For the most part self-distanced in our apartment since February and seeing fewer family and friends, one could get a bit depressed. Having come across a poem I wrote on a trip Mary & I took to Paris ten years ago, we found ourselves thinking about the time when we will be able to travel again. In the meantime, perhaps dreaming about that travel can help. We invite you to dream your way through this poem with us.
Paris . . . Time Slips By
When coming to Paris, myriad choices dare us,
One must narrow them down to a few.
With not many days, consider the ways,
Your interests to joyfully do
With each other,
Each trip focus just on a few.
With guidebook in hand, we took in Rodin,
A sculptor of bronze and of stone.
His collection now housed where he lived and espoused
His great talents amidst a great home:
Hotel Biron,
Where his gifts to the world are now shown.
The Burghers of Calais, they gave their lives,
They gave their lives a-way.
Auguste Rodin, he re-turned their lives,
He re-turned them to life in clay
And bronze,
To live a-nother day.
Camille Claudel, she loved Rodin,
He forty-four, she just past nine-teen.
She sculpted the loss she had seen
And lived,
She sculpted what might have been.
Thus, all too soon, it is after noon,
To the Seine, les bateaux passing by.
Autumn leaves falling down, sparkling yellow and brown;
Another interest we will try,
Time slips by,
Long shadows from autumn Paris sky.
© Forrest W. Heaton October, 2010
The Mature Age, 1913 bronze casting at the Musée Rodin.