Hommage to Dorothy Hart, Artist and Liver
On the 20th May 1975, I was brought back to Malerargues from the Nice hospital to recover after the auto route accident that had taken the lives of Roy Hart, his wife, Dorothy Hart and Vivienne Young, two days earlier. I and the 46 other members of the Roy Hart Theatre at that time started on the long road back to adjusting our lives into accomodating their absence. (Something that continues for all of us to this day). Part of that journey took the form of writing of this poem.
Paul Silber, Malerargues May 2003
This is the year
This is the Year The great tree is dappled, heavy with fruit ready to fall. What year is this, do you remember, do you recall? Was it a year blessed with great joy? Or was it all heavy, dull and with curse? Perhaps it's untrue, just a trick or a ploy. What year was it after the first? Yes, I am remember, I am recall. This was the year known by her name, We stood by this window, we stood by this door, These times never to be the same. Yes, I am remember, I am recall. We saw these same branches heavy with joy, Blooms born of mind taking years to employ. Silent white bell flowers..... hang in the tree: In her, time was full, as yet still unseen. For us spring was shining, there there's no past. Her smiling face purged, clear and clean. But the cold bite of autumn already was here. Time's earthy fingers scrabbling with fear. Yes, I am remember, I am recall. Through the crack in time's ashen blank face, Out leapt a stranger, shouting her name, T'was death who was riding, scattered glass in his trace. Gone all......... gone all......... gone all.......... White bell flowers............ silent............fall. Hands urging, moon's yearning stretched out on the floor. Gone all.......gone all..... fruits conceived in her sight...... Now I alone stand by the door. Castanets silent, lie stilled in white light. Through her halved eyes, only I can now see Lush fruits growing into a great tree.Paul Silber, Malerargues, 1975