Éluard in Sydney
In 1924, when some of his friends had decided to give up writing, Paul Éluard disappeared from Paris on a round the world voyage which gave him a port of call in Sydney.
Disparaître c'est réussir
They are such witty bastards, all those guys.
I left them to their tight artistic scene,
flummoxed by the questions they can't answer.
Success means disappearing from their screen.
Tristesse drives me through the slack tropiques,
a friendship shattered and a lover lost.
A first class journey to review my life
and only I know how to count the cost.
Some good will come of this or I'll jump ship
and do a Rimbaud, follow sea and sky.
Sumatra, source of camphor, passes by;
plumbago is completely ceylonese.
They're either red or blue these southern trees.
Poems
start to catch me by surprise.
