samedi 26 avril 2008
note a lie.
It smelled like rain
Your song was
climbing up my smoke a whispered fake.
There was,
a mile away, a fire, a star, and a shepherd sheltered in the roofless sheepfold.
Here and
around your banjo shaming slow a touchless melody, reminded us of nothingness.
I didn’t
care, I never do, but however, I still wonder, how one can make the music lie.
Image piquée là
samedi 9 février 2008
Lepidopterous
Elation,
dance of butterfly
Nights
where life seems a rush
Your smile
is wet with desire
And your
eyes gleam out your longing
Exhilaration,
flit in gloom
You get
closer in the moonbeam
I feel the
movement of your breath
The
touching quiver of your silk
Ephemera
delight of blaze
When your
wings skim over my flame
I feel your
rebellion
Your
rapture and your sin
You fall
dead in my glass
Like a
magnet in wine
Doom’s for
you, pain’s for me
Both as
soon felt as forgotten.
And I ask
my neighbour
Who is
staring at me
Clean
glass, would you?
Mine reeks
death of heaven
And I still
feel thirsty.
First published in Poetic Diversity May 06
samedi 2 février 2008
Songez que je vous parle une langue étrangère...
"Depuis près de
six mois, honteux, désespéré,
Portant partout le trait dont je
suis déchiré,
Contre vous, contre moi,
vainement je m'éprouve :
Présente je vous fuis, absente
je vous trouve ;
Dans le fond des forêts votre
image me suit ;
La lumière du jour, les ombres
de la nuit,
Tout retrace à mes yeux les
charmes que j'évite »
(vers 539 - 545)
« For nearly half a year, ashamed and desperate
Wherever I have gone I’ve carried my sorrow,
Against you, against me, vainly I keep trying
When you’re here I flee, I find you when you’re gone
Your face has followed me in the deep of forests
Both the light of the day and the shadows of night
Keep drawing for my eyes charms I want to avoid”
(les mêmes).
Bien sûr, j'ai piqué l'extrait de Phèdre chez M'sieur Houzeau qu'esplique tout bien. là. http://290364.canalblog.com/
samedi 19 janvier 2008
Enigma
The sky was chimney red and the roof was
burning. All around were translucent fences to keep the cattle out of rich. That’s
how things are beyond mirrors. I threw mine out, it was too old, line-faced
and liar as a pope. Now I watch at beyond the lake. Man lit yakamoz.
jeudi 10 janvier 2008
Heard in the night
The air
smells rain
In ponds of
moon light reflected 
Shadows
dance slow leaf shaped
Old age
gossips of trees
In the
humming of wind
A soft
headed old oak
Twitters
scattered fragments
Of secret
love affairs
And bends
over the flow
Of
underground waters
The tales
like an echo
Whispers a
poplar tree
That as for
love affairs
After the
sun la pluie
Whispers
back a wild rose
I have
always been told
Never
believe
Never
believe
What a tree
sees.
photo : http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/living_the_dream__tree_changers.htm
lundi 24 décembre 2007
We whish you...
All along the spring and summer, an eagle kept
circling my house, sometimes flying along the bow window close enough to show
his red eye. Beloved eagle, full of promise and wild omen. Though roebucks wouldn’t ever stop hanging around
the house, harrowing psychopomps, closer everyday and refusing to leave until I’d
blast their heads with stones.
But God, for a few days, those white assed ill
omens have been replaced by deers. Don’t ask why, I don’t know. Deers are just comforting,
and I’m happy they’re here.
jeudi 13 décembre 2007
the mad is standing on the roof
The mad is
standing on the roof
Giving a
yell to clouds
Every
quarter of an hour
To remind
God of Earth below
From
rooftop to rooftop
Crows croak
the shriek echo
And spread
their black dresses
In the
shine of the sun
Every
quarter of an hour
The bell of
a small church
Spells the
time of humans
To remind
them of God
In kitchens,
henhouses
Humans and
animals
Bend the
weight of their souls
Under the
weight of laws.
