John Berger
(photo: Jean Mohr)
Down the gorge
ran
people and blood
In the bracken
beyond touch
a dog howled
A head between lips
opened
the mouth of the world
Her breasts
like
doves
perch on her ribs
Her child sucks the long
white thread
of words to come.
DISTANT VILLAGE
The moutains are pitiless
the rain is melting the snow
it will freeze again.
In the cafe two strangers
play the accordion
and the roomful of men are singing.
Tunes are filling
the sacks of the heart
the troughs of eyes.
Words are filling
the stalls
which bellow between the ears.
Music shaves the jowls
loosen the joints,
the only cure for rheumatism.
Music cleans the nails
softens our hands
scours the callouses.
A roomful of men
come from drenched cattle,
diesel oil, the eternal shovel,
are caressing
the air
of a love song
with sweetened hands.
Mine have left my wrists
and are crossing the mountains
to find your breasts.
(...).
from Pages of the Wound. Besides, Mr Berger lives & writes in Haute-Savoie; here what said few years ago the old ad for Guzzi on the lavatory's door of his house over-there: "Si vous n'entendez pas beaucoup parler de nos motos, c'est que leur propriétaire n'ont pas le temps d'en parler"...
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