Who sang La Mer? Charles Trenet sang La Mer. This is what you asked.

A Continental Confounded letter

 

Who sang La Mer? Charles Trenet sang La Mer. This is what you asked.

 

 

Your name was long for Harry. Which was what I called you. The older woman. Thirty five you were, and your name was Women in Love. Hermione. You loved your Pavane in black skirt and head scarf

Crows that cawed over the impossible yellow fields of the South. Just as he said when he painted his insanity. Wine drunk rainbow headaches in the sunshine of the marsh of the flamingoes and the bulls. We argued insanity consistently, giving and taking talking grey, galling, grief. Wondering when it would end. A painted clay pipe for the drudgery of every night drugging and driving the old car through the crucifix shrines of littered and melted offerings tied to the belief of Gauguin paintings. The sharp straight up sunlight giving the lie to whatever was enjoyed, together and individually righteous. The bright red poppy flower by the side of the road.

Druid mistletoe in the trees by the river in the west. The voices raised in the chorus chorale of a whitewashed shafted sun  burned out cathedral. Asking in the cafe square for a pen to say goodbye. She was older enough. I was younger enough then, but only just. Being less than a man because of no military service, they told me.

The barge trips with a bike, asleep on wet grey green tarpaulin valleys, chugging past vineyard and oak aged château hills. Bridges, Breton exploded in temper. Groucho, Harpo & Chico in Italian with French subtitles in the cabin at the back. A poster of the president election on every lamp. The song of the ill loved man.

Talking you scared, down the steep grey green hill. Watching you and your daughter in the slip sliding mud all of Leonardo graves. Asking for another pen this time to draw the Languedoc hill that was burning martyr safe. She was a Mother and I was someone else's son. The start of the drawing in pen instead of HB pencil. Missing a visually exciting scene whilst listening to a very stirring sabre dance.

Saxophone playing, somewhere. You like sax, don't, did, didn't you?

The aforementioned Gypsy's with their black bread and potatoes.

Camus reading camera and crawling for Roman artefacts in the sandbanks on the river, when you left after writing the arguments down because I could not find the collapsible courage.

Starving in the capital then for four drawing days before killing myself with an apple for dinner. Drawing and writing everything so I could burn them later and watch the little black books crisp and curly in blue and green. Before I came home with my bike and whiskey fountain to find, my mother, a year later. I had not been missed.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

I think Blackbirdsong is, in a sense, very much onto something here, but I think she may have misread one key element in the seemingly surface treatment of this relationship; I don't think this is the picture of a purely intellectual relationship (indeed, I believe it is almost its polar opposite), but one that is, from moment one, destined to be a fleeting one--I would think it's no accident that the piece begins with a breezy trivia question, which serves to emphasize the idea that this was no time and place for depth and forever-mores. The incongruities of the relationship are constantly emphasized--the Marx Brothers in Italian with French subtitles, the incompatibility of her "a mother and I was someone else's son", plus the way the fleeting nature of the affair is summed up (with flat-out brilliance, in my view) in the sentence "You like sax don't, did, didn't you?" This may be the finest of the Confounded Letters, and that is saying a mouthful.

[Tony Jordan]

I'm minded of the days of the grand tour and also of the Bright Young Things of later Ken but also of the tragic story of the painter of my favourite painting 'The Fairyfeller's Masterstroke', Richard Dadd, the poor blighter who opiumed his head off then killed his dad in psychosis. And also of the wonderful Beatles with their wackiness which always made sense in the final analysis.
All these things that I love came to mind ~ this drew them all out like a winkle-picker and made me feel warm and fuzzy.
I can already see the modern Ken beginning to blossom in swathes here.
An enjoyable jaunt with milestones aplenty Sir.

[Ken Simm.]

Written a poem called Richard Dadd's Engine sometime ago. Thanks so much Tony.

[Tony Jordan]

No way Ken! I'd love to read it.

[Ken Simm.]

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Ken%20Simm/331808/

[Tony Jordan]

Thanks - I had a quick peruse. Be back later for a proper read (or two).
Have a good day mate.

[TL Boehm]

Drawing and writing everything so I could burn them later and watch the little black books crisp and curly in blue and green.

This line of all the beautiful things in write stuck with me. I've never grasped why the talented destroy what they create? My family is full of destructive geniuses? Me? I burned ONE poem. Then I asked a friend to send a copy to me. I'm an idiot, really.

[CD Campbell]

What WK said. Can I borrow your whiskey fountain? CD

[Ken Simm.]

Only if you promise to only use a single malt at least 25 yrs old and it must be scotch.

[CD Campbell]

Sounds expensive. Can I borrow some money then? Wait a minute, we're poets. We don't have money.

