Archives mensuelles de mars, 2012

*The contest is over… I used RANDOM.ORG to generate a random number… and the 2nd comment (chronologically) won! Bravo à Patrick Levesque, de http://legrosbonsens.net! Thank you so much to all of you for your participation!*

It’s National Poetry Month (chez nos voisins états-uniens), and I am taking part in Kelli Agodon’s Big Poetry Giveaway!

Ce mois d’avril, je sors (encore!) mon meilleur langage de vente – ou plutôt de don – et j’offre deux livres à une des personnes qui commentera cet article. Oui, deux livres : un des miens, soit Le Cahier mauve, et une de mes lectures récentes favorites en anglais, soit Pleiades, by Sui Solitaire.

I chose Sui’s book because of both its (her!) crude honesty and ability to show how fragile human beings and their relationships are. Sui plays with English sounds gracefully, in a way that I would like to be able to emulate. She is beautiful.

Quant au Cahier mauve… il s’agit de l’oeuvre d’un départ, d’un retour au Japon, lequel meuble les pages de ses mots noirs. Le design en a été assuré par l’épatante Cheval-Marcel, qui y a infusé sa douceur et sa touche féminine (dis-je en me disant que c’est comme si je disais que je n’étais pas féminine… bon). She is beautiful, we are both beautiful too.

Well, in other -English- words, one of you is going to get two (paper)books just by commenting this post. And by « comment », I mean I’d like you to answer this question:

What are two good poetry books that shook you to the core? Pouvez-vous me donner le titre et l’auteur de deux livres de poésie qui vous ont profondément ébranlé?

(Two books in two different languages if you can!)

Vous avez tout le mois pour (trouver, lire des recueils de poésie et) répondre! I will draw (randomly) one comment, and the person will be sent the two books. Don’t forget your name, and email or Twitter account.

Merci et bonnes lectures!

PSsss If you are a blogger-poet too and would like to give away poetry as well, here is how to participate (on Book of Kells, Kelli Agodon’s blog).

Voici le texte prononcé au micro libre hier soir (25 mars 2012) à la soirée Last Chance Slam & Open Mic feat. Sophie Jeukens , présentée par Throw! Poetry Collective au Divan Orange. I was really thrilled (and also scared, I confess) to perform it on stage. It was an experience I’ll definitely try to repeat!

Bubble

C’est rien qu’une p’tite bulle innocente
que tu t’es gonflée
un bloc
qu’est devenue à force de souffler
fort
jusqu’à t’en vider les tripes
until you tripped on… but that’s not to be told yet.

You built yourself a cage out of gum
out of your gums
fell your teeth
une tite fille que tu voulais rester
une tite fille qui a pas besoin d’mordre
une tite chique qui a jus’ un gout d’mort
mais t’es jus’ devenue
une chique qui a pus d’jus.

Tu te pensais invincible
mais tu t’es
tue
et… t’as perdu la voix qui t’distinguait
des échos
you lost your voice that set you apart from
the echoes
t’as perdu la voix qui te distinguait des
échos
echoes
and you became just another pink spot
pis t’es devenue qu’un autre spot rose
une adolescence de plus
de perdue.

10 livres de perdues
rien d’autre de r’trouvé qu’une balloune de tête enflée
qui se cache en dessous d’la mer
de monde
« please don’t see me » you say from your deepest
but your hunger is diggin’ its way out
you’re appearant
t’est épeurante.

Mais
c’tait rien qu’une p’tite bulle innocente
que tu t’étais gonflée
rien qu’une cachette
dans une napkin s’es genoux
c’tait pas un bloc opératoire
au départ.

20 livres de perdues
rien d’autre de r’trouvé qu’une pognée d’ch’veux sur l’oreiller
where has your hair gone?
where has your air gone?
t’as l’air de rien.

Ta balloune a crevé, ma belle
j’sais pas si c’tait l’soluté
ou une coupe de doigts tendus où tu t’es agrippée
you tripped on those feet but you got up
somehow
your trip was over
for now
un nouveau trip pourrait p’têt commencer
un jour
le jour où t’es devenue un autre spot rose
une adolescente en plus
y a rien de perdu.

10 ans de perdus?
tu vas en r’trouver
t’es déjà en train d’infuser
drip by drip
grip by grip

and your voice could finally build up
when you stopped chewing gum
for a living.

The following poem was prompted by James Rainsford‘s picture, Reflections. It is part of dVerse Poets Pub. Enjoy, and please don’t hesitate to visit James’s website and the other poets present at the pub.

by James Rainsford

Reflections again

This time I didn’t see my reflection
lost in thoughts
as I was
tracing back V-shaped steps
-victory or loss-
pacing back grieving laps
-will or sallow-
I was inclined to weep.

That time I didn’t see my reflection either
in fact
lost in time
as I was
gazing back at juts of mist
-water or misery-
racing back at an impression
-your eyes not mine-
I found you and lost me.

