Lisa Pasold : Two Unsent Postcards

 

 

 

Unsent postcard: Julia Child in high heels

 

Dear Fleur,

You are a plump poet cat, reading about your mother, which sounds like a dull insult in the tiny perimeter of the poet world that’s six degrees of incestuous but also My People, such as they are, and you, Poet cat but also Jazz cat, in your high heeled very good ankle boots
of which I am jealous, and about which we talk, after the reading, most likely because I can’t find the generosity to be honest, to tell you I do
not expect ever to write such direct poems again yet I so admire your slippery metaphoric tonguing way, drawing us like a witch holding
our hands as we walk into the forest getting lost, my story too
after all, us witches, cooking in order to survive, so I appreciate
the poem about your mother’s Depression Cake and want to give you
in return, my mum’s failsafe recipe for Crazy Cake, but instead
we talk about your boots and your cool older girlfriend’s shoes
and you admire my torn but Parisian dress, leaving aside the entire discussion of sanity or healing and maybe we should just admit the most important details come back to footwear so we are prepared
for wherever we must walk.

 

* the unsent postcard as poem is an idea cribbed from poet CECILIA WOLOCH

 

 

 

 

Unsent postcard: Italian espresso pot in black & white

 

Dear Heidi,

When I walk into Café Envie, a stranger holds open the door.
My lover never opens a door for me. He knows I can open that door myself and you would agree, such belief is more pleasing than any performative gesture. At the counter, a middle-aged straight white
man is buying his two mocha bichon dogs little cups of whipping
cream, Puppachinos, he says, delighted with his life and why shouldn’t he be? I like working mornings, you say. Making sweet coffees
and ordering big fried breakfasts by calling to the kitchen staff, you’re bringing us reliable and specifically attainable joy. This is what I would write on a postcard while sitting here at the fake-mahogany ledge: you’re midwifing our small happiness and cumulatively, isn’t that a tangible bit of peace in fractured times, while the ink bleeds onto my hand.

 

* the unsent postcard as poem is an idea cribbed from poet CECILIA WOLOCH

 

 

 

 

Lisa Pasold grew up in Tio'tia:ke/Montréal & currently lives in Bulbancha/New Orleans. She has six books, one of which, Any Bright Horse, was shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award. To develop her book-length works, she has been writing daily poems for two decades; the resulting poems have appeared in magazines such as The Los Angeles Review, Room, Fence and New American Writing. She is a storyteller & a flower enthusiast.

Lisa Pasold : Notes from Sainte-Geneviève Library

 

 

 

 

 

I am sitting in the Sainte-Geneviève library in Paris thinking about saints and conmen.

I’m wondering if my history is right, translating a word, writing down a new reference in this library named for the second saint of Paris. The Sainte-Geneviève Library. When I look up, I see rows of books. I see painted designs created more than 200 years ago, during a rebuild that was supposed to encourage a new socially-diverse flock of students and researchers in the public library. Maybe this is the perfect place to write about flaws. A beautiful quiet place, vast and promising, all about practical choices and impractical history.

As saints go, Geneviève seems very real. More real than that other, older, patron saint of Paris, Saint Denis. Sure, he was executed by the Romans, he’s an honest-to-god martyr and all, but I can’t get serious about a saint who is best remembered for walking 7.3 kilometres while carrying his head in his hands.

Sainte Geneviève is so much more interesting. I can’t help my eyes turning towards her.

I picture the undoubtedly muddy Paris area in the 5^th century and imagine a girl born to a wealthy family, just a little ways outside Paris. Maybe she leans into religion as her fighting stick because she truly has holy visions. Maybe she doesn’t much feel like dying in childbirth, and a nunnery seems a viable alternative. She has her reasons.

In the 5^th century, most Parisians were still worshipping a range of gods—spreading your bets across the table is a principle I can get behind. Worship the river and the trees (Celtic heritage—the founding tribe of Paris were the Parisii); leave offerings for the Roman household gods (always good to have someone keeping an eye on the hearth); pay some lip service to the new bearded patriarchal Christian god (the dude seems grouchy—best to keep all bases covered).

From the beginning, Geneviève was committed to the one god concept. In Paris, she worked her way up the ranks using personal mysticism as her weapon of choice. That’s how the story goes. But mostly, she talked. She used words and gestures. Symbols.

In 441 AD, Attila the Hun threatened the city but never actually attacked. Legend claims that Geneviève made sure he didn’t, just as she’s on record for convincing her fellow Parisians not to surrender to Childeric when he besieged the city. Geneviève apparently walked alone around Ile de la Cité wearing a white nightgown, claiming she had a vision. Believe in the vision if you like, but what’s important is to imagine Geneviève, in her nightgown, walking in the street, looking innocently unafraid while she spoke about the importance of survival.

When she was no longer traipsing around in her nightgown, Geneviève pulled off a more impressive negotiation: she convinced the brand-new leader of France—a violent, pagan, 20-year-old Frank named Clovis—to become Christian. Originating in West Germany, the Franks claimed to be descended from a sea god. Geneviève argued for the political advantages of Christianity; Clovis and his wife Clothilde converted.

This is a saint who used words. The library is rightly named for her. This is a saint who lived to be about 90 years old. Her body was visited as a sacred relic for centuries afterwards. Revered and carried through Paris in times of stress. Personally, I’d have put more money on her words.

Her golden tomb sits in a church at the top of the Montagne Ste-Geneviève, though the saint’s body is gone; during the French Revolution, Parisians burned her bones and threw the ashes in the Seine. Eh, well, dust to the river gods, there’s some divine justice in that.

The gilded cage that holds her stone sarcophagus is stuffed with tiny paper messages and prayers on folded paper, offerings of words sneaked through the thin seam of the gilded case. Someone must clean out the words from time to time, because the papers are always bright and new, never old or faded.

The Montagne Ste-Geneviève isn’t a mountain, it’s a mild hill, for Parisians have always been prone to exaggeration. Back in 502, when Geneviève died, Clothilde and Clovis founded an abbey here in the saint’s honour. Manuscripts were copied, books collected. Sainte-Geneviève librarians worked steadily through the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and the Age of Enlightenment. The books—and at least some of the librarians—survived the Revolution. The library was moved to this purpose-built hall, where I am now.

The collection holds centuries of books. Words. Symbols. I am just one toe over onto the spiritual side of damned unbeliever, but I do think there is something miraculous about the survival of this library.

I cannot decide if my subject matter is perfectly appropriate for this saintly library. Undecided, but not ambivalent. I am writing about Bienville, the Montreal-born soldier, gambler, and conman who named New Orleans to please his French King. Bienville retired to Paris, but he was born in the year 1681, in my hometown of Montreal. He joined the French navy at age 12, fought under the French flag from Hudson Bay to the Caribbean, and at age 19, while standing in a small pirogue in the Mississippi River, he told a bald-faced lie to the English. History prefers to call this a Bluff. He is a man famous for talking. He used words and gestures. Symbols. He was not a nice man. He was interesting. He and Geneviève have that in common.

The rare portraits of Bienville shows him in frilly 18th-century lace, and fashionable formal armor. But unlike the court nobles of King Louis 15th, Bienville was tattooed from the neck down—several witnesses reported he was covered in formal ink, marking different treaties and alliances; he had an enormous snake tattooed around his groin. He spoke French and several Native languages of North America, including Yama, which is the Mobilian Trade Language, Mobilian jargon, a language of necessity and utility.

Language like a rough hatchet. Like a perfectly weighted machete. Like a Swiss army knife, a blade, a word, for every occasion, a tool for every need. There is only need. Say what you mean to say, wield a knifeblade of language. Walk through the streets or the wade through the marshes and use all the symbols you have.

Saint or conman, either one. Sharp-tongued.

Bienville too has a question about his bones. He died in Paris, was buried here, was moved, possibly to the new cemetery in Montmartre, though the record is unclear. Dust to the river gods, appropriate enough. Where is his ghost? I don’t know. Sainte Geneviève might tell me, but I doubt she is interested. She has her own books and ashes to keep.

 

 

 

 

Lisa Pasold is a poet and story-teller originally from Montreal; she has spent much of her adult life living in Paris, writing about the City of Light. Lisa is the author of 5 books of fiction and poetry; in 2012, her work, Any Bright Horse, was shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award. Lisa’s work has appeared in publications such as The Globe and Mail, The Los Angeles Review, New American Writing and Billboard. She has lectured for the American University in Paris, the University of New Orleans, and Curious Minds at Hot Docs in Toronto, among others. Lisa is the creator of Improbable Walks podcast, which explores the history of Paris streets.