[Ken Simm.]

Money an the old Uisca beatha. I'm sure there is a poem in there somewhere. We may not have money but we do like whiskey. As many afore us. I used to have a collection of whiskeys before I realised thats an oxymoron.

[CD Campbell]

HA. That's funny.

[Ken Simm.]

Got to learn how to spell whiskies as well.

[CD Campbell]

Isn't there multiple spellings?

[Ken Simm.]

Depends how much you have drunk.

[CD Campbell]

True, too true.

[Frieda P]

This does so appeal to the gypsy in my soul, bright red poppy's, now you know that spoke volumes to my heart. "Groucho, Harpo & Chico in Italian with French subtitles in the cabin at the back" your hyperlustrous paint stokes each scene in poetry much as you do in your fine paintings as well. Yours is a unique flair, painted from spirit and passion that is embodied from within your very core. I think the very reason your poetry speaks to me on such a deep and profound level. It is innately you, each word meticulously crafted which is the whole of you.

Always a deep sigh when I read your delicious words Ken, thank you for sharing a part of you.

[Ken Simm.]

You are more than welcome Frieda. And thank you for understanding so well. Long ago and far away this and those always seemed to be the saddest words.

[Frieda P]

Pleasure was all mine Ken, I love how you always dance me into another dimension.

[Tony Jordan]

Come back Frieda. Dance here once more. Hey I don't even mind if it's with Ken !!

[cartera]

A talking exhibition of painting and painters. Your prose is extremely colourful.
La Mer used to be played to us snotnoses by Monsieur Oliver Brown noted French teacher and - ooops do not speak ill of the dead.
The challenge for thought is of course the last sentence. We change; as other people and other circumstances change us: we return only to find that not only are we unable to dip our feet into the same river twice, our well-travelled feet are not the same either.
ATB
Alex.

[Ken Simm.]

Too true Alex. Never the same again. Not been back since. Not sure I could handle it until recently. But home was never, ever the same and I left soon after. Ah, the memories.
Thank you so much my friend.

[Leslie Philibert]

Like this, I enjoy writing about travel, and when it is mixed with a poet`s vision it impresses me even more.
Love the fine,clever images here,the small pictures that fill this with life,the Marx brothers, the HB
pencils,our mate Camus,the ( sadly, I bet they were fine) burnt sketches...Excellent !

[Ken Simm.]

Nah they were rubbish Leslie. I was 19 and thought I could draw. Many thanks for all the support and fine words.

[Tree]

Painting with words, again Ken? You transported me with those words that settled into my mind in the form of vivid, crisp imagery. A melancholy journey, rife with beautiful evocative memory. And the writer's tone, speaking directly to the ghosty muse was stirring; and you, finishing hauntingly.

[Ken Simm.]

Yes I'm afraid so Diego. Can't seem to help myself. Thank you for looking and understanding.

[Tree]

Took the liberty of pulling up Trenet's LA MER, recognized it right away. Added yet another multi layered dimension to the piece...

[Ken Simm.]

Was what I seemed to be listening to throughout the entire year. So seemed to fit. A little bit of trivia.

[Chris]

I read this and was in California watching waves and feeling sorry for the world. Then I came back and was dancing in a ville square up in the hills beyond the Rhode's harbor. then a lebanese woman took me through the streets of Istanbul ...Brit marines were laughing cause they were finally going HOME!! and then... I lay back on a glacier above Haarstadt...

Living is never the dream... is it? It's just what we do.

Sometimes I really understand - even me.

This one was a "GOOD" Poem Ken... a really, really good one...

[emmajoy]

Here we have the man who sees and feels the itsy grains of life, its moods and shadows, comings and goings, was and is, of time with 'the older woman'. How i love the way you observe that other within a love absolute tho transient:

' Crows that cawed over the impossible yellow fields of the South. Just as he said when he painted his insanity. Wine drunk rainbow headaches in the sunshine of the marsh of the flamingoes and the bulls. We argued insanity consistently, giving and taking talking grey, galling, grief. Wondering when it would end. '

You extend without over-exaggering, share without giving away the real secrets, but oh my goodness how you share!

' Saxophone playing, somewhere. You like sax, don't, did, didn't you?

The aforementioned Gypsy's with their black bread and potatoes.

Camus reading camera and crawling for Roman artefacts in the sandbanks on the river, when you left after writing the arguments down because I could not find the collapsible courage.'

Even though i feel like a voyeuse, I fully appreciate the wonderfully atmospheric near reportage of a time when .. when you were another you and happy. Can't imagine you unmissed, friend from ..

Thank you for nudging me to read.