Two reflections that I didn’t see
Two straight poles that I couldn’t stand
between
half-fallen as I was
already half-part of the
pondering world.

Les derniers évènements m’ont tenue occupée loin de mes mots, mais ceux-ci reviendront en force très bientôt dans deux évènements d’écriture/lecture.

Tout d’abord à Montréal, le dimanche 25 mars, je me pointerai à mon premier micro libre lors de la soirée de slam bilingue du collectif Throw! Poetry avec Sophie Jeukens, au Divan Orange. Je travaille sur un texte bilingue sur les troubles alimentaires (mon clin d’oeil aux 25 ans de l’ANEB). La soirée commence à 20 h; soyez-y!

Ensuite à Québec, le vendredi 30 mars, j’écrirai en direct au Cabinet des idées reçues du Crachoir de Flaubert, de 21 h 30 à 22 h 30, puis participerai à la lecture publique subséquente (jusqu’à 23 h). Beaucoup d’auteurs seront présents : Marie-Charlotte Aubin, Marrie E. Bathory, David Bélanger, Marc Laliberté, Marianne Saint-Onge, Mathieu Simoneau… Venez imposer vos contraintes aux participants. L’activité commence également à 20 h.

Ouf… Je vous promets donc le texte du micro libre bientôt. Mais d’ici là, je vous donne un petit haïku de circonstance :

Dans mon carré beige
Entre une certaine lumière mais
Le rouge est filtré

(Vous l’aurez peut-être compris : je suis prise au travail, loin de la manifestation, à laquelle je ne peux malheureusement pas participer.)

PSssss Voici le texte récité à la soirée slam : Bubble
Et le texte rédigé sous contraintes : La grande cage

Quelle moyenne aria se joue là
Des mots qui se placent en ordre seuls
Peignent la dure journée que voilà
Traits et rides que la vieillesse esseule

Rimes molles comme la peau qui plie
Schwas qui se lovent inaccentués
Dans les résonances entre l’ampli
Et mes alternances habituées

Ma paix est un produit du mouvement
Dans lequel chaque forme d’art m’entraine
Le poème n’est dans son élément
Que lorsque sons et lumières s’égrènent

Tout autour de lui dans un grand encore
Toute source valse dans le décor

With a different year in mind goes Darren Hayes’s song, a year I wasn’t even born. But in 1999, I was, and let me dive back into this year, the one that followed the year the best music was released (according to me). Let me recall the musical times I had back then.

(This poem was prompted by dVerse Poets Pub – thanks to Shawna.)

Stained with bubble gum landscapes
tying friends together like dolphins on a chain
we carried on dancing like we had nothing else but
the same music over and under and in

side by side
hand on hand
studying hyperballad phonetics
under our newly coffee-stained breath

stained
was our word full of promises
I could never blow balloons but I tried hard I swear
I sweat
at the thought of pink sticky matter exploding on me

and keeping me from understanding
Koi
Eifersucht
Karma
from holding back the years
yet

« What kind of monster would I be able to release? »
I rushed as music found a circular space
in our already hardened mind.

Je m’incline sous les charges de travail et décline la fatigue sous toutes ses inflexions.

- Sous mes yeux, des demi-cercles dont les pointes tendent vers le haut, certes, mais qui au fond me creusent et m’évident. Des sourires qui m’évitent… ou plutôt, que j’évite.

- Sous mes cernes, des joues qui se serrent, des dents qui compriment de l’air au rythme des allées… et des allées. Les venues n’en sont que trop courtes.

- Sous mes joues, un cou penché vers l’avant (la fin de semaine) ou vers l’arrière (la fin de semaine) dans une rotation sans fin. Le poids et les craquements, l’éclatement.

- Sous mon cou, des épaules qui se tendent pour le saut, comme si le coeur allait exploser et qu’il fallait s’y tenir préparée. En flottement, l’indifférence.

- Sous mes épaules, une poitrine serrée de caféine et de manque de, puis une poitrine desserrée par le flot – le flux – le chosy chose là. Du mouvement perpétuel.

- Sous ma poitrine, un ventre qui a peur – de lui, de moi, des autres ventres. Des cris. Du prix des choses. Des choses de la vie.

- Sous mon ventre, le rejet de la journée de la femme.

- Sous le rejet, il y a moi. Il y a l’amour tapi qui se manifeste dès qu’il peut, dès que mes yeux sont ouverts. Il y a le sol aussi, et mon chat qui s’y tient à coeur de jour. Il y a des morceaux de coeur que je balaie le matin avec la litière. Il y a tout un réveil à construire.

Je me lève. Bon matin.

This short story was written with the following prompt in mind: Write a scene that makes no sense at all (even though this story does end up making sense somehow). For more writing prompts by Sarah Selecky, follow her on Twitter (@sarahselecky) or see her website.

