Friday, January 6, 2012

Memoires vs. Memories

My name is Gisèle, the accent tells you that I have a french background.  A french-canadian background, and probably a catholic upbringing.

From that position and atmosphere I earned an ARTS degree in drama, at an English university and a
Teaching Certificate at a French College. I have taught, I've been divorced and widowed and raised three children to adulthood.

With all that living behind me, the life ahead of me, unknown, the life within me at the moment is somewhat obsessed with poetry.  I am called to writing like I am called to teaching.  Teaching requires review of materials taught.  Writing asks that you use all your senses to express the life within and around you.

Memoire is a high-brow word having a french root and alludes to a life of privilege, wearing white gloves and associating with birds of certain feathers only.  On the other hand, memories can be maudlin, painful and sometimes happy.  So, the deal with this SOULTALKER blog is a reviewing of memories.  However, much in the way that memoire and memory take on different personas, I too, have a variety of persona to draw from, whichever the case, the results begin and end within my soul.  I am the soultalker and I communicate best through my soul.  Hence, poetry is my blog. 

I welcome your comments and would love to read the sounds of your soul.  Gisèle

Here's a memory poem:                      MESSAGES

                                                         That phone is a nasty message bringer;
                                                         of full pauses, deep breaths, hesitations,
                                                         you don't have to say anything.

                                                         I can hear it in your breath.

                                                         Perpetual ringing
                                                         bad news comes
                                                         wordless.  Telephone
                                                         rings tighten my
                                                         chest;  irritation in
                                                         my hands crunch the
                                                         phone to my ear.

                                                        Prepared this time
                                                        for this bursting
                                                        sound of intrusion.

                                                        Bad news, bad news.
                                                                                     






















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