Giselle Maya: Summer Breeze

.

at noon

it rises out of thin air

and glides

from afar

into the garden

.

through the valley wind sifts pollen

from the vessels of daylilies

and ruffles the cat’s tigered fur

white roses sigh near yellow evening primroses

corn leaves tremble and grow by leaps and bounds

zucchini blossoms of orange-yellow

cradle within green

.

where

does the glaucous

summer breeze

come from

where will it go

.

beans with white and violet blossoms tousled by wind’s fingertips

bow again and again how do they spin tiny beans out of blossoms

.

the tall borage with prickly leaves etches blue stars

the rose called ‘Joseph’s Coat’ is painted in shades

from lemon to wine-red

the feathers of nightingales are brushed

they lift their voices

in the high willow

.

in a hammock

the gardener closes her eyes

soothed

after sifting dark earth

to nourish growing plants

.

blue-green silk

noon wind

ripples water

content

to be alive

.

by Giselle Maya

Saint Martin de Castillon, France

Giselle Maya: WILD BOARS ENCHANTED

I dreamed that a group of wild boars—des sangliers—were drinking from the stone water basin in my garden. One of them, unusually large and stately, had long tusks and an ebony fur coat. What a strange dream I thought upon waking.

Next morning, when walking to my garden in the valley below our village, I met a hunter with his dogs who said that roaming boars had damaged a field near my spring.

without rain
a maze of cracks
riddles the earth
green fields pale
into burnt sienna

As I was painting ochre pigment onto the walls of my little stone cabanon at dusk, I heard some crackling of branches, as though someone were coming to visit. Sometimes Madame Bosio brings me iris roots or comes with her dog to chat a while. The cabanon was still open. I put all my rakes, shovels and paint brushes away. A box with walnuts and quinces was ready to be brought home to the kitchen.

I was ready to go and there, drinking from my stone basin of clear spring water, was a large boar with his clan—just as in my dream. I stood very still in surprise, amazed at their strength and bearing, when I heard a soft grunting sound from the great grandmother which sounded to my astonished ears as follows: “Do protect us from these hunters. We know you are not one of them. Each night we come to drink and rest on your land.”

“What can I do?” I said.

“Let us stay this night in your cabanon. Tomorrow, it being Sunday, the hunters will be up early. They won’t find us and we will be safe, until you come to open the door. When they all go home for their sacré déjeuner, we can run free, eat, drink and go to another of our secret hiding places.”

“Excellent idea,” I grunted, “Let’s do as you wish.” And I spread dry lavender hay on the floor of the cabanon and let them all enter with a big welcome. They settled in comfortably for a good night’s rest.

where
do we come from
where do we go
between lime cliffs
a flicker of light

Next morning early the hunters looked up and down the valley—not a sanglier in sight! One of them, Moretto by name, wandered over to the cabanon to check it out. Tiles on the roof, a fresh ochre pigment wash on the back wall, iris planted in front and—ma foi—a new window!

I wonder what is stored in there, he thought. Carefully, he put his nose to the windowpane. Behind the glass a giant face, dark with reddish gleaming eyes and enormous tusks, stared back at him.

“Barbe de Dieu . . . Pieds de Marie,” he shouted, turned and, glancing back once, took to his heels, running uphill all the way to the village . . . where no one believed a word he said. He started early on his red wine today, they winked.

within the wild
footprints of foxes
and boars
through an oak grove
to a hidden spring

Meanwhile I got up at eight as usual—breakfast, and work in my studio. Just before noon, I remembered my promise to liberate the sanglier clan. Quickly I ran downhill, through fields and vineyards, taking shortcuts, arriving out of breath to open the cabanon door.

And who was waiting there to greet me? Why Moretto, who had turned into a wild boar!

He spoke in his own Provencal French: “Maya, you must save me or I will have to stay in this form forever. It is my punishment for hunting sangliers for fifty years. Do kiss me on the forehead, please . . . .”

A just punishment? Well, I’ll be darned if ever you should catch me planting a kiss on that scrubby brow.

released
from human form
a wizened peasant
no longer endangering
untamed creatures

by Giselle Maya

Saint Martin de Castillon, France

Giselle Maya: A SOLITARY STONE CHAPEL

.

