Archives des articles tagués poetry

roses
i slip under the door, leaving
them to someone else’s care
as i don’t
mind
anymore

who’s left for me
tell me

as i wear ochre and black
every day that i’m walking
(through
a forest of skinned bodies)
naked
dead
(soul)

don’t talk to me i’m busy
mourning
i’m already in disguise
can’t you see?
i’m crying
silver
make-up
rivers

is it that
whoever drifted away from sight
is considered dead
by the whitest soul?
tell me ’cause
i’m innocent

and lost
tell me
who’s left for me
to cry for?
who’s left
to cry for
me?

i don’t care
i’m sipping tea, and
slipping rose petals under gateways
i’m going to walk through soon
when i had enough
of burying myself
under heaps of earth-
en ware

when i hit home
inside
my cry will let you all
know –
all.

20131102-200305.jpg

*** Oh, and here’s the link to today’s prompt at dVerse poets pub! We had to take the colo(u)r wheel, and play with colo(u)r symbolism. Believe it or not as my poem is sad, but I had a lot of fun including colo(u)rs into it. Make sure you check out on a few other poets’ contributions too!
By the way the picture was taken by me (and instagrammed) during a walk in Old Montreal. I wish I knew who made this beautiful doorart. ***

This is the year of dark and moist forests
of your smile piercing branches
when the moon is too big to see
what is really hidden

On a complementary day
yellow + purple
you lifted your fingers to say hi
they spelled victory
I read two, I read light

Two days before we had tea
yellow, red
if we are to give things their real names
2+3=5
just like they make purple
to my unbalanced eyesight
just like
they make sense

The coming year is one of sherbet
mango, strawberry
soft-colored on your palate
acrid on mine
because I am addicted to the brownish kind of
stories

As the moon decreases it shows
how much of ourselves
so that taste and color
can melt one into another
so that we can add numbers
to each other’s presence

***

Written for today’s Meeting the Bar, where Victoria C. Slotto invited us to write about synesthesia, which I have a very mild form (every digit has its color).

20130530-171627.jpg

A New Year’s come,
and all I’m left with
is uncertainty and holes
to fill my days with.

Every hour is
too simple,
every minute is
too deep

I lose myself in time.

The night’s back,
and all I have with me
is blank ink and virgin sheets
to write my fate on.

Every silence is
too slow,
every step is
too resounding

I multiply myself in them.

The same yearly thoughts are
there, though I don’t wear any-
thing but white – snow
white, to be cold in.

Every snowflake is
too unique,
every footprint is
too detailed

so

I melt
my self
in snow

this year
I
vanish anew

I no longer write / long poems
Je peux pus / écrire au long

Je redouble d’intensité / je vis
I intensify / I live / I see

the open field / of my dreams
le champ s’ouvre / je rêve

de thé / et d’eau fraiche
tea flows / as fresh as water

I run / to this poem’s fall
toute bonne chute / a une fin

la mienne n’est pas / écrite
so many ends / left to write

ciel_sale

PIS UN AUTRE

mon coeur s’emballe / pour moi
and then my heart / unwraps itself

ciel_propre

PIS UN DERNIER

I thought the clouds / would fit
Suis-je trop / pour les nuages

20121103-190820.jpg

Her heart on the brink of
exploding concrete
she wanted to fight through
the woman in her
the bramble on her
but she counted her colours
as blessings instead.

White
her knuckles as she ruffled
depleted bones
and their crushed leaves.

Brown
a lock catching her wild eye
her least favourite colour
her own hues.

Yellow
her envy of bright gold
bullions in her pockets
to ground her in oolong leaves.

Red
the heart of the problem
sowing too many beats
around the saddened bush.

Purple
her head blossoming
in all different directions
violet – was she dancing.

Black
her sleep so tight and dear
a grip of delusions and falls
on top of her world.

And back to white
morning light that saw her temple
shining through her bark
who was she now

who was she not
risen from a day of painful strokes
on her inside skin
and left gazing at another reflection
of her own tortured being
on the sky’s infinite
openness?

*Contribution to dVerse Poets Pub – Artwork by SueAnn*

Bottles by Borg de Nobel / http://borgeous.wordpress.com / used with permission /

The best bottles remain hidden deep down in history
of the self-
contained people and words, self-
contempted.
Sometimes they do come back floating
(because they’re obviously empty
of liquor and passion)
and when they cross the line
between white lies, dregs, and what-
ever lies beneath
your breath charges itself
with flavors you thought you had already let go of.
Red is the background to your battle
and is the path to reclaiming your head.
Red is the look you give whenever you focus
on the box of your life that you opened,
screwed,
and puked on your own shoe-
shore.
There are bottles we might as well
keep locked under the sea
with their words and labels in and on
and run away from the beach
as there were better tomorrows
stored in glass somewhere
for us to take home.

* Thank you to dVerse Poets Pub and their prompt for today, Borg de Nobel‘s work. Please have a look at their websites. *

This has been a mascara-thick day
I covered my face with a domino
only half fulfilled
yet my lips in bloom

All day long I have been trying
to protect myself from your echo
eardrums half pierced
by midnight sounds high

Waiting in a wagon as sweet
as a ride in the dark with neon
stars plastered around
and lips singing tight

I have to conceal everything
but I do burst sometimes, and I did
leave murmurs, heart
broken laughters in air

Had I a cigarette I would gaze
at its lit butt till my holes for eyes
are damaged again
yet there’s the moon

And now she’s making up for lightness
with a shower of Perseid lights
perfidious heartstabbers
rotten leftovers

With my acid smile and moon-drenched
blackholes I look at changing cities
and the midnight rain
fades both our colours.

*** This poem has been written with M83′s Midnight City in my earplugs – memories of rain and light – full moon still impeding my… normality? – full moon still working shifts on me. I hope you see a star fall. If not, at least you have many beautifully sad poems to read, here at dVerse Poets Pub. Oh, and by the way, the pic was modified with Instagram, again. ***

Here is from my upcoming poetry (e)book in English, Borders. Stay tuned for more!

Here is a collaborative reading of Schiller’s Song of the Bell (English version) organized by dVerse Poets Pub on their 1st anniversary. My weird voice is there (between and 12:19 and 12:50)!

Here is the link to the FB video (you can also click on the above link to dVerse Poets’ page, for there’s a link to the Soundcloud version on it).

Hopefully I’ll be doing more of these… live, not only on a voice recorder. Because poets are meant to share, and that’s something dVerse Poets Pub understood… I mean understands, since there is still plenty of sharing of great work to come!

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."

- Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (1964)

Its feet disgrounded from the soil
here is the herd coming down
frenzily rushing to
the daily needs of perfection

- here is a countless soul stuck in
the celebration of
voluntary unescaping.

Its pace unfaithful to its hearts
here is the mass looking forward
never again, just
enough to meet full emptiness

- here is a restless look let out
the city of cities
voluntarily seeking

its peace dismantled from its soul.
Here is another gaze it gives
to pink clouds above
towering – all cities the same

light. Here is a portion of Paris
a floating heart
voluntarily finding.

Peace.

* Here is to my Parisian friends and nostalgia. Bon 14 juillet! Ce poème pourra être traduit plus tard; il a été écrit en anglais pour le dVerse Poets Pub. Certains me diront que Paris n’est pas la France, je leur répondrai que Paris, c’est Paris. Même de New York City. *

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