Poésies, Primula Vulgaris et Primula Veris

If you drive due east from Sainte-Cécile, and keep going all day until just before Germany, you will be in the province of Lorraine.

Our friend Jean-Luc is from Lorraine, and his accent is that of the East.

"Salut Alan, content de te voir"

He said with his trademark smile and gentleness.

Primula Vulgaris-not so common as you'd think.

J-L ended up on this side of the country after falling for Nad'. They have teenage daughters and day jobs.

They also produce sculpture and poetry with passion, insight and sincerity.

Last Saturday, I took the Deux-Chevaux into a headwind to see Jean-Luc and Nad's combined work on display in Aizenay. The exhibition was the culmination of several weeks' work by local schoolchildren, their teacher, the town council, and a variety of partners.

The theme was "Poèmes-Objets": each sculpture had a poem displayed next to it, which was more-or-less related to it. The kids had written their own verses, and dozens of these had been laminated, then attached to cords which linked the town's cultural centre with the library and media building a hundred metres across the road.

The visitor could walk beneath and between these lines of poetry, which mostly remained attached to the strings despite the best efforts of an Atlantic gale, and which were called "la Rue des Petits Bonheurs".

These snippets of happiness, supplied by the children of Aizenay, perfumed the morning, Jean-Luc's sculptures and Nad's poetry.

Primula Veris/Cowslip/"Coucou"

There were erudite speeches from the Maire ("C'est quoi, le bonheur?"), the président of the Association (A Prévert-tribute list-poem to the participants which drew a standing ovation), and from grey-suited, pink-tied and élégant Monsieur L'Inspecteur d'Académie (A moving salute to the retiring primary school teacher who had spent thirty years developing these literary initiatives with his charges). The latter was a poem by Portuguese revolutionary Manuel Alegre.

Monsieur L'Inspecteur gave me a copy over post-speech apéritifs, and here it is:

Le Poète
Quand un homme se met à marcher
Il laisse un peu de lui en chemin.
Il est entier au départ épars à l’arrivée
Le reste demeure toujours en chemin
Quand un homme se met à marcher.

Il reste toujours en chemin un souvenir
Il reste toujours en chemin un peu plus
De ce qu’il avait au départ ou lui reste à l’arrivée.
Il reste un homme qui ne revient jamais plus
Quand un homme se met à marcher.

Manuel Alegre

On the way home, with a tail wind, the 2CV passed almost effortlessly from West to East of Les Essarts, where there is an invisible botanical border: the Primulae change from low-flowering Vulgaris to long-stemmed Veris.

As the little Citroën's forty year-old engine buzzed, driving past Le Lac de Rortheau, I thought of the common truths of the morning.

Lexique;

Well, this time you could just read the Alegre poem, don't worry if you don't get all of it, because that's Life and Language, and think about journeys.

Click on Vulgaris for another glimpse of J-L's sculptures.