provenant des cahiers manuscrits d’Anjela Duval ou de ses publications antérieures

I am gathering ferns île nicest of jobs, you might say… True, but it’s hot, Let’s stop for a moment. ………………………………. On my arm a sickle and a pitchfork, in my hand a fern fine and light like a piece […]

Ah! how I long for blue Skies After these weeks full of grey! Gone (it seems) half of January And I’ve still seen no other color this year Than that bit of grey sky In the rectangle of my window. […]

I straightened my back To rest And my gaze fell On something, there, On the other side of the valley: Tiny things fluttering In the wind. Suspended on a metal line, Little things, light, light, Tiny white and pink things: […]

Would your soft cooing Each morning in the chestnut tree Be for me, russet dove? No! I’d be crazy to think so! Your song is a hymn To the One who gave you That nostalgic voice. Your soft cooing Is […]

Neither moon nor star Just ash-colored clouds I am cold on this dark night; I call my star Like a man in exile —In his troubled Soul— Crying for his Mother-Country, When will my Star come back? November 1970 Translated […]

The day is now over. The hour’s come I was waiting for. After labor so material, How sweet a spiritual hour. I’m bathed here in tranquility. I hear no sound around me. But the sound of the pendulum, Counting out […]

Such love as that for the trees? From my tenderest age When I caressed their bark With my babyish hand. When I glued my ear against them To listen to the rustling of their leaves The humming of their branches […]

Lord! Father of the Universe And Father of all Creatures Spirit and Matter Today hear if she asks The least of your children Who loves you from the depths of her heart Her happiness to live forever… Before you like […]

To the mother of all mothers. Today is Mother’s Day, The festival of pure Love, When hearts beat All together, …I’m alone, My mothers are all in heaven My mother by blood, My mother by spirit, And mother of all […]

Half spent the month of March. A dry wind, the weather’s tart. The gorse is red, so is the heath. Nothing green in the fields, Neither hay stuff nor bread stuff. Nothing green, nothing. Nothing except the rye In the […]