Conversations avec moi-même

(Conversations with myself)

When I am alone, sometimes
I speak to myself in French
and when I do, I’m new – 

Those fluid words feel sublime
and pour luscious from my lips
all spiced and vanilla 
pinot noir from a carafe…

Non, ce n’est pas parfait
but I play
with my tongue
and the tone of my voice.

These words that are not mine
beautify a bland day;
‘la vaiselle’ so much prettier
than the cruddy pile of washing up
that awaits.

I narrate my intent 
to visit the loo
so that even this becomes
an artistic act.

I imagine a French woman
chez elle
conversing alone in my tongue
but wonder why she’d want our
clumsy hotch-potch hybrid mess
to pollute her mouth

the French accent so hard
to suppress
owning its native speakers
occupying their mouths
as though resolved to decorate
the lesser languages
with softened sounds and
lingering ‘euhs’…

What do you do when your soul
yearns to be French
but your body was raised anglais?
Forever an outsider
wherever I may be
À part et un peu perdue.

Posted by

Poet, artist and singer. I am an ecobard :)

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