To my dear Arman & Mélodie
1.
Cancelled vacation waved like a form
a disease, Montréal-like vibe.
2.
His Copenhagen waved like a flag
a regret, Oslo-night colour.
3.
Their Berlin, vibrant still like a wave
regretted, cemetery days.
Poems written for FormForAll, dVerse Poets Pub. Photos taken at Camellia Sinensis teahouse, and modified with Instagram.
Pour elle rien n’était plus beau que le blanc des os et le rien entre.
La vertu s’alignait sur son squelette vierge d’encres et de détours.
Elle avait tenté de se départir de tout, même du dé dans partir.
L’équilibre était fragile parce que l’équilibre était l’extrême.
Le moindre point sombre lancé dans l’espace la rendait muette.
C’est-à-dire qu’il la rendait sublimée, pure en comparaison.
Le mot ne s’échappait pas qui voulait de sa cage de dents.
Elle s’étendait par terre telle une page vide au comble.
Elle vivait l’extase dans la rétention de son pinceau.
Car elle était calligraphe, car elle ne l’était pas.
Écrire c’est souiller, disait-elle en le regrettant.
Et les mots tombaient, tranchants, dans l’abime.
Énorme, infecte, horrible, laide, belle, même.
Le coeur des choses ne peut pas être décrit!
(faisait-elle crier aux nuages de sa tête)
Le coeur des choses est découpé à blanc.
Son contour est noir, mais hors-champ.
Debout elle jette une ombre presque.
Des lueurs se forment à sa cornée.
Sous sa peau rien ne la retient.
Les points s’égrènent, et elle
Dans son regard seul le vide
I lay here apprehending the order of things
how the window enforces my view of peace
how the beams protect birds from the cat
how the light arrests every shape in their-
freeze-
I lay here apprehending
tension is mounting
the cat and I, sweating and swearing
under our broken breaths
where he detected power I
could only see laws, nature’s-
paws up-
freeze-
paws off-
I lay here within the order of things
how the squirrel ran away safely
how the fine glass maintained the protester in
how it prevented the cat from resting on
his stomach full with his view of peace
This poem was written for dVerse Poets Pub. Please visit other poets’ blogs and enjoy!
All pictures have been modified with Instagram.
1.
soleil éclatant
mes yeux brulent de voir facebook
converger enfin
2.
la cour intérieure
des papillons volent en groupe
il y a une issue
3.
matin d’insomnie
un masque pour rafraichir
mon visage rougi
4.
au gré de la vie
les itinéraires changent
tout le monde le sait
5.
la terre tourne carré
mon cerveau suit égaré
fenêtre bouchée
6.
je n’ai plus cours mais
je suis livrée à vous tous
mes dignes professeurs
7.
barbecues en feu
le chat qui dort rêve plutôt
de sushis bien frais
$OUND$ like different bloods mixed
rattle on my heart_ little pump of. LOSSES
_deployed_
a burn on the aorta
descending instead
I could swallow the whole piece but I
couldn’t risk opening. my. MOUTH
TURNED OUT like arrhythmia fixed
the hum of my heart_ beats forever. LOST
_diverted_
to fever in my nerves
restless inside
I could cry out the whole music but it
wouldn’t leave me. whole. ANYMORE
I used to feel rhythm down my cords
I WA$. wired
I used to be a heart
I used to be HEARD
$OUND$ like different bloods remixed
bumps on my heart_ little spin.it.ROUND
_underscored_
a burial of memories
understanding itself
I could feel my life over and over but I
chose to leave. its. TUNE$
mute.
