“Memories of Louisiana” by Myriam Descendres

Melvin Potier called ‘Melisse’, April 1926

As the evening drowns the last rays of hope over the old mire of those sad waters, Melisse plays the harmonica, lost in his head. Stubborn, he never came out of it since the end of the war. His silence, transcended by the long complaint of the instrument…

His back to that old trunk of wood, head down to protect his eyes from the last sunlight, he breathes, then plays. And breathes again. The notes of the instrument never failing him each single eve. The air smells like only the marshes from the south know how to exhale. A green clay, salty, with therapeutic, even mystical properties, it is said around. Go find out.

Melisse knows it well, he who talks to frogs, but he speaks no more, he plays; his joy plays for him; a hoarse joy no doubt; muddy tears. Old memories of trenches, when some come back for another morning, still alive…

Melisse plays, the bog lives, the saturniids, the halo of the lantern, like Phaeton’s sun. Between each complaint, Melisse breathes out his melody. The dawn still finding a way.

Now enjoy the passage in French!

Souvenir de Louisiane

Melvin Potier dit Melisse, avril 1926

   Le soir noie de ses derniers rayons le vieux marécage aux eaux tristes. Comme toujours, Melisse joue de l’harmonica, perdu dans sa tête. Têtu, il n’en est plus jamais ressorti depuis la fin de la guerre. Son mutisme transcendé par la longue plainte de l’instrument.

   Le dos au tronc, la tête légèrement ployée, il respire. Et joue, et respire de nouveau. Joue encore, chaque soir. L’air embaume comme seuls les marais du sud savent exhaler. Une glaise verte, limoneuse, aux propriétés thérapeutiques, voire mystiques, dit-on par ici. Allez savoir.  

   Melisse le sait bien. Lui qui parle aux grenouilles. Mais il parle plus; il joue; sa joie joue pour lui; une joie rauque; crevassée; de l’écorce. Comme ces ponceaux par-dessus les tranchées. Quelque fois, on revenait au matin, survivre une aube nouvelle.

   Melisse joue, le marais vit, les saturnidés, le halo du fanal, comme phatéon le soleil. Entre chaque plainte, Melisse souffle sa mélopée.  L’aurore saura bien trouver son chemin.

Copyright © 2022 Miriam Descendres

All Rights Reserved

Myriam Descendres

A young transgender female and poetess 

at bay in her world of impressions, furtive flash

and melancholy. A black and white vision

marked by borderline, anxiety, and yes… love.

You can find Myriam on Twitter @13rrance

or wandering my garden on WordPress at arg808.wordpress.com.


Featured Image: An original digital art piece by o’Wisp, who can be found at @Lilly_wisp (Mostly unused) and at Instagram @wisp.x8finity.

Editor: Barbara Harris Leonhard

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Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir (EIF-Experiments in Fiction, 2022)

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