Author Archives: jillbpearlman

Summer Bed

The pine prepares a beddropping its needles long and thinas angel’s hair and smooth, each connectedto a partner, toasted like hay or ochreanticipating our autumnal bed though now we lay head to headwatching the summer stars

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Refugees: The Tragedy of Frenemies

I saw a discrete sign for a Memorial to Internment Camps at Rivesaltes, outside Perpignan, France, and finally decided to visit.  Lacking indication, you’d have to know or have a reason to take the plunge. You’d have to choose right … Continue reading

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Le Plus Ça Change…

As the French take to the barricades to figure out what the country is about, one thing they don’t doubt is food. As Eric Delalande, a brilliant chef who traded Madison Avenue for Place des Marchés in Villèsque, a remote … Continue reading

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Blank Space: Bastille Day

What’s not to love? The first lines of the French chalkboard – “Today we celebrate” have been carefully written once. The last line shows traces of previous fêtes, erased and written over. Today’s humble last line, dashed off, ignoring a … Continue reading

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Independence EveryDay

Celebrations Morning wakes hours before its city creatures.I see light through the shutters:cool insides while their clapboards communicate color — hydrangea pink, hydrangea blue —to the morning.  Slate gray street, a herribone brick sidewalk.  Couples inside, coffee darker than their peignoirs.  It’s a holiday.The … Continue reading

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The Poet who mistook a Sunflower for Eve

As the poet must give up control of meaning to the reader, so the abstract painter must let go – rejoice! – in happy (mis)interpretations of her viewers.   After seeing Joan Mitchell’s large canvases (seen here in detail), I … Continue reading

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Genesis, Moonstone Beach

Thanks, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, for publishing this poem in Volume IV !

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What is Mother’s Day without the kids?

Primavera, Senior Yearto Eve As the languorous calm of winter ends,enter gardeners, whirling bees–riotous breakawaySpring. And all the things I wanted to hold onto–a child’s hand, cool as an oboe;lamplight; readingby the window lying in bed with extra pillows,talking to … Continue reading

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Passover, Notre-Dame and the Book Thing

The idea that Notre-Dame might be reduced to a hole in the ground, a collection of rubble terrified me.  When I lived in Paris, or before that, or after, the Cathedral lodged itself deeply in my being. A friend mentioned … Continue reading

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Headiness of Spring Cleaning

I had a highly complicated scaffolded reaction to a spring cleaning talk that I’m attempting to unravel.  It led to a revelation, and that I’ll try to unravel too.  It took place in a series of metaphors – which made … Continue reading

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