Flowers of Tears

 Sometimes I read a book that touches me deeply, not only because of its content and message, but also because of the living presence of the person who wrote it.

Jeanne Baillaut, the author of this third collection of free poetry entitled Tears and Flowers, is a young woman at heart, aged 91. A Frenchwoman, she was born in Spain where she lived for three years before moving to France, where she grew up and lived until 1956. That year she traveled to Morocco, and two years later she emigrated to Canada, where she still lives today. Her life has been rich in experiences and commitments, and she has contributed to the francophone community with sensitivity and cultural generosity.

The texts gathered in this collection are not poems in the strict sense. They are closer to poetic prose, a form of writing that resembles speech, meant to be spoken, heard, and felt. Jeanne herself expresses it this way: “I write as I speak… What I find beautiful rises within me like the sea upon the shore and blossoms in the images of writing.”

In these pages, Jeanne Baillaut speaks above all about what she has lived and about her view of the world. Her writing follows the movements of her sensitivity, oscillating between contemplation and indignation, memories and hopes.

Nature and the rhythm of the seasons occupy a central place, as seen in texts such as “Starry Autumn,” “June Morning,” “Wild Flowers,” “January Clarity,” and “Litanies,” where an attentive gaze unfolds, filled with wonder at the simple and silent beauty of the world.

But this sensitivity to beauty does not exclude lucidity. Jeanne reacts strongly to the injustices she observes, and when conscience confronts violence or abuses of power, her pen becomes sharp. Some texts, such as “The Rodents” or “He Wanted to Be King,” reveal this moral indignation in the face of suffering and the excesses of power.

Alongside these reflections on nature and the world, Jeanne also explores her own journey: the memories of a life marked by trials and learning, her attachment to Canada, and the painful absence of her husband. Texts such as “Jeanne the Rebel,” “Life,” “I Was Not Born,” “But I Was Born,” “Landmarks,” “The Magician,” “This Country I Love,” “Jane Goodall,” “Posthumous Letter,” and “And I Miss You,” allow the reader to follow her memories, feel her joys and wounds, and sense the depth of her experience. One perceives a great sensitivity and rare authenticity: the gaze of someone who has lived much, observed much, and who continues to welcome the world with an attentive and generous heart.

For my part, I read this book with a particular emotion, because beyond the writer, I feel a deep friendship and sincere esteem for Jeanne Baillaut. As I read her, I sometimes think that my wife Najia would have liked to meet her. They would certainly have gotten along well, sharing that precious quality of being, above all, people of the heart. Perhaps this is why the final text, “And I Miss You,” touched me especially: it awakened in me the memory of the one who remains for me the ever-present absence.

Benyounès Saidi