***

No sense. Nor good, nor bad. Just a plain, short, bread story. Of a girl trying to automatically type things in a foreign language, thinking of doughnuts round her head, vomiting words on a too clean screen.

She would be the kind of girl who keeps avoiding cracks, even tracks. In fact, she would be avoidant of anything. The mirrors had all been wrapped already, as if a stare would put her at stake.

A steak. What about cooking something? Anyway, mom would call soon. And she needed to be stuffed to be able to talk to her. I mean, to listen to her.

Now, to her grumblings, her stomach’s.

What was I writing again? Ah, yes, being a good dough. Being tough to myself, though. Punching myself in a hole when full. Scraping myself when in need. Nothing really wanted, nothing really lost then. Nothing gained either, just pain, and food. And life, maybe.

I gotta breed. Uh, breathe. These haspiration sounds are ‘ard to make.

The call came. She wasn’t stuffed. She couldn’t stand it but sat down anyway, and lied. Even her tiny yesses were full lies, flies biting her mom like a filled doughnut. You know, the ones you eat and then you get all this whipped cream and custard cream and whatever-it’s-called cream all over your chin and nose, so that you can’t breathe anymore? Let alone talk.

Leave me alone. Talk.

That’s what she would say if her mouth wasn’t already chewing and squeezing. In fact, she was just squeezing her teeth together – only her saliva’s dreams were chewy.

There’s a plot in there. Her life had to be more deconstructed, and going nowhere.
Did I ever mention the bread?

Well, the birds did it. They crawled on her while she was panting, the phone hung around her neck, her mom’s voice violently crying over the tv’s. She had goosebumps, which looked like breadcrumbs to the birds’ limited eyesight.

It didn’t taste any good though. And it didn’t make her any good.

This conversation – would aversion be a more appropriate term? – could go on forever, and she wouldn’t even know. Her eyes were screwed into a screen, apparently moving, but not going forward anymore.

It looks like I’m seeing my whole life all over again. Like I’m losing track all over. I’m giving all.
In: A mess. Too much crunchy bread soaked in wine. Is this what we call luxury?
Up: A god, maybe. A mass for her in Heaven, with the birds dropping crumbs on her as she walks up the aisle.

She wakes up, always too late. I almost ate the receiver, she excused herself, dabbing and pampering the phone with a napkin.

Oh, that’s a word I had not expected to come out. Or to let out. Whatever the subject may be.

And there comes the banana. Underripe as her soul, overripe as her body, stained with goosebumps. She had better put herself in the freezer immediately.

But her saliva would freeze around her mouth if she did so.

No more sensation. No more sense. No more!, would she cry, her eyes and sensitivity uplifted.

She lifted herself up on a stool, and reached out for ingredients to season her life: Every single one had an exotic name and she didn’t want them. Paprika sounded like paperwork. Safran, like suffering. And cinnamon, like sour lemon. She would have preferred strict acid, that is to say.

Where was the mom? Lying on her floor, somewhere, on her round belly, not seeing her child doing foolish things again. Was this child ever born anyway?

I gotta not listen to anyone ever. Anything hardly makes sense anyway, she kept lulling herself, standing on her not-made-for-rocking chair.

A sense? She finally found some vanilla. Essence, that’s it. That’ll fuel her, that’ll give her gas.

A car came pulling at her. She felt it rolling inside her, actually grasping her side and stretching it out, out, out… Her skin was already flying outside, while her pain remained whole, not so refined after all. She felt like a pouch, a pouching bag.

Can a punch fly?

The questions in her head were burning incensively. They were too slow, too sticky, too antigravitational. How strange was it to feel like a hippy while simmering in a pot. Her hand got caught and slapped in a jar when she tried to pull at her turn, at a car-shaped biscuit.

Her mom furiously shouted something about colourless green ideas sleeping. I know you!, she answered. There’s no use for a non-American name!

A tree dropped its branches in a cascade from her head, all her words purposely running to their proper place. The words sounded like a thousand syntax notebooks dispersing themselves in the years. With more hard work, she could have bloomed out of the cement. But instead, she has been eating cookies, as her books have kept the secret in the shape of brown stars squeezed in between pages and words.

She was still as unripe, as green as her ideas. She would let them go before she even tried to tame them. Too many vibrancies where rushing through her, using her body as an instrument to fulfil their dreams, too loud so she had to fulfil her stomach. And then peace would come, in the shape of a bird song. The bird wouldn’t fry; instead she would steal it and fly.

What about the mom, crying over an empty phone, left out by herself while the kitchen was being taken control of?

I don’t know. I don’t know of her, yet. She might take care of me, and not just control. But I gotta roll with it first, let pastries pace my days and paste a devastated picture of myself on my wall.

Her mouth was dry. She had run out of substance. The birds had flown away with the jar, full of words.

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