Once the
mad once the church
Men and
women below
Cannot
forget the time
And hold
their ticket tight
And queue
up for above
Show their
ticket to fear
Reckon how
much is left
Of quarters
of hours
Reckon how
much is left
Waste the
weight of a life
Waste the eight
of a soul
Weight more
and then wait less.
lundi 26 novembre 2007
A revenge on painters
With a
rubber
Shade off
the dark
Soothe the light;
tone the reds down on the picture.
Let the
whale in the back
Play its
old Chinese tunes
They will
dance west,
Golden
shadows on the waves of the night,
Till they spare
drowned on blue sea grass
Carefully
ranked round a sweet-eyed scarecrow.
Inside the
whale, paint what you need
Hide what
you fear
Take place
in an armchair of guts
They’re so
sweet in fresh whales,
And have a
glass of this hoarse sugared wine
So
expensive –
But those
who can afford
A living in
a whale don’t care about money.
Then choose
one of the books,
That one,
with shells on the worn out jacket
And pick
the letters out
Random
To read
A foul
bunch of rambling
(The
problem with the whales is that they really stink
As much as
a pack of dead dogs)
And, how
could one paint this
Without
using a word?
vendredi 7 septembre 2007
A M'sieur Houzeau
Mes préférences à moi, Monsieur,
Vont à Molière,
Aussi pardonnez-moi si je l’ai massacré
C’est que c’était trop drôle, aussi, que d’essayer
D’angliciser ces vers, de les faire obéir
Aux grand-mères d’ailleurs, aux vioques d’autrefois
Qui me font – honte à moi,
Aujourd’hui encore rire.
Femmes
savantes donc, Messire d’Hondeghem…
PHILAMINTE
She has, unequalled insolence
After thirty lessons, insulted to my ear
By wildly misusing a simple basic term,
Though Vaugelas condemns.
CHRYSALE
Is that all ?
PHILAMINTE
What ? she keeps, although we disapprove
Hurting the mere structure of my beloved science,
Grammar, that can rule even kings,
That makes them bend their heads to its authority ?
CHRYSALE
I thought she was convicted of a crime.
PHILAMINTE
What ? And wouldn’t that be one ?
CHRYSALE
It is, undoubtedly.
PHILAMINTE
Would you be providing with some kind of excuse ?
CHRYSALE
I won’t.
BÉLISE
Good, it’s a pity, truly :
She wrecks the constructions
Though she’s been hundred times
Explained how it should be.
MARTINE
All the things you’re preaching is I think all the truth
But I wouldn’t manage to use of your jargon.
PHILAMINTE
The bitch, call jargon the language
All based on the reason, and beautiful usage !
MARTINE
Once one is understood, that’s he is speaking good
And your whole locutions is in no way yelping.
PHILAMINTE
Ho Lord, one of her own again !
Is in no way yelping !
BÉLISE
Ô you, unbending brain
Will you never ever, in spite of our pain
Learn the congruent words ?
Is in no way helping...
Stop going to the dogs !
MARTINE
Ho Lord, I’ve not studied, you has,
And I’m talking all straight, the way all people do.
PHILAMINTE
How can one bear ?
BÉLISE
Awful solecism !
PHILAMINTE
That's to kill a sensitive ear !
BÉLISE
Your spirit is really of a strange material
You, crappy head, is calling for a have,
will you spend your all life slaughtering the grammar ?
MARTINE
Hey, who wants to slaughter gran-ma or gran-father ?
PHILAMINTE
Ô Lord !
BÉLISE
Grammar, you weaky head
I’ve already told you where the word’s coming from.
MARTINE
All the way
Come it from where it wants
Even a one-horse town
I do not care about.
BÉLISE
What a villager soul !
Grammar tells us the laws that are ruling
The verbs and the nominatives
As well as adjectives, and even substantives.
MARTINE
Let me tell you Madam,
I don’t know those people.
PHILAMINTE
What a martyr !
BÉLISE
They are the names of words, and it is to be checked
The way they have to match.
MARTINE
Match or snatch, do I care ?
(Hé, sérieux, je m'avions bien marrée)