Claudia's Poetry
L'Armoire L'armoire sent bon comme tu sentais, Sachet suspendu de la poignée, Doux souvenir de toi, toujours soignée, Avec ton beau sourire que l'amour embellissait. L'ancienne armoire autrichienne, Qui etait à toi, qui est la mienne, Fais que ton image me revienne, Fais que ton courage m'appartienne. L'armoire me parle de ta beauté, De la fierté des belles choses que tu as créées, De la broderie en petit point faite en coulisse Ou tu attendais, ou tu attendais chanter. L'armoire bleue ou tu gardais Tes tricots de la meilleure qualité, J'y passe ma main comme tu la passais, Je respire comme toi le parfum des oeillets. L'ancienne armoire autrichienne, Qui etait à toi, qui est la mienne, Fais que ton image me revienne, Fais que ton courage m'appartienne.	The Armoire The armoire smells of your perfume, A sachet suspended from the key, Sweet souvenir of you, now in my room Brings your smile back to me. The antique Austrian armoire That once was yours and now is mine Sends me your image like a star, Sends me your courage from afar. The armoire tells of your beauty, Of the art you made on an embroidery ring, French knots done in your dressing room Where you waited, while you waited to sing. The antique Austrian armoire That once was yours and now is mine Sends me your image like a star, Sends me your courage from afar. The armoire on my plain pine floor The armoire that still smells of flowers Your scent floats out when I open the door The old armoire that will always be ours.
Boris At the train, He said he’d remember The little red veins Threading the perimeter Of her nose. Not her eyes Of red-flecked green, Nor her heart-shaped face, Nor the way she moved Upon the stage. He was going West to try his hand In Hollywood, after Leaving the theatre By the Shore. He wanted her To come with him. The curly-haired, Two year old, too In the stroller. But she could Not go with him. Though she got lost In his green eyes; Had known ecstasy. She was bound By her own law Of ‘thou shalt not’, Could not tear out The hearts of so many. Years later, He came back to The resort, successful, Disdainful of her Menagerie in a backwater. He sat there In the tiny cottage, His freckled hands Folded on the table Using the word “provincial”. She speaks of it Matter-of-factly, Though telling me At last, that yes, She had loved Boris. Claudia Beechman 6/18/02	The Bandleader in memory of Harriet Fay Previously published in Tookany Review Years ago, you hiked thirty-two blocks in bright red Keds to catch my gig-- Talked real straight the way you always did: You said,“That velvet suit on your piano man has got to go!” Some thought you one tough lady Barking out orders to your sidemen and more; But you were an anomaly, A yellow-maned Valkyrie in male territory Taking calls from millionaires Who often balked at a musician’s fee. I was so proud to walk with you One summer night, your towering height Your stride so swift and strong Along South Street. There, In a bijou of a boutique, you lent me money to buy stage jewelry. Sometimes, you’d call when you needed a chanteuse; Someone to sing “La Vie en Rose” and wear black silk. Once, you rang me the next day, to say “it was right on the money”-- The words resounded in my head. You said you and your band grieved for my sister, A singer who like you, despite her fight Was taken much too soon, so many notes unplayed, unsung-- Then, you, your band grieved mightily for her As I now grieve for you, stand-up bandleader. La Bohemienne My first flat was the size of a cracker jack box, so commented a beau, but the rent was cheap: Three sun-colored rooms where I listened to jazz learned to love Chris Connor, Carmen McCrae and Ella. I tuned in often, as loud as I wanted, bought cutlery, bric-a-brac, jeans from the thriftshop on South, Shot pool at long-gone Longo’s next door, Grooved to the percussion of my percolator, before I learned it was the wrong way to make coffee. The old radiators played all day, had their own rhythm session: “pop,pop”, “bang, bang”, “ ssssssssssss!!” My father, the restaurateur, brought eggs to the feast, filet, bottles of Burgundy and olive oil, carried three flights up on his well-muscled shoulders, humming, and gleefully proclaiming, “You’re a Townie!” My mother, the comedienne, hung a rainbow of beads which went click-a-clack-click when I passed through them; Once, we had lunch in the bright tiny kitchen, watercress omelettes on mismatched plates, a wedge of French bread with peach jam and sweet butter. My friends, mostly musicians, visited, jammed, perched on leatherette cushions and kitchen chairs, Drank tea that I kept in bright-colored tins lined up on the tiny gas stove. The tea-kettle’s whistle trilled high above conjoined guitar chords.. Sometimes I’d listen to Piaf or Brel, and sometimes to Aznavour, while I gazed at a cheap print of Frans Hals’ “La Bohemienne” that hung from the wall. All of it seemingly about my life: just enough to get by and enough for awhile: But, one night, after I heard “Brazilian Byrd,” while I slept in my narrow bed, I dreamed in scarlet, stabbed through the heart by an arrow aflame as the lush strings played, and when I awoke, knew the carnival was over.

This page last updated: May 12, 2007
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