Lettres á Anne
letters to Anne
letters I wrote to you
letters I lived
letters. I. breathed
Letters strung together by words
Words put together
sewn in a tapestry of my feelings
Feelings I felt with you
that first letter I wrote to you… I wrote with quivering hands ‘mademoiselle’…the letters trembled on my lips and I hoped you would read my heart and it’s ardour in the way the ink drew its dark web around the page..
and across your hand
sealing you to me to you to me
…and I wrote knowing it was never going to completely convey what I had
the number of letters you received
Not an iota of what I wrote to you in my heart…
Not the entire number of letters I wrote to you
in my mind…
in my heart
in my mind
nor the correct number of times I felt my fingers etching your name on my
in my heart
in my mind
the ways I walked
the places I went
looking for you…at you
had you My dearest Anne, written over them
every way led to you and you led me to each path
the labyrinthine ways
all led to you
how could I do anything but love you more , for you ‘were my chance of life’
the breadth that I took in
the air I gasped
of having you
the distance that is
the distance that is not
the lack of us
the presence of only
‘I exist at the same time I dissolve’ ~1964~
letters I write to you. ..
I place them under my pillow..
my hand under the pillow and find them gone..
they take flight at night..
in the darkest moment, they rise above the pain, the anguish of separation; the physical distance between lovers, and they dissolve in that ache.. perhaps they leave of their own accord.. or maybe I send them..or … maybe you call out to me and they mix with the damp air and lift themselves to the breeze and journey back to you..
where they belong..
words have a power beyond ones understanding…
they come from a domain where at the beginning they were
articulation is not a crutch they need …
they live in the domain of silence;
the abode of emotion;
and when they spill out in tears they have an urgency for expression which they find in words…
the letters may as well be a pivot around which my world revolves..
did I ever write those letters?
or did I feel them on the tips of my fingers
at the edge of my thoughts
in the middle of my nights
in the fervour of my days
did you even receive a word from me.. the question remains immaculately unanswered in its complex nature of connection that exists between
I am reinventing myself as I read words and translate them roughly to English; for once I feel inadequate knowing English or not knowing French – how can I savour the taste of the love between François Mitterand and Anne Pingeot without knowing the language. I forgive my linguistic inability merely for the excuse that love transcends all languages.
Dee is from Lahore, Pakistan. Loves dark nights and old trees.