In memoriam Claude

Today three years ago, my dear friend Claude died.
I am still sad, miss her, and at the same time I am grateful that once in 2008 she stumbled upon Omnium and thus allowed me to meet an extraordinary woman.

For many years Claude used to live with Innuit as a nurse.
Today I share with you one of the photos she took and one of her poems.

Thank you for everything, Claude. De tout coeur.

A MAN MUST FACE HIMSELF
 
I hung two sealskins on my wall....
 
Some people say
'Oh! the poor dear things!'
with pity in their hearts,
while chewing bloody steak
and cuddling in fur coats.
 
And I think of
Jonahsie
magnificently himself: a Man,
hunter by destiny
spearing the seals,
with no guilt in his soul,
no pity in his heart,
but beaming pride
that his day-work was done:
the best for his kin---
and that's all he could do...
 
And I think of
Kakee, his wife,
cleaning, stretching, smoothing, sewing the skins
with a skill
as old as the Woman called Eve,
and bringing me the gift
with beaming pride:
the best for a friend---
and that's all she could give...
 
And I wonder why
we worry about who eats whom
when Life is a cycle?
We all prey, and we grow
feeding on each other.
 
A seal
a breathing tomato
an egg that could be born
a drink of pure water
a flower for a vase
some grass to walk upon
the warmth of the sun, of a smile, of a body
a poem for a soul
and stars to fill a dream.
 
I hung two sealskins on my wall...
 
A Man must face himself
and accept it!
 
Claude Prévost Gamble
 (June 1970)

In memoriam Claude

Claude, February 2020

A MAN MUST FACE HIMSELF
 
I hung two sealskins on my wall....
 
Some people say
'Oh! the poor dear things!'
with pity in their hearts,
while chewing bloody steak
and cuddling in fur coats.
 
And I think of **
Jonahsie
magnificently himself: a Man,
hunter by destiny
spearing the seals,
with no guilt in his soul,
no pity in his heart,
but beaming pride
that his day-work was done:
the best for his kin---
and that's all he could do...
 
And I think of
Kakee, his wife,
cleaning, stretching, smoothing, sewing the skins
with a skill
as old as the Woman called Eve,
and bringing me the gift
with beaming pride:
the best for a friend---
and that's all she could give...
 
And I wonder why
we worry about who eats whom
when Life is a cycle?
We all prey, and we grow
feeding on each other.
 
A seal
a breathing tomato
an egg that could be born
a drink of pure water
a flower for a vase
some grass to walk upon
the warmth of the sun, of a smile, of a body
a poem for a soul
and stars to fill a dream.
 
I hung two sealskins on my wall...
 
A Man must face himself
and accept it!
 
Claude Prévost Gamble
 (June 1970)


** And I think of Claude who died today two years ago.
Thanks for all. De tout coeur!

Claude during a storm on Moose River,
whilst working as a nurse
at an Indian hospital;
James Bay, Winter 1955

The Moonlight is speechless ...

... and so am I, almost, on the first anniversary of Claude's death, which is why I let her speak.
She sent me this poem in December 2018.



THE MOONLIGHT IS SPEECHLESS...
 
She worked hard at being able
to think THINK instead of PENSER
to write a flawless letter to England as well as to France
to add Shelley to Lamartine
to exude Gallic charm mixed with British romanticism
 
she studied books and dictionaries
she travelled far and she lived everywhere
she met dignitaries and the people next door
she reached French and English fluency
in her dreams, tears and laughter
 
and when she wore this two-colour dress with elegance
she discovered
that the heart has no language, no culture of its own
 
The moonlight is speechless...
stars in one's eyes mean more than "Je t'aime, beloved"
and two clasped hands across a table
across a warm sea of silence
can tear down
better than a thousand well-chosen words
the tower of babel
one erects every day in one's soul.
 
CPG     (1970)

Thank you for everyting, Claude. De tout coeur.

Claude

Re-reading lots of our correspondence, for the past three days I have been crying, smiling, laughing, tears bedewing my cheeks. Even now words don't come easy to me.

Claude is dead.

Almost I am not surprised that our last conversation on this blog was about what we shall be leaving when we die.

"Appeared" at Omnium in June 2008 as "Curieuse au Canada", over the years a friendship developed

Not that we would not have had this and that verbal skirmish, but very soon we agreed to that we disagreed to this and that, and focused on what we like best: (Good) literature, poetry, music and ...

... the fun we had f.e. on the occasional "poetry slams" here or at "The Poor Mouth"!

When once she told me her age I thought she was kidding.
And when she told me about her life: What a woman! What courage!

- - -

After I had told her a bit about Irish literature she wrote:

"Now I would like German Literature. I know so little. Unless I have read translations without noticing the country. I doubt it. 
 
Then maybe you could tell me some English, French, American favourites? Just would like to see if we meet somewhere among books. 
 
Of course, I read the Russians ( Who doesn't?) Also Faust, Peer Gynt, Don Quichotte, The Prophet, The Rubayyat.  Studied Greek and Latin and did some translations.
 
Inevitably I read a lot Canadians (French and English), not necessarily all good. But I feel it's a bit of a duty to know what one's country produces. 
 
We have about a ten-year-program in front of us. Just want to make sure you will not drop me in 3-4 weeks :)))))

I love you, Sir Jeating.

- - -

When I had told her that I am German and Sean Jeating's just my heteronym, she wanted to know more about German literature, and let me know:
Of course I have read some Germans. I couldn't name them instantly, not because I forgot them. It's only that when a book speaks to one's heart, it has no nationality.
Since my student years, I have met few people who read "without borders". I knew, when I discovered your blog, that you were universal.
I read all Hermann Hesse, more than once. Then Remarque, Zweig. Some Brecht, Kant and Schopenhauer. ...

- - -

Dreams.

When very young, I claimed to be a writer and a musician. I became a nurse and loved it. It gave me much to write about. I also never let go of music. But lifepain took over, killed much of my ambitions. I write...I need it like air and water. Sometimes I share it. Mostly it's in boxes. Now and again I read a page, or two...I say to myself, "Claude, it's very good!". Then I put it aside.

Music.
The Music Claude never put aside. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Abado, Bernstein, Argerich, Gulda ... Hvorostovsky ... Casals, Paco de Lucía; Fado or Flamenco, etc., etc., etc. ...
To please Claude's ears and her heart I tried to find Saturday Night Music. And by trying I learned a bit about music.

Poetry.
We shared some poetry, encouraged eachother. She was good.

I think Claude does like me finally to share this with you: 

There lie my dreams and deep pain.
The detritus of my past
In its destitute beauty.
No recall. No tears. Adieu!

cpg

I love you, Claude. De tout cœur!
Sean