# tHI$ POEM AND TYPOGRAPHY WERE INSPIRED BY bebetune$ (album: inhale C-4 $$$$$) # tHE THEME WAS GIVEN BY dverse poets’ pub HOST FOR THIS WEEK, sTUART mCpHERSON: our MUSIC. pLEASE READ OTHER POETS_ LISTEN TO MUSIC_ DANCE TO YOUR OWN HEARTBEAT. #
There was once a convoy heading for the West
bound together they were, of the same bones
lying down their path in front of their hooves
lying about their path as the snow would heave
they had packed up heaps of what they had but
as they had not much there was not much weight
piling on them as their feet were grinding what
was left of their fears and defeated minds
they had stories to count on to help them stay
awake and at stake – they had horror stories,
histories to recall and call on when all that was
was a vast no-one – they had fear possibilities
what was it that they found in them was it
a cord that laid consistency in front of them
was it blood that had them dream of a liquid to
grasp was it a gasp or was it an enchantment
there was snow cutting them down in their skin
there were horses refusing to live long and cold
there were hopes thrown like a handful of flakes
on a snow bank there was – a mere dying hand
they had an issue that was no exit they had
their own bodies and minds, restless chilled, blained
bones that they had ground finely until they were
part of the soil again part of the sole plain
they had
no other
escape
just like we had no other
when we met them drenched
covering their needs
on a pure floor
On est allées faire un rallye dans le quartier chinois we rallied to Chinatown
that was a Scavenger hunt with no treasure
No treasure except for the tapioca pearls
it read pearls
you read peerls
you laughed at my
Rs
On est allées voir les gens se purifier dans Chinatown we saw purist people
there was a pure basement with no chest
No chest except for our moving hearts
hands rested
les mains restaient
immobiles dans les
airs
On est allées faire les allées and the aisles we sorted through allies
that read goddesses or godnesses
Il ne nous manquait que quelques lettres
quelques mots
pour tinter dans le vent
doucement comme des
ailes
***
Photo modifiée avec Instagram
In the subways I
I learnt to thrive
and you told me we’d never survive
grab your town’s handles we’re leaving
(we’re living
in a song
we’re living
in an arcade that’s out loud
that’s in there down there)
We’re moving past
we’re already passed
(there’s no such thing as staying
open
doors close anywhere around you
beware
of tripping fingers)
And all of the walls they built in the sixties never fall
and all of the art they built in the sixties never fall
(we fall on them
stick to them as flies attracted
primarily by colours)
Sometimes I can’t believe it
(and I don’t)
I’m moving into the night
(and as we fade we become
the same exact hue as
every other passenger)
BONUS TRACK (from 57,5 [ajku])
Ciel couleur métro
mes pas me mènent encore là
où je ne vais pas
*This poem was inspired by today’s dVerse Poets Pub and their inspiring prompt: Subway. As I am fond of my own town’s metro -Montréal- I wanted to share these poems and pictures (modified with Instagram) that represent it well. Please put some Arcade Fire and move to their sounds… as you wonder if you should fall asleep with the rumble or wake up with bright colours. And don’t forget to read other poets’ poems as well!*
(This poem integrates a few modified quotes from the song The Suburbs, by Arcade Fire.)
Ex -iste
Base ta vie sur tout ce qu’elle a déjà été
tout ce qu’elle t’a promis en te nouant un ruban
au ventre
Devient partisan de ta reconstruction
et de ce que le temps t’a coulé comme carapace
autour
Pers -iste
Reçoit les ordres qui se peuvent
ceux qui te démontent les morceaux lourds de fonte
au fond
Perce tes yeux du rayon le plus blanc
jusqu’à t’en bruler les cônes de ton chemin
autant
être
exister
Passé -iste
Rétrograde jusqu’au centre mou puis clanche
fonds-toi comme une crotte de nez au mur
au palais
Passe outre tes règles de salubrité
celles qui t’enveloppent de ruban plastique
Achtung
sois
existe
Here is a post inspired by Tracey Grumbach‘s picture below, for tonight’s dVerse Poets Pub. Enjoy, and have a good Saturday evening.
On this tweaky hour
although we had hands pointing at
various skies we
couldn’t find the middle of
things.
Away for twelve hours
already we had killed two birds with
various stones we
couldn’t help leaving one in lieu of
goosebumps.
We avoided rush hour
all the way we rushed to get where
various angles were softened
we found skies of dots and lines
birds.
Oh all that’s ours
always leaves fleeting out
various trajectories we
can’t help seeing circles
ends.
Hiroshimem 