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Saint-Victoire


Coffee cooling in the morning light.
Thank the stars and say so long to night.
Have a smoke and play the radio.
Nod to Picasso in his last chateau,
With his view of Sainte-Victoire.

You feel so lucky in your postcard life.
You’ve made a little money, got a pretty wife.
You’ve got it made. Yes, you’ve got lots of time.
You’re at the top. You’ve nowhere left to climb,
In the russet winter woods of Sainte-Victoire.

Some days you’re drifting in a crystal trance,
Set to music woven in a hazy dance.
You’re safely hid away. You never get the blues.
Life goes on but never makes the news
In the village on the slopes of Sainte-Victoire.

Another slow-rolling easy day
In the forgotten land of bread and wine.
Shotguns sound… but they’re so far away
It’s hard to hear them as a sign
Of trouble somewhere far from Sainte-Victoire.

And in your daydreams, you can hear a song
As faint as secrets spoken in a distant room,
And though its words dissolve like frost at dawn,
You hear the singing of it linger on
And echo in the stones of Sainte-Victoire.

The misted ghosts of lovers still alive
Shine on brightly in the fields at dark,
Like winter’s ice embracing autumn leaves
To float them down the small, clear river Arc
That flows along the foot of Sainte-Victoire.

Young lovers hiking upward through the rain
On the mountain’s stone, they’ll all retrace their pain,
Limned in lines you know you know by heart,
And still, you go on climbing, it’s at least a start
Towards the peak of Sainte-Victoire.

Comments on this entry are closed.

  • David July 10, 2021, 2:03 PM

    A balm to the skin sanded raw by the onslought.

  • Casey Klahn July 10, 2021, 4:19 PM

    Picasso thought of Cezanne (whose artwork graces this post) as the Father of Modern Art. He saw him as almost god-like.
    One thing Cezanne did was put a middle-finger up to the whole art establishment, former and contemporary to himself. He basically told them to suck it, and lick those balls. Do I sound harsh? That’s the way Cezanne was – a complete social train wreck. He vowed to die painting, and he got his wish. He saw little of the personal glory due him before he died, but immediately after his death, the Impressionists (these were his cohort, his rebel band, for whom he was too rebellious, yet!) went into his studio and brought up as many paintings as they could afford. Degas argued with Monet (I think it was) over a piece, saying that he had his money our first!
    Good to have unalloyed heroes.
    Oh yes…Picasso! Ok, I’m nodding to Picasso. Well written and engaging poetry.

  • LadyBikki July 11, 2021, 4:44 AM

    Coffee cooling in the morning light.
    Yes.

  • TANSTAFL July 11, 2021, 4:58 AM

    “. . . In the forgotten land of bread and wine.
    Shotguns sound… but they’re so far away
    It’s hard to hear them as a sign . . . “

  • Jack July 11, 2021, 7:10 AM

    Saint Victoire is beautiful and evocative of a quiet life in another world. Thank you so much for a break in life’s tedium. Al Stewart comes to mind and I believe he would love it too.

  • James ONeil July 11, 2021, 10:48 AM

    Coffee cup is in the kitchen sink.
    Perhaps I’ll have a sip of wine to drink
    A smoke, a jazzy vinyl record riff.
    Suspect that VanderLeun will get my drift
    When I say ….