Ne me touche pas si proche - Don't touch me so closely

Il faut beaucoup de force pour resister le courage
que ta tendresse m'apprend apres tout ce temps.
Est ce possible que je me suis perdue dans les rigeurs
de tes amours?

Nulle part est le point de depart ou je te retrouverai,
les bras ouverts, tes yeux bleus clairs fatigues
de tous mes reves invisibles qui me suivent
comme des petits oiseaux affames.

Tu sais tres bien que je t'aime, mais je t'en pris,
ne me touche pas si proche, la blessure de mes defenses
a peine est guerie, et il me faut du temps pour accepter
ton innocence, feroce comme elle est.

Promene -toi pres de mes ombres, pres de mes soupires,
accepte mes silences, mes rires et mes poemes, mes contes
d'une enfance perdue, ecoute-moi et mes mots camoufles,
et un jour je te chercherai pour que tu me touches trop proche encore.


Trudi Ralston.
October 29th, 2014.

Sometimes poetry is a matter of disguise.
This one is about love, love over a long period of time.
I wrote it in French, because that was part of the disguise, emotionally.
But I translate it in English, just in case the person for whom it is written
finds they want to read it without the disguise.
Happy Halloween, my love:

"It takes a lot of strenght to resist the courage
that your tenderness teaches me after all this time.
Is it possible I got lost in the rigours of your affections?

Nowhere is the point of departure where I will find you
with open arms, your clear bue eyes tired
of all my invisible dreams that follow me like hungry little birds.

You know very well how much I love you, but I ask you please,
do not touch me so closely,the wound of my defenses is barely healed,
I need time to accept your innocence, ferocious as it is.

Walk closely to my shadows, closely to my sighs,
accept my silences, my laughter and my poems,
my stories of a lost childhood, listen to me and my camouflaged words,
and one day I will look for you so that you will touch me too closely still. "

Trudi Ralston.
For M. C. R. 

Pool of Silence

Rippling smooth, soft water rolling
back and forth over my face, my arms
my legs, waves warm and windy
breathing heat like a sun above me.

Soundless steps follow my muted shadow
hopping alongside me on this bright afternoon,
 a slight hesitation in their rhythm, speeding up
my heartbeat with a suppressed unease.

Silence a sleek costume disguising my dozing fear
a child playing hopscotch on a deserted street,
rainbow colours matching my rainbow socks,
where did all the other kids go?

Breathe in, breathe out, smile wide, laugh loud
all the way to the outer limits of quiet despair,
no worries, no problem, all's well, then and now
as silence pours its spell all over my soul.


Trudi Ralston.
October 29th, 2014.

Raul se va para Istanbul

Ya tiendra Raul listo a su maleta, me la imagino grande
como los viajes que tiene costumbre de preparar,
parece vivir mas en el aire de los aeroplanes
que en su casa, o su carro.

El Japon, la China, el Brazil, o Espana, Israel, Raul
accumula los viajes como yo suenos de libertad
cuando me acuerdo mi libro de nina de un viajador
exotico que vivio en Istanbul.

Y Raul se va para Istanbul, y me imagino leyendo
mi libro con dibujos exoticos del hombre misterioso
que se fue por todo el globo en su alfombra magica.
Su linda princesa tan feliz viajando con el en noches brilliantes.

El hombre perdio a su maleta donde guardaba su alfombra que llevo
a el y su enamorada y nunca mas podian verse o viajar juntos.
Yo perdi a mi querido libro pero no al sueno de viajar, en el pasado
y el futuro, si encuentro de nuevo a mi alfombra magica y a su maleta.

Pero mi hermano Raul no tiene estas restricciones, se va como rey
viajando por toda la planeta, con su maleta, con su alfombra que el
nunca pierde y que yo quizas recuperare en mis suenos de noche
cuando yo tambien ire volando libre como un pajaro hacia fronteras exoticas.

Que cosa, que yo estoy aqui, y que mi hermano esta viajando
con su maleta repleta de sonrisas, vino y sol, mientras que yo voy
escribiendo mis cuentos y mis poemas, llenos de anhelos para alas que me llevarian
lejos haciendo viajes exoticas llenos de cielos azules y cantos alegres.

Disfruta, hermano Raul, llena tu maleta de carcajadas y sorpresas,
y guarda en un rincon una estrella para mi.


Trudi Ralston.
0ctober 21st, 2014.
For the one and only R. Jimenez
who I have long suspected of being a distant cousin.
Happy trails!

The Tether

Time passes cast between the rhythm of shadow and light
my own steps and yours a world apart.

Time a structure solid and stern, a bridge unmovable
across a vast expanse measuring carefully our paths.

As we each follow our measure in destiny's hands.
Time a general with a solid, steady plan.

For many years I found myself searching for a way
to be allowed entrance to the gate the bridge held fast

Jealous of each stone and window in its imposing mass.
Silence undecided as its guardian when nighttime dreams

Would allow me a stolen glance along the bridge's windows
and their visitors within, you among them, a stranger

To my voice and eyes.

But time got weary and softened its granite hold,
As now our messages pass freely like doves

Taking delighted flight between the castles
that divide the bridge's grasp, now time

A friend, a fellow passenger tolerant
of the gentle tether that has been allowed.


Trudi Ralston.
October 14th, 2014.
For a friendship that has stood the test of time.
For D.O.

The Dinosaur Above

As autumn settles in securely bringing its measure of welcome rains after a hot, dry summer, the falling leaves and musty scents soften the sounds of bird and man alike in our backyard and the forest behind it. Hummingbirds still come around but now fewer in number, and the bright colours of Morning Glory and fuchsia make gracious way for the orange and red of fruit bushes and tree leaves. Ours is a quiet neighbourhood, and the sight of a jet plane overhead is rare. When it does occur, I find myself stopping in my tracks like a surprised child marveling at the roar of machine power in the sky. I used to travel a lot a lifetime ago, and even though my life with my husband and our son brings me great peace and happiness, a longing always escapes me like a silken sigh when a jet flies over our house and yard. It has been 14 years since I last flew, when we went to San Francisco for my husband's grandmother's funeral. When I saw a jet fly over our house a few days ago, I looked up and the image of a dinosaur came to mind, the way it flew so seemingly slow and the way its large body cast a strong shadow. I felt like I was in a time warp, looking up an an object I had never beheld close- up. Memories of airports so often visited for across ocean flights came to mind : Atlanta, Chicago, New York, Miami, Brussels, London,... I remember smiling, because I had the memories, so, I must have flown up there at one time, over a house , a backyard, even as far away as Lagos and Kinshasa, and Mexico City and Panama City. The lessons I am learning now are different and not unpleasant, and I am glad I had the chance to travel as much as I did as a college and graduate student. The dinosaur above felt like a visit from a well known friend, one perhaps out of grasp for many years now, but still very close to my beating, reminiscing heart. And even so, here in my garden, and here in my cozy house which is now my home I am still quite the traveler being so far away, thousands and thousands of miles, across an ocean, or two, from where I started as a Flemish woman a world ago. All around me, even after 38 years here as now an American citizen, with an American husband and American son, my world still remains a strange and often foreign place of strange tongue and custom, where I have made my way and blend in unnoticed to most but never to my own heart and mind.

The Kilt

When I was in the 4th grade, a friend of my parents gave me a kilt that had belonged to their daughter when she was a child. These friends traveled a lot and had purchased the kilt at Harrods in London, which I was to visit two years later when I was 12. The kilt was heavy and wool, the colours of Tartan blue and green. I had never seen a real kilt before other than in story books and on television,  I was very excited, but unsure how to wear it. So, my 10 year old mind ended up wearing it to school backwards, with a bright turquoise leather jacket I had also inherited from our friends' daughter who was in her twenties by then. I was very lucky, in that a girl in my class, who did not particularly care for me, told me to turn the kilt around, so the pleats were in the back, not the front. She said this as a matter of fact, without contempt or judgment. I was very grateful. My parents were non plussed, but my story of where the pleats were to be, was confirmed by my parents' friends. In spite of the awkward introduction to the kilt, it became my favorite garment for a number of years. I liked its heavy feel and I liked that it was Scottish, having read several stories depicting heroic and very romantic characters dressed in very beautiful kilts, riding horses through the mysterious Highlands, hair blowing in the wind, swords at hand. I was smitten by all things Scottish. I recently watched the first season of a show called "Outlander", about a woman , a war nurse, who accidentally time travels from 1943 to 1743, during a visit to the Highlands at the occasion of her second honeymoon. The emphasis on family, on clan, on belonging and loyalty, strikes a deep chord in me. I realize how important family is, and how much happiness comes from being part of a clan, a family, and how hard it is to live without it, or at the edges of it. It seems I still wear my kilt backwards, struggling very determinedly to build securely my small clan with my husband and son. The woman in "Outlander" literally fell through a time warp into a very protective and caring Scottish clan, and in real life many a bride or groom has fallen happily into a gregarious clan. It was not my destiny, and it was not my husband's destiny. I have several friends who were born in trying circumstances or born without a family, abandoned at birth. A very difficult path, I know from their testimony and witnessing their life. I have some friends who chose to immigrate, like me, to a different country and that takes courage, to walk away from your clan. Some of my friends have done so very happily and successfully, others not so much. I am not sure if luck has anything to do with it, or character, or circumstance or destiny, or a bit of all of these factors play a part. I certainly have no clear insight into my own circumstances as to my life as an immigrant, other than in part I have been extraordinarily lucky in my marriage, and very sorely tried by my own family. There is no denying that to belong to a supportive, nurturing clan, a family, is a key ingredient to well being. That clan can be blood family, or an adopted clan, it can be a group of friends who think alike artistically, or intellectually, or even simply socially and emotionally. To go it alone takes great stamina, resourcefulness and a fair amount of grace to guarantee happiness and purpose. True, some people are loners by choice, but to be a loner by edict, so to speak, can be a difficult and painful way to go. I have found great joy in opening up my heart to the building of a secondary clan by adopting homeless pets for close to 30 years now, as neglected and abused animals too are victims of finding themselves without a clan to protect them. I never realized just how deeply I feel about that until recently, because it is a way to give animals back a home that betrayed or eluded them, the way I was betrayed or led astray by deceit and twisted interests. When I watch or read a story about the Scottish Highlands and the history of the clans, I wish I still had my kilt. It seemed to have been willing to give me a second chance at dignity, at belonging, tolerating the backwards insult the way it did. I did get a second chance, and it is cool to think about the kilt, that perhaps was a mysterious sign that backwards or not, if you hang in there, and with a little help, things can work out allright, in the end and in some measure, you get to go home again. 

