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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. *

Il y a de cela un mois déjà, je m’embarquais dans la folle aventure du 20-Day ArtGift Challenge du fantastique AndHeDrew juste pour voir. Je devais donner une oeuvre d’art par jour, de préférence à un inconnu. Bon, j’ai plus ou moins respecté cette seconde partie, finissant par en donner la moitié à des amis slache connaissances.

Mais j’ai quand même pilé sur ma fierté de fille qui veut être lue mais pas dans sa face, et j’ai donné, de même, des haïkus souvent inspirés par la personne elle-même et ce que mon fouinage m’avait permis d’obtenir : titre du livre lu, sujet de la conversation au cellulaire, etc.

Ça a marché en maudine. Les gens étaient contents. J’ai eu des superbes conversations. Pis en plus, un poème (assez) bien écrit sur une fiche cartonnée, ça fait un maudit beau signet.

Je suis rendue accro (quoique toujours aussi gênée au moment du don), de sorte que j’ai décidé de continuer sur ma chire – et même d’en virer une plus solide encore. @Josianes m’a demandé un poème pour mettre sur son chien, et évidemment, j’ai immédiatement accepté. Je pense qu’y a pas que les humains qui méritent de s’orner de beauté (lire : je n’approuve la mode pour animaux que lorsque c’est BEAU).

Résultat : j’ai lancé, il y a de cela 15 jours, la série #poemsforpets (vous l’aurez peut-être vu passer sur Twitter, FB ou Instagram). Après avoir vu une photo de l’animal et eu quelques infos sur lui (son âge, son nom bien sûr, son caractère), j’écris un haïku (en français or in English) pour lui et son maitre. Pis je vous l’envoie par la poste en plus… tout cela au même prix que l’affection de votre pitou-minou-chou, c’est-à-dire rien. Ben, rien pour la seule place qui reste. Après, ça va changer.

Voici quelques exemples (rendus plus beaux grâce à Instagram) :

Pour le Winston à @Josianes

For @alimisses’s Igor

Pour Grégory Charles et Marlon à @annakarenine

Écrivez-moi un commentaire ici ou sur Twitter (@meme_aimee) si vous en voulez un.

In these five hundred days she
has learnt how to button up
and down, down, down.
One circle at a time, slowly,
painfully, she would get rid of
words that she thought defined her
self, on, and on, and on.

Sometimes the thread was off the hole.
Sometimes the plastic marked under her nail
like a bite at some body part
she had forgotten she had.
Sometimes one edge was off the other
like envy had swallowed up
eyes she had forgotten she had.

She kept stripping anyway
layers of clothes, on the floor
her feet felt no more sure than they were.

She kept ripping anyway
layