I’m a longtime fan of Illinois poet, editor and English Professor Richard Jones, having shared several of his poems here over the years, including “Blue Stars,” “The Nomenclature of Color,” and “The Diner.”
Prose-like, lyrical, elegant, and accessible, his poems — often about his day-to-day life, are truly a joy to read. Love how he establishes a natural intimacy with the reader, revealing profound insights in a way that seems effortless.
Recently I’ve been savoring his 2018 collection, Stranger on Earth (Copper Canyon Press). The poems are presented in seven sections — a nod to Marcel Proust’s 1913 seven-volume novel, Remembrance of Things Past (a.k.a. In Search of Lost Time). Jones reads Proust often, finding inspiration in the detailed stream-of-consciousness recollections transformed into a compelling art form.
Here’s a favorite poem from Stranger on Earth, a sweet moment shared by Jones and his daughter that’s perfect for Father’s Day.
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MADELEINESContinue reading
by Richard Jones
I stay up all night reading Proust,
turning pages in the golden glow of a tall lamp,
happy in a little circle of light and dreaming of Paris.
It's like sitting up late with my closest friend
or listening to my own innermost thoughts.
There has awakened in me that anguish which,
later on in life, transfers itself to the passion of love,
and may even become its inseparable companion.
When the sun comes down the lane
with ten thousand French candles,
I climb the stairs and softly open the door
to find my seven-year-old daughter still sleeping.
I sit on the edge of her bed; she turns
and slowly wakes. After my wife's,
nothing is more beautiful than my daughter's eyes
opening in the morning, her green eyes catching the light.
"Let's have tea and madeleines," I say,
and we set out on a journey to taste in reality
what so charmed Proust's fancy.
Sarah finds the red mixing bowls.
I fill the kettle and tell her about the recluse
who spent his life in a cork-lined room
scented with camphor, happy to lie in bed
and write endless pages about his past,
revealing the essence of every moment.
Sarah breaks eggs; I measure sugar and whisk.
Together we practice French:
sucre, livre, roman, je t'aime.
Sarah pours the lemon-scented batter
into the heavy, scalloped pan.
"Would you write such a book?" she asks,
licking the spatula.
"Would my father go in search of lost time,
remembering the past so?"
I open the oven door and tell her
there is no place I'd rather be than here with her,
though I wonder, will she remember this years hence --
the lemon-scented batter, the morning light --
and, amid the ruins of everything else,
will the immense architecture of memory prove faithful?
The timer chimes.
Sarah arranges the madeleines
on a painted tole tray, sprinkles clouds
of powdered sugar, and carries the tray
to the terrace. Now we are in Paris
at her favorite café. I am
her solicitous white-aproned waiter,
attentive to mademoiselle's every need,
undone and unclosed
by how small and beautiful her hands are.
She tells me that instead of tea like Monsieur Proust,
she would prefer milk. Thin towel over my arm,
I hold the milk bottle, present the label;
she approves and I pour the milk.
"Merci avec bonté," she says,
lifting her glass to the sunlight.
"I'll always remember these madeleines,"
I say. "Will you?" I ask,
toasting her glass with my teacup.
"Certainly. And your books will remind me."
"All things find their way into a poem."
"Like madeleines do," she proclaims,
drinking down her tumbler of milk
until nothing is left but the line
of a thin mustache, like Proust's.
~ from Stranger on Earth (Copper Canyon Press, 2018).
Jama's Alphabet Soup 