From Ted and Annie! Redux

I realized that I posted a poem, took it off and made no explanation of who these people are! Ted And Annie are poets from the residency I went to in Espairbaranque.  Annie grew up in Mass. Her mother went to Wellesley during the time of the seven sisters with the likes of Elizabeth Bishop and Sylvia Plath. Ted met Annie in college. He left  and walked around Ireland and when he came back he asked her to marry him. (Perhaps there are more details to this love story but I like to think he walked the circumference of his forefathers to hear their voices telling him to go back and find his true love.) They lived a life of constant economic struggle- he a nurse in a psych ward and she a librarian until one point they could not stifle their talent any longer; Ted got his MFA and went on to run a masters program in Donegal via Stone coast Maine. Annie followed suit and now they are both published poets.

When I first arrived at the house in France I was nervous. I did not know if I was going to get there alright because i had missed my plane the night before and had to stay in a hotel in Toulouse. I was upset for so many reasons that I could not on my hand and everyting seemed so complicated to me.  When I arrived in Carcassonne I realized that I was in a bit of a quandary for I had not studied French in 16yrs and I had English driving directions. So Gaspar (my taxi driver) and I used drawings and my dictionary to find our way through the mountains. I am ten times worse at drawing then I am at getting to the point- you can imagine how that drive went.  But Fortune smiled on me and I landed in front of the beautiful light blue door to the 12th century house and my first house-mate greeting was Ted. He tilted his heaad awkwardly and took note of my face.  Moments later separately Annie met me in the garden. She smiled so warmly and held my arm for just a beat longer than necessary.  I wondered if they had heard of my debacle and were treating me with kid gloves or if residents were nutty art types who exist in this glossy Technicolor world of kindness. The latter was the right choice and I say that lovingly. They fell in love with me because I reminded them of their son and when I caught site of this possible doppleganger - I could not disagree with them- he and I shared a mannerism so distinct that it actually came out in photos. But mostly it was my smile that was crooked and often grimacing that tugged at their heart strings.  They took me on a trip with them to to Ceret and the Cote D'or. We sat on a cliff where Monet, Picasso, Degas and the rest of the cannon all painted  the seas. Reproductions of the paintings told us this all around the towns. As we crossed the Devils Bridge I saw a fig tree at the end. Any time I pick a fruit or a flower from the "wild" I feel as if I am getting away with something because my old friend use to yell at me for it. So although the fig tasted sour, the joy of picking a fruit was so sweet.
I am sure Ted won't mind me posting the line from the poem:

into the same expression
our friend Danielle made when, in Céret,
we crossed the Devil’s Bridge and—

on the far side of the gorge—
she found a fig tree, looked once about,
then picked one of the purplish

fruits and tried it--eyes
closed, tongue moving
to a corner of her lip, her whole face

circling tightly around her mouth
where her very being
considered that taste and found it good.

I have never been a poet, nor have I ever minded the fact that I was not graced with the talent for doing so.  But I must say this: there is something missing in life if you don't have enough poets around you. =)

Hi Danielle,

I wrote a draft of a poem this morning and thought you might
enjoy it.  It's rough and will no doubt change in a day but
this draft seemed fun.   All's well here in Donegal.  Hope you're thriving.

Warmly,

Ted (and Annie)

------

[I had to take the poem down because its going to be published in a magazine and It should appear there first!!!!!!!!! Anyhow it was nice to be written about by a published poet.]