Hoist the Black Sail

The day started out bright and sunny, with a surprisingly bright blue sky for early October, making the many tall brightly yellow sunflowers look very festive and cheerful, and a bit odd, with the musty scent of fallen leaves and wet grass and trees. It was Saturday morning, a day for chores and preparations for autumn and later winter. Ordering firewood, skimming the leaves off the pool and putting on the new cover that was delivered just two days ago to replace the old one that had been patched up one too many times and no longer kept out the dirt and rains. Cleaning out the fallen leaves and debris from the gutters,cleaning out the chimney, trimming the fallen sunflowers, putting away the rest of the lawn and deck chairs and tables. Inside the house, there was the need to take out the window fans, wash them and put them away, get out Halloween decorations for the house and windows and front door, and the usual chores of vacuuming and washing the dog and the bedding, and making beef stew for dinner. I looked around my small, cozy house that always reminds me of an overstuffed,friendly curio shop, and I felt like a proud captain of a small but very secure pirate ship, my pirate ship, that I had secured at great cost. I had no black flag hoisted to my rooftop, but as a black sheep, I sure had managed to survive and thrive in a secure location, now an outlaw from my own family. It felt strangely good this morning, strangely rebellious, and free, a somewhat privileged child from a very comfortable upper middle class family thriving in a working class neighbourhood, isolated but free from interfering relatives and preconceived notions and assumptions about status and happiness and place and purpose. I was free, finally, to be me, to the best of my ability, to write, to create my small tapestries, to run my small household with my steady and resourceful husband and clever son. We were a small island, a small group of pirates, living by our own laws, and as lonesome and unnerving as that sometimes was, I could honestly say this morning that I was happy and found my husband and son to be happy, too. There was no denying that being an outlaw , so to speak, is not without its hardships of judgment and isolation. But once that ship of freedom is on the open seas, so to speak, the feel of the wind and adventure in our hair, the satisfaction of writing your own laws, setting your own course, as awkward and unsavory even at times it may require to be, is thrilling and so well worth the painful break from the prison of compliance. I did not comply, I did not break, and now I am free, to live life on my own terms. I am a rebel at heart and rebels have to fight for their freedom as did I. It made me an outcast, but I don't care, who wants to be part of a group of relatives that judge you by money, as my mother did ? She was ashamed of my small house and my neighbourhood, and made sure no relatives ever made it here to see her disgrace. It makes me laugh now, but there was a time it hurt and made me sad. No more, I am happy to notice, inner freedom is a beautiful thing. I do not like to be controlled, and told what to do, what to think, and breaking free was scary, for sure, but if I walked away with just the clothes on my back, and lost all family loot, I gained a treasure in experience and insight, and those things cannot be bought. As hard as it was to say " fuck you" to everything that had kept me bound and afraid, the pleasure of the freedom it secured me was priceless. The pursuit of happiness sure was well worth the perilous journey. Because for me, security and happiness without freedom are just illusions. Arr!

Erasable

Soft lines play shadow puppets along the sun's light
As I breathe slowly, rhythmically, a dancer on grass and stone.

You are nowhere to be seen, as I smile and dress my tears
In rainbow colours and crystal sparks, so cleverly, so quietly.

Pencil to paper, life draws me cautiously, leaving scratch marks
On the page.

My eyes wait patiently, windows looking out to the path where
My feet will walk free. Perhaps by then, two or three will walk

With me. Until then, I will remain erasable, no matter how steadily
I redraw the lines where I can keep a steady step, one, two, one, two.

Soft lines, soft smiles, shadow puppets in the sun's warm day
I write, one step ahead of the eraser's grasp, a poem full of resolve

And quiet rage.

Trudi Ralston.
October 2nd, 2014.