Near our village in a dense oak forest stands an abandoned chapel called Saint Placide, built in gratitude by people who centuries ago survived the plague that ravaged Europe.

Sometimes I take a walk there to admire the stone work, the human scale of the structure, the green shadows. It is small and beautiful.

In my thoughts I have made myriad plans for its use and collected funds for its repair. It could be used as a place for poets to read, musicians and dancers to create and painters to show their work.

One day I came and found a yellow-housed snail perched precisely on the keyhole.

a silver trail
on the oak door
shimmers
only a few walk
this narrow path

.
.

by Giselle Maya

Saint Martin de Castillon, Provence, France

Giselle Maya: ACUPUNCTURE

.

a pain in the waist near the ribcage for about a month reluctant to see any doctor remembering always Voltaire who said that doctors entertain the patient while the body heals itself

here I go to see my doctor who is a tiny birdlike lady I haven’t seen in two years when I arrive find a great stone table has been set up in front of her house for summer picnics with her family and that her husband is carrying buckets of earth to spread around the new stone basin they have made for fishes and water lilies

I wait awhile having rung the bell twice before entering I cannot bear waiting rooms so I wait outside noticing she has changed the feng shui of the room I tell her it is much improved

where does it hurt exactly what are the symptoms she wants to know I point to the place at my waistline and the area just above the ribcage she asks me to lie on the chaiselongue and like a tiny sparrow gently puts her usual nine needles in my feet hands chest waist and the last one on the top of my head

and then she covers me with a quilt I lie there dozing entering the river of the Chinese painting on the wall swimming away endlessly for about half an hour until I hear mouse rustlings is she arranging papers or pecking seeds I open my eyes a little she removes the needles one has fallen off and I slowly rise

take lots of cranberry juice she tells me and drink lots of water we talk about her family her son used to work in my garden she has six little grandchildren sometime she will tell me all the things not to do when building a water basin do I exercise yes I practise tai chi

poplar leaves
heart shaped
float on water
eroded by seasons
into veined skeletons

by Giselle Maya

Saint Martin de Castillon, Provence, France

Giselle Maya: MONSIEUR HERVO

He called to say he would come over just before lunch.

In Provence that can mean between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. I did not wait and kept working, leaving my studio window open. He knocked at my front door just before noon. A tall man, friendly and relaxed. I walked ahead to show the house his company was to insure.

He noticed the three tatami mats used for the tea ceremony and told me he had just bought futon for his children via a cousin who practises martial arts. When we reached my atelier, he looked out the window, admiring the view. I told him it was my favorite room.

He sat down and unfolded his power book to enter various data concerning the house. Then he asked if I knew Kyodai. I did not. On the tiny screen he brought up a game. I helped him find matching symbols to the sound of a rushing waterfall somewhere in the depth of Japan.

By then it was past lunch time — he had seen enough of the house, it was to be insured against fire, water, and various acts of the gods. Outside he looked up at the roof tiles and pointed at the swallows’ nests.

on screen
moss-covered stone lanterns —
a slight nostalgia

by Giselle Maya

Saint Martin de Castillon, Provence, France

Giselle Maya: A VERNISSAGE

we arrive and she leaves with her daughter we say a few words she has lost some of her former chaleur I wonder why I see our old president he's cut his hair short talking to the somewhat elusive secretary with wild curly hair several quick hellos I see the paintings between people baroque abstract Rubens a touch of eastern european solemnity with muted quick painterly oil brushstrokes the bookstore lady talks to me she's known the painter for 15 years and the Englishman in a mauve shirt likes the black and white drawings I meet the artist with his tonsure from Poland from Forcalquier I say some congratulatory words and he seems pleased and smiles an artist yes

another painter from Sweden says the work is solid the painter knows his metier the show is too densely hung less is more a German painter can't relate to the work at all it is dated smacks of doom she's a minimalist and here is le contraire we move along in an intricate unanticipated dance through the long white chapel miming the movement the painter's brush has made in paint on canvas conversations plans for the association time to go back to one's studio having briefly touched art which is our heart and force and keeps us painting and living

painterly brushstrokes
reflected in an earring
a stream of viewers

by Giselle Maya

Saint Martin de Castillon, Provence, France

first published in Modern Haiku, 2003