Nice

An excerpt from my newsletter of July 17, 2016

Dear Art Friends, 

I’ve had a difficult few days. The Nice tragedy has really upset me. It has disturbed my equilibrium.

Nice was my home for almost 8 years.

These last days have had me scanning every French news report I can find as, slowly, the victims names are released. I have spent hours trying to figure out the current ages of friends’ children. I study the posted photographs, wondering how my neighbours would look now. Were they there, in this picture, or in that one.   

When I lived in Nice I was directly above the Promenade, between Gambetta & Congress, right where the truck finally stopped. I would walk my dogs every day on the Promenade, a ten minute walk from my apartment. Would I have been there on that night had I stayed? Certainly the entire city was made up of gregarious folk who enjoyed a stroll after a good dinner. Would friends have dragged me out? The girls, my golden retrievers, would have stayed at home; they firmly believed that any fireworks  announced the commencement of the end of time. Last Thursday they would have been right.

I am heartsick.

Memories that I prefer to let lie, like sleeping dogs, have stormed my brain. Nice changed my life. From betrayed, loving and loyal wife, I willed myself, forced myself, to refocus my psyche completely on my art. I showed my work in Paris, as well an Monaco, and other places; lectured at the home/museum of the Baroness Beatrice Rothschild, Le Musée Ile-de-France; discovered my intense love of research; founded The Tevlin Perspective: art history from an artist’s point of view; lectured up and down the Côte d’Azur; worked as a volunteer at the Hôpital L’Archet, in the children’s ward, and promised myself never to let another person become more central to my existence than myself. (Other than my mother of course ;-)))

It was hard work.

For me Nice was a city of betrayal, and a place of regeneration. My art changed completely. I took chances I hadn’t even considered before. I now only had myself to please. It was in Nice that I did all of my triptychs, the small ones as well as the large. Most of the triptychs are still there. The French buy a lot of art. 

The reports of tragedy are so common now that we tend to forget, or have no way of realizing, the simple humanity of the people who have been destroyed, and the families that have been ripped asunder. All of the French tragedies have made me search for old friends. These survivors, my friends, les Nicoises, les Parisiennes, must be thinking, “Have we been forgotten? Why have we been forsaken?”

I have not forgotten how to pray.

Paris Idyll

October 8, 2015

Fore clouds

Mid clouds

Back clouds

The Parisian Cycle

Of light and shade

Lulls me out of sadness

And into the day.

Giant barges parting

The grey chopping waters

Of my Parisian

Idyll

Tempting me to work

To paint

To dream away

Another day.

My left foot hurts.

I count the steps

As it stiffens

And pulses.

I sit and look-

My city before me-

Paris at my feet-

My poor throbbing feet.

Smack

 

The darkness

Small siren sound

Approach

Mosquito touches down.

Smack

My arm a landing field

For night flying low tech vampires

Fairy winged bloodsuckers

Piercing sleepy flesh.

Smack

Again the darkness.

Smack

I see not.

Smack

Not arm

Not silenced drone

Not tiny smear

A blotchy spot of blood.

Smack

I miss

At Dawn

The night

Dark against the blind

The blind

Horizontal

Catching pale glints

Of moonlight

Soft through the open door.

Such a long year it’s been

Towering in its

Bewildering ache

Listless at times

As it slowly plodded on

November to May

April to today.

Loneliness is something

I don’t allow

It may not enter

My psyche

My thoughts

The long restless nights

Are mine alone

To wrestle into silence

To castigate ‘til

Slumber comes

At dawn.

Getting Mother Into Heaven (A Poetry Cycle)

Getting Mother Into Heaven (A Poetry Cycle)

By Suzanne Tevlin

There’s A Thunderstorm In My Head

“There’s a thunderstorm

In my head.”

Mother says, lifting

Her transparent hands

To her hair knotted

From days of lying

In pain

And vomit.

Her fingers trembling

The rings jangle like bells

Loose

The wrinkled wrap

Of her muscles hanging

In drapes of crepey

Diaphanous skin

Remains

Cell-linked stubbornly

Together.

For how much longer?

Don’t leave me!

Mom!

I’ll sing for you

We need to talk

Forever

To Mom - Four Days Gone

Oh my dear,
Every night at 9:00
I think of you
As I reach for the phone.
"I know your ring"
You'd say,
Trying to beat me
To the opening line of
Hello My Honey.

I long for your laugh
Your hope
Your delight in
All things silly and bright
And your pride
And need
Of me

Your Flowers Were Beautiful

The flowers I chose for thee 
All day long
The day before
Were white, and blue and wild and kempt.
I found golden rod,
And Queen Anne’s Lace
Flowering Rosemary
And red choke-berry vine
(in my back yard – which is a tiff).

The roses and such,
Emerged pale and sylphlike
From a field of snowy-white.
Do you remember the hydrangeas?
(We called them snowballs.
You kept them at the foot of the stairs.)
Or the goldenrod from Brown's field?
And the Queen Anne's Lace along the railroad tracks?
Though these I bought at city prices.
No country discounts pour moi.

