explained that they'd been together for 3 years, but during that time they'd separated. The poet asked to talk to them separately, and the man explained that she preferred the south and he preferred Paris and they were trying to make a go of it here in Paris even though she preferred the south. He added that three years was a long time to be together (they were young, the FB reminds you). The poet gave him a sheaf of poems to read too, and the couple went off to wait on the steps near the Pompidou.
This is the poem Antoine the poet wrote for the FB:
non
vert
mystère
pierre
ça ne rime pas
ça m’enchante
et ça me manque
même
quand je ne te vois
pas
ton absence
et je suis
toujours
curieuse
qui est-il Ã
moi ?
et j’ai besoin
d’un poème
qui rime pas
avec aime
enfin un peu
finalement
tout
de même
quand il n’est pas
lÃ
