When my friend André was in his early 20's and living in Paris, he fell in love. Madly in love. With his death in 2000, I inherited his writings. In the mix, there are many poems about heartbreak and love. This is poem II of a series of André's early poems I've titled, A Man Who Loved Pucci:
Neptune's great-great granddaughter
As new as a moment of time
As bare as the beach that she runs on;
And stops on as she looks out to sea
Where she stops to look at the fronds
And the fruit of the glistening palms.
She is pink and she's blond and
She shines: the tight skin of youth
On her new, barely burgeoning form;
And, she's wise and she knows all her senses
Without actually knowing the words
Feeling more now than she'll ever know;
And she'll be gone in a wink and
The flash of a wave when the ancient
Who made her forgets.
When he nods in the sun
And the heat of the noon
When eighty years now again take their toll.
The criminal curve of the girl
Comes and goes with his chance
Memories, and his dreams turned to lies.
by André de Riano, 1961
As new as a moment of time
As bare as the beach that she runs on;
And stops on as she looks out to sea
Where she stops to look at the fronds
And the fruit of the glistening palms.
She is pink and she's blond and
She shines: the tight skin of youth
On her new, barely burgeoning form;
And, she's wise and she knows all her senses
Without actually knowing the words
Feeling more now than she'll ever know;
And she'll be gone in a wink and
The flash of a wave when the ancient
Who made her forgets.
When he nods in the sun
And the heat of the noon
When eighty years now again take their toll.
The criminal curve of the girl
Comes and goes with his chance
Memories, and his dreams turned to lies.
by André de Riano, 1961
Read Poem I, here.
Our friendship.
Images: André, private collection • Veruschka poses in Pucci in Brazil, photo by Henry Clarke/Condé Nast Archives/Corbis
Our friendship.
Images: André, private collection • Veruschka poses in Pucci in Brazil, photo by Henry Clarke/Condé Nast Archives/Corbis
I don't know the perfect words to write, I only can think of, wow. André was a true poet. When a man writes like this he must be filled with such emotion and passion. I've said it once but worth repeating, André would of been quite the marvelous, fascinating person to call a friend. Your photo of him, incredibly charming. You must miss him dearly Barbara?
ReplyDeletexo xo
Hi Deb,
ReplyDeleteThank you, dear! Yes, I miss him every single day. Knowing him was one of the greatest presents that was ever bestowed upon me.
oxo
What a great shot of André and what a lovely piece!! Truly a special friend.
ReplyDeleteHi Q! Yes, indeed a special friend. I'm not crazy about the end of this piece... written when he was about 20 years-old. ; )
ReplyDeleteHow we feel at 20 sometimes never changes though-once the bitter taste of Love enters. I have no doubt the Pucci book will bring you many an inspired story with Andre as our hero. pgt
ReplyDeleteWow, what an amazing and moving poem. So full of life.
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