Someone.
Stopped them from 
Being placed on the altar
To bring you joy and hope
and everlasting peace.

Someone.
Placed them to the side
Like cast offs,
Though loved by you
And me.

I went to Notre Dame to light a candle.

Someone.
Perhaps a baby priest
Listened to my story,
“Allez-y Madame.” whispered he,
Mes sincères condoléances.”
I slipped in the back door.
Arriving at the Vierge de Notre Dame
I wept.

Someone.
A Japanese tourist.
Took my picture.
Tears streaming down my neck.
Then pushing me aside,
They focused on the candle
I had lit for thee.
And me.

Christ in The Desert

Anchorites have always fascinated me.

Since I was young.

Taking their fiery stubborn stance

Atop their hand picked prisons

Columns of antiquated marble

Or thrones bricked round in stone.

Anchorites have always fascinated me.

Since I was young.

Shaking their fists at their faithless god.

Shouting their love

In defiance of the slights.

Waiting for their private miracle.

Anchorites have always fascinated me.

Since I was young.

In Byzantium of lore,

They shivered and shook in ecstasy.

Their manna dropped at their dirtied feet,

By soaring ravens dark with rage.

Still waiting for their private miracle.

Anchorites have always fascinated me.

Since I was young.

So I'll go see Christ in The Desert.

No kneeling wailing me.

But accepting the sights as gifts,

I’ll sit and contemplate the mountains there.

And wait for my private miracle.

Note: Christ in The Desert is a tiny abbey run by a few monks near Ghost Ranch, New Mexico, Georgia O'Keeffe's old home. 

‘Pon Waking With The Dawn

6:17am, November 19, 2014

Warm.

The furnace purrs.

The dawn slips up my window pane.

The arctic vortex has arrived.

Another winter’s freeze ahead.

Looms.

Is that the word?

Looms. Freezing forward

Surrounding my heart.

No sandwiches crunchy with frost.

Our chilly fingers.

Laughter.

Our jokes so deeply bad.

Listen.

The snow flakes fall.

Wait. You farted.

The crisp frigid virginal air

Cracks with noxious gas.

Laughter almost knocks us over.

We’ll go in then?

Yes, we’ll have a lie down.

We’ll read the paper.

We’ll hang out.

Brrrrr….it’s cold.

Hades

Hades.

The scent of burning

Dust to dust.

Souls fleet of foot

Dash in circles through

Arches dark with soot.

Low

Flames deep red

A cadmium of blood

Sizzling within

The giant stone clad oven.

The quick rush of

Air exhaled

By bodies beautified

With plastic clays

To view for moments only.

The hair is different

Dead cells linked

One to t’other, but

Witchy in its silver finery.

The spirit darts past.

Touching cheek gingerly.

Whispering.
Trying not to howl
“I am gone, but where?

Don’t leave me dear.”

The triple headed 
Hound of nightmares
Cerberus, stands drooling,
(I can almost taste the putrid reak of his foul breath)
Snarling, spitting, at the portal of death.

No, wait!
It's Emma girl and Nellie
Yelping in joy,
Licking my darling's hand,
Come to protect their dear old friend
And lead her from the darkness 
Up the road to light.

Ghost Ranch

Ghost Ranch

3:55 am

March 28, 2015

Watching the stars

Loose their veils

Of day and

Nestle into the

Darkness

Of the night.

Emerging

From the glowing

Mountains dark,

Long eared deer

Patrol the realm

And venture near.

Spotted. Alone.

 In my sky blue chair

They stare at me,

And I at them.

The laughter of delight

Rumbles up my throat.

They disappear.

They’ll come again

I know.

As lighting day

The sun will rise.

They’ll look to me

And wonder.

As darkness settles slowly down.

When will we meet again?

Pinched Nerve

Pinched Nerve

The first touch of fall

Pushes the leaves

Towards yellow

And gold.

A pinched nerve in hip

Arrests my gait

In its natural rhythm

Am I old?

Autumn is my favorite time

Spring’s over rated

Easily blemished

By an inconsiderate touch

Summer is overblown

Vulgaire in its extremes

Base in its green or blue

Lacking the sophisticate’s brush

And winter

Well winter is cold and old

A time to reconsider

And philosophize

And wait for that longed for breath

Of fragile spring.

Dance

The twirlly bits are most thrilling

And frightening.

In a flash

I lose my sense of self

Of balance

Of adult hood

No longer the grown-up

I throw myself

Into the air

Hoping to end

Up-right

But happy just to do it

The beat

The beat

Dance on the beat.

Dance on the head of a pin.

Angels watch me

Laughing

Dancing together

Again.

Seamus

In remembrance of the great poet Seamus Heaney


 

An old man dead

Or a dog that breathed a fetid stench

Irish both

But neither suited for the trenches

The old man glowers

With a 3 year old's jealousy

Of dead scholars

And poets

And soldiers

All past to dust

But having lived

Whilst he reconsiders

His dread of criticism

And sulks

To beat the band

Stories

Cold metal

‘Gainst fragile bone

Clasped in mouth

Upside down

Subway platform

Hmmmm

Everyone has a story.

One worries about the smell.

Disrupting the tempo of lives.

Bathtub

Warm water

Red

Overpass

Cling

Drop

Fly

Everyone has a story

Pow

Crack

Gasp

Sob

Sigh

Finish the story.

Write

The

End

Leaves

Red leaves were favored.
Chosen
Studied
Debated
Pressed between waxen sheets.
Hot
Burned fingers
"Et voila."

Better pressed in books.
Large
Heavy
Lost
Forgotten
'Till found a century gone.
Transparent
Disintegrating

"We did that you know.
I remember the day,
With Lulu and Belle.
Oh mon dieu,
We were so gai."

Summer's Leaving

Summer's leaving
Me, with fastness,
Lastingness
I've never known.

Rain drips down,
Continuum to the
Drone of time erasing,
Time erasing ever,
Everlasting time,
Again, never.

Finality surrounds,
Last rush of warm,
Its deluge wet
And burning,
Rouses a last...hope.
No. Summer's gone.

Maire

I couldn't bring myself to post this last May, I was too sad, but now I feel I can. It's an excerpt from my journal.

May 1, 2011

This afternoon I heard that my closest childhood friend had cancer; things did not look good.

Now, a few hours later, I find myself imagining my way through her wake. Burying her before she’s had a chance to heal, to survive, to vanquish that SOB cancer.

Too much death. Not you too Maire.

We are not close. Have not been close since those early prepubescent years. Yet, she’s the one I think of when those awkward, babyfat days come to mind. Not my brothers, always mean, or crying, or dirty diapered. They were legion. They outnumbered me four to one. And sisterless, I sought  out Maire.

May 2, 2011

Dear Maire,
Well, I've been thinking about you. My most positive, warm, hopeful thoughts are with you right now. But I'm sure you know that everyone in this crazy Tevlin family feels as I do, everyone wants you up and around, the sooner the better.

But, enough of that, let me tell you what I've really been thinking about. It's not the middle aged gal that I no longer know very well, and haven't seen in a dog's age who's been on my mind, but that little brown haired version of me....skinny, scary, full of questions, afraid of boys, dogs, and fish touching small white feet whilst swimming in the good ol' Gatineau River. She, like me, is surrounded by younger siblings, has a beautiful mother, and a father who sings....that's what I'm thinking about....the singing girls....

Last night I fell asleep thinking about the evenings we used to spend singing with our 2 Dads. I've never really analysed those evenings but they were magical, the 2 of us, high girlish sopranos, and our 2 fathers, Irish tenors, sweet and sheer. Such simple beauty...so perfect....and so natural we thought nothing of it....just sang what we were told and taught to sing.....lovely days they were my dear Maire.....such fragile delicate memories. We did well with Moonlight Bay...do you remember? And as we grew, and times changed, we adapted the words to modern times. Funny eh? Are we that old?

Get better Mary, you're the closest thing I ever had to a sister.

Much love,

Suzanne

I Write To Understand - The Final

It has been four months now. The pain is lessening, though the mystery remains.

What interests me most is the way he seems to have been thrown away, discarded, ignored, by everyone, the whole world. He was swept up and shuffled under the carpet. He ceased to exist.

Christmas came, and not a soul lamented his passing, my loss, or the difficulties of modern life.

T drew a line under his life the week before Christmas, and even my closest relative, the person I thought to be my dearest friend, did not remember me, or him, or my loss of him that Noel. I too was left alone. Alone.

T’s decision to end his life has changed my world in the most subtle way. No longer will I maintain relationships that are deleterious to my self-esteem. If those I love do not love me then they must leave me to my work, my art and my own ways.

I suppose I will never understand why people refuse to acknowledge a suicide. And I hope never again to need the support of people who will not give it. But, these people - do they not realize that those who are left, those who have been violently, physically rejected, by death, need to understand, need to talk, need to mourn. They cannot discard those they loved as easily as may be wished.

I Write To Understand - Part 3

The others chat amongst themselves. People whom I have never met, but know so much about. I know their foibles, their attitudes, the good and the bad. When had confessor become part of my job description? And for a priest. Why is theology such a strict, and forbidding mistress? Why couldn’t he break free from those early days of shame and punishment?

My eyes are drawn to his face, his cheeks. I search for scratches. Search to find evidence of a last minute change of heart. Other than that I can’t bring myself to form the vision of his final tremors.

But his preparation, that I wonder about. How did he arrange his final morning? Did he play that African song he loved? Did he have a cup of the tea that hung like an albatross around his now marked neck?

And ritual.

In what self-anointing ritual did he steep himself that dawn? Ritual was a great love and comfort to him. I laughed on more than one occasion, telling him his love of ritual could easily qualify him as an honourary Roman Catholic. But this lost Calvinist minister would only become more intense in his observation of the rite, be it tea brewing or discussion.

And then gone, as though he'd quit the inner sanctum before the offering had been accepted.

Or had he simply realized that he was to be the sacrificial lamb?