“Speaking French” by Carolyn Dewald
On a train once when I was eighteen and it was an even race between my hair and my hemline I met an older woman with a lived-in face and a cigarillo.
We watched the sun set over Arles. Staring at my knees she said: no cherry tree in insolent bloom can understand the hot dry summer to come or the fruit that the birds will peck once and then leave hanging.
and I may have misunderstood or made some of it up out of desire for a story to match the voice and the face
by Carolyn Dewald
Driving back last week leaving you four states and two large deserts away I did not start to cry until I came to the sign dividing east from west.
Water now for you runs east; you are very far away, doing things that I have never done with people I will never meet.
But something like the pull of the moon on the spring tide binds us. My arms know how your shoulders feel, how the long bones move in their sockets, how you throw your head back when you laugh, the drawl with which you speak French, how your fingers fold around mine.
If the ground beneath could speak to the young birch lovely in its white bark and new spring leaves, what on earth would it say?
And now, the bright night is falling Shopkeepers have closed iron gates the streets are filled with people passing under lamplight the glow shines down on everyone...
Here There Uptown Downtown In the discos In the subways and the parking lots Oh that magic feeling, nowhere to go Nowhere to go.
Down the street, people are talking A telephone call a restaurant proposal In the ticket lines On the stairs, in the windows And everywhere, memory....
The park on Sunday Old men feeding the pigeons the carousel Snow in March a visit to Chinatown An exhibition a rock concert Grabbing a taxi running from the rain And the lovers and falling in love Looking out from the bridge Watching from the window Everyone passing The vendors, the ushers, the waiters, the doormen All the people Coming, going Up, down Arriving Departing The City’s roaring noise The city sleeping Safe, alone, no dark night falling.
To Match the Voice and the Face
for voice, violin and 3 guitars with percussion.
music by Terry Champlin
poems by Carolyn Dewald and Tony Wright
- Helen Avakian, guitar, voice
- Jeff Haynes, percussion
- Sabina Torosjan, violin
- Scott Petito, guitar
- Terry Champlin, guitar
- Vilian Ivantchev, guitar
- recorded by Scott Petito at NRS Studios.
- produced by Terry Champlin and Scott Petito.
- mixed by Scott Petito.
- mastered by Mark Dann.
from the album My Mind was a Mirror