Mes Lointains Rivage (FAWM 2011 #3)

Chatting with Elisabeth Beucher, a friend who lives in Paris, I discovered she’s a poet. Of course, I immediately asked if she’d share a poem I could put to music. She chose well, and we’re both delighted with the U2/trance feeling of it.

She said I pronounced all the words correctly. Since I don’t speak French, I’m pretty pleased.

The only instrument is a single track on my Strat, with the reverb and echo set to stun, played by thumping my thumb against the strings right above the pickup.

Listen to ‘Mes Lointains Rivage’


Bleu nuit
Bleu du ciel
Bleu du lagon.

Bleu de tes yeux
Et de la glace en feu
Bleu de mon univers.

Bleu de mes rois
Bleu de mes racines
Bleu de la distance
Et de la différence.

Bleu de mes voyages,
De mes lointains rivages
Et de mes océans.

Bleu de mon ancre.


Blue night
Blue sky
Blue lagoon

Blue of your eyes
And ice on fire
Blue my world

My blue kings
Blue of my roots
Blue distance
And difference

Blue my travels
From my distant shores
And my oceans

Blue my anchor

3-Week Itch

Writing music always pulls emotions up closer to the surface. Weather changes make me happy. Or sad. Depends on what changes and how. Listening to my older daughter’s music is always emotional.

But really, I think what I’m feeling today is the 3-week itch.

We’ve noticed as we travel that when we land somewhere for a while, at about the 3-week mark, we start to get itchy feet. Fiona starts asking “When are we going to drive again? I’m tired of being in houses.” Sue starts looking for places to go; organising events and coming up with reasons to be on the go, on the road.

stones glow, shadows grow, I have to goMe? I just get fidgety, cranky, and distracted.

We love being here in Arizona. Terry and Virgie are even more dear than they were before we came. Nothing is wrong.

I just wanna leave.

Songwriters have used the wind as a metaphor (or maybe it’s a simile) for ages. Some of us live our lives knowing we have to see what’s around that bend, over the hill, across that river or in the next little town.

I can’t see that from inside a house. Adventure isn’t parading past our door looking for me.

Nomads don’t settle. Nomads move; we’re made from the wind and the sea and the sky, and precious little earth.

I’m a whirling flowing wind that needs to blow.