Island at Indian Head, Quebec / L'Ile Dan Rose

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for my host Dan Rose, 1986

TERRAIN PRIVÉ -- CHEMIN AUSSI
A tourist squeals, "Ooo, let's go see"
and takes the thousandth photo of the scenery:
"That rock's so like an Indian's head!"
They don't see the house, orange-red
like lobster glowing on a tray of greenery.

But tourists pay for lobster's taste,
then let the best parts go to waste;
so, they drive on to another tourist joint.
They never know they leave behind
an island state, a state of mind --
they've photographed the Head but missed the Point.

To reach Dan's island you must turn --
off road, off radio, and inward. Learn
that solitude's not lonely, nor silence soundless;
learn French and cooking; notice flowers,
forget routine and days and hours;
learn an island can be boundless.

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L'île Dan Rose
edité par Gérald O'Connor

TERRAIN PRIVÉ -- CHEMIN AUSSI
Des touristes crient, "Ooo, alons-y"
et photographent la millième fois cette splendeur:
"Que ça se ressemble à une tête d'Indien!"
D'une maison, en arrière, ils ne remarquent rien --
maison orange comme un homard en saladier de verdure.

Pour l'homard, des touristes paient a grand frais,
mais ne mangent qu'un peu; la plupart, c'est déchet.
Donc, après vue rapide, ils partent au loin --
rechercher casse-croute -- ils n'ont pas compris
que c'était une île, une île d'esprit;
leur visite, sans pointe, malgré vue du Point.

Pour atteindre l'île, il faut faire un détour,
pour ne plus entendre radio, entendre au coeur.
Cherchez la solitude, la silence, et ensuite
apprenez le français, la cuisine, noms de fleurs;
oubliez la routine, les jours, même les heures --
vous allez découvrir une sorte d'île sans limite.

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I drew the image on a foggy afternoon sitting above the "Indian Head" pictured in the previous poem. Dan's point of land, not a literal island, is now a state park. - WSS

At a Beach in Quebec / Sur la Plage en Quebec

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Written July 1986

28 years minus my language
over 2000 miles from home
plus cultural variables
reduced to lowest common terms
leaves me maybe five or six.

It's back to school again
with older boys, 13 and 10
who know
the way, what's up, what's next,
and (most of all)
what's so funny --
who take time out to educate
a tag-along of 28:

"Look! See? Crab!"
-Ah, oui, ah, oui.
"Look! Is cage for lobster, see?"
-Ah, oui, ah, oui.
Aside, I watch them work and hope
the boys will let me pull the rope.
When my size can help, then I'm allowed.
When they say, "Is good, thank you" I'm proud.

Unsteady on the rocks I see
they're far ahead. They turn and call to me --
and I run!

IMAGE: A virtual selfie at Tête d'Indien on the Gaspé Peninsula, Quebec.
See my article Tour De Quebec about the visit.
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I found this poem in the journal I kept during a summer in Quebec, along with this French translation edited by the two boys mentioned in the poem. They were neighbors to my host Dan Rose.

Sur la Plage en Quebec
Ecrivé Juillet 1986, edité par Gérald et Claude O'Connor.

Mes 28 ans moins ma langue
divisé de mon pays 3500 km
plus variables culturelles
reduît à la plus simple expression --
je n'ai de reste que 5 or 6.

A l'école encore avec deux garçons,
plus vieux de moi, d'ages 13 et 10 ans
qui savent toujours
comment, qui se passe, ensuite,
et (surtout)
pourquoi est-ce qu'on rit --
ils se donnent de la peine on enseignant
moi, inutile, adulte-comme-enfant:

"Look! See? Crab!"
-Ah, oui, ah, oui.
"Look! Is cage for lobster, see?"
-Ah, oui, ah, oui.
Je régarde leurs travaux, de côté,
en espérant que je les peux aider.
Enfin, ils me laissent mettre la trappe par-dessous.
Je suis fier quand ils me disent, "Is good, thank you."

Instable, sûr les roches, je les vois
au loin. Ils se tournent, et appellent moi --
que je cours!

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Bike, Snake

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Spoiler alert:
he wasn't hurt,

a crooked pencil,
yellow, still.

Crouching there,
I met his glare

and caught reproach
at man's encroachment.

He sprang, I cursed,
and he reversed,

a lightning ess,
to the cover of grass.

I thought it just
to eat his dust

and also, awesome:
a snake played possum.

Image by Susan Rouse.
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The Day After Valentine's

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Single on Singles Awareness Day and un-
aware, I scrolled through meme after meme
of loners at parties and tables for two with one,
but never the acronym.

It's SAD, they don't have to say to say, a disease:
My clinic offered S INGLES SHOTS.
At church we're listed with shut-ins and refugees
as Those Kept In Our Thoughts.

But what commuter in February rain
is not a refugee, alone,
and straining through frosted glass to see the lane
that's theirs but not their own?

In warmth at home through every page I read
and write exploring in aloneness,
God's restoring me. I've all I need --
the dog in my lap, a bonus.

Image by Susan Rouse.
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The first two stanzas of this poem were set by February 16; the others took three more weeks to write down and were 40 years in the making. No one - not Mom, not Dad, not the singles group at church - have ever believed that I enjoy living alone.

Besides, I contended with my hero, Broadway songwriter Stephen Sondheim. His lyric "Being Alive" expresses the negatives of being with someone before he flips it: Alone is ... not alive. For the movie Dick Tracy he wrote "Live Alone and Like It": On your own with only you to concern yourself / doesn't mean you're lonely, just that you're free. Even Sondheim undercuts the lyric as the song accompanies a montage that shows the title character falling in love. Even Stephen. - WSS