I have spent a lot of time in Corsica. Almost all the 90s, many months each year. It’s a fascinating island.
It took me a lot of time to be accepted there. Corsicans don’t speak too much, they are mountain people, insular, loyal. It’s where the vendetta and all those Hollywood movies of revenge were born. But the people, if you can break through and be accepted, are genuine salt of the earth.
But I’m getting off-topic. What I want to write about is this poem below. It’s based on a real event, like lots of what I write. Something that happened in Corscia.
I usually went to Corsica during the summer. Enjoying late evenings with fascinating company and famous French conversation. Miss it. But one year I was invited to spend Christmas on the island with a family.
I packed and brought gifts for everyone there. Christmas morning came and I got up all excited about giving gifts, opening gifts. However, unknown to me, the family only gave gifts to the children. I gave my gifts to all the adults, I’d bought gifts for. I was a little bummed. It was the first Christmas in my life where I’d never received something, a gift.
Then, took a walk to the lookout, sat on a couch in the pagoda and looked out at the Mediterranean, Ajaccio across the bay in the distance. Then, I wrote this poem.
On Being Present
Every day I say thank you for
the new morning.
But should the morning
not be given,
Ah! how I’d wake up
and embrace the newer night!
It’s like the first Christmas
you finally don’t
get anything.
Ah! How then
the bells ring in
the present!