Reed Venrick is a writer from the Florida Key islands, usually publishing poems with a nature, travel or philosophical theme. Reed Venrick currently resides between Marseille and Aix-en-Provence.
The Idea of Order at “Le Vieux Port”
PART ONE
Down the street, stepping on shiny tram
Tracks, we strolled along “Rue Canebiere,”
Veronique and me—we wandered
Around “Le Vieux-Port” on past
Fishmongers hawking fish in kiosks before
Those bobbing, sun-splashing ivory
Yachts, there we saw fisherfolk coming in
With their catch of the day, and we
Heard a fishmonger calling out to
The fisher boats, drifting in and calling back
In French their catch, though it was no later
Than 14:30 p.m., and along the quay,
Touristing backpackers resting on packs,
Their minds lost in I-phones, or sitting
On the harbor quad with packs to backs,
And clutched in hands, ubiquitous
Phones, some had nordic flags sewed
On their packs, as backpackers like
To show their domicile; their pink
Northern faces turning Mediterranean
Lobster red beyond suntans, and we—
Veronique and me, we wondered
How the sun could be so bright,
And the sky so clear of clouds, while
The coastal air could be so chill, at least
In a kiosk’s shade but weather perfect
For Veronique’s navy-blue “pullover,”
A sweater I gave her for her birthday.
“Still, the question remains,”
I said, as we strolled on, and we
Inhaled the fresh sea air and
The cucumber smell wafting
From fishmonger’s stalls, and
As we strolled on and around,
We gazed over yachts, thousands
Of sculptured boats languidly
Floating—some seemed levitating
Above the clear, cyan-blue water
Of “Le Vieux Port de Marseille,”
Where fisherfolk and tourists mix.
“What question?” She asked,
“Why do the French say “Le Vieux Port?”
“Pardon?”
“But not “Le Port Vieux,” which seems—?”
“This is our vacation, not a grammar—.”
“Now “cherie,” is that your answer?”
“You know the answer already.”
“I do?”
“If you remember exceptions to rules.”
“French has many exceptions to the—“
“And English does not?”
“Really?”
The chilly air was making me
Hungry, so I tugged at her warm
Hand, but she pulled away to pause
To look over the recent catch
At a fishmonger’s stall,
Selling “rouget” and “Lotte.” 1
I tugged at her hand in the midst
Of sea air and the windy ambiance
That thrashed our hair about,
And I led us on toward my favorite
Cous cous restaurant in Marseille.
A place she didn’t yet know.
PART TWO
Strolling on around the port’s south
We came to the waist-high, wooden
Gate; there the slim Yasmine stood smiling,
Her thick, dark hair falling and swirling
About her, and her aquiline nose giving
Her a look of Irene Pappas, she welcoming
With a mermaid’s moist eternal smile
Like in the days of Homer’s Odyssey,
Before “Le Restaurant sur la Quais.” 2
The place I return every time I pass
Through Marseille, usually spring; this
Time with Veronique, a new friend.
Yasmine wears American Levi jeans
And a beige, cotton blouse with a slitted
Tunisian collar, and rings on every
Finger of her left hand. I see that
Yasmine remembers me, if not my name,
But she politely asks me how, as she
Leads us to a wooden table covered
With white tiles, marked with blue anchor
Designs—and how are things in Paris?
I say fine, though I’ve moved since
The last time—and she smiles again—
A handsome Tunisian woman without
A hijab, and no make-up though a touch
Of rouge on her cheeks—but with
Her golden skin in bright light she shows
Deep crow’s feet—shes the classic
“Joli laide” like the aging Irene Pappas, 3
As I recall from the 70’s cinema. She
Seats us at a square, tile-topped table
Table cloth, and I say to her:
“Yasmine, the last time I was here,
I remember you said you grew up
Here or around the city of Marseille.”
“Oui, la zone de’ Saint-Mauront.”
“Yes, so why do people here say
“Le Vieux Port instead of “Le Port Vieux?”
She turned her face—and laughed.
“Le français n’est pas ma langue maternelle.” 4
She gives us menus and brushes back
Her black hair, drifting across her dark,
Sloe eyes in the restless wind—she
Lifts her ring hand and motions for a waiter.
Veronica jabs my shoulder with her
Forefinger, but being obsessive, I persist,
“Seriously, why does French switch
The normal adjective position?”
“I mean why place the adjective
Before the noun like we do in English?”
“Maybe my husband knows.” She laughs.
“Where is he? I will—“
“He’s out fishing today.”
“Fishing, ah, so I’ll have to wait to—“
“Ask Ramon Fernandez, see if 5
He knows,” Veronique says
In an Italian “sotto voce.” She
Orders the “bouillabaisse” and I
“Cous cous et melange de fruits 6
De mer,” my go-to dish in Marseille.
PART THREE
Veronique reached and grasped
My arm—her fingers strong, as
She plays tennis most weekends
With an old classmate from
Her alma mater, Sorbonne University,
She peers at me with her large and
Sea-bright hazel eyes, now high-
Lighted by the sapphire-blue
Sky mixed with chilled sunlight.
I’m surprised at her vigorous reaction,
And surprised she moves her face
Close to mine in a “tete-a-tete.”
She closes her left eye and raises
An ironical right eyebrow, and as
Her sharp, elegant nose touches mine,
She says: “Did we come all the way
From Paris to talk about French grammar?”
I had to laugh, as she held my forearm
Tightly, and for a few seconds, we
Had one of those intense “tete-tete”
Moments, where two lovers gaze into
Each other’s minds and memories,
Gazing through the mysterious tunnel
That the human eye opens, which
Voltaire once wrote—was the first circle;
And when a gust of wind blew up the
Collar of Veronique’s wind breaker and
She released her grip, I reached for
The “carafe d’eau,” and poured
Ourselves Evian water, and as I drank,
Gazing across thousands of sun-splashing
Beige and ivory yachts, I saw a painter
Standing across the harbor before his
Easel and canvas, and I thought how
in another life I might have been a painter
Standing before an easel painting yachts
And in one of those transcending moments
A person has when traveling to another country,
I also realized I might also be a fisherman
Like Yasmine’s husband—impulsively
I said: “ma cherie, if I were “un pecheur, 7
Would you marry me?”
“Probably not,” she laughed, not glancing
Up from scrolling her cell phone.
“Why not? ‘Pourquoi pas?’”
“You talk too much,” she laughed.
“Too much talk or talk too loud?
As the cliche goes about Americans?”
“Oh is that a cliche?” She laughed.
“But isn’t “bouillabaisse” your favorite dish?” 8
“I’m confused—what does my favorite dish have—
“I mean, if I were a fisherman, I could supply
You every day with fish to fry, bake or stew.”
“Oh okay, in that case, maybe,” she giggled
Without looking up from her phone.
I gazed out across the boats and the yachts,
And I saw another fishing boat coming in,
And I pointed this out to Veronique,
And she said something I don’t recall,
And as we sat, waiting for our dishes,
I thought how much we liked Marseille,
At least in the daytime, though we avoided
Going out at night, since it was not
Uncommon to be robbed. We drank
More water and snacked on the baguette
That Yasmine had sliced for us, and
I spoke no more that day about the
Syntactic order of “Le Vieux-Port.”
NOTES AT THE FOOT:
1. Red mullet and monkfish.
2. “Restaurant on the Quay.”
3. Literally “beautifully ugly.” Sometimes applied
To a woman with attractive but strong, masculine features,
4. “French is not my first language.”
5. Refers to the French critic (1894-1944), whom Wallace Stevens
Referenced in “The Idea of Order at Key West.”
6. Cous cous semolina with a mix of seafood
7. “A fisherman”
8. A fish stew originated in Marseille that combines
Broth combined with seafood; a base of leeks, fennel,
Garlic and tomatoes with a touch of saffron.
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Poetry in this post: © Reed Venrick
Published with the permission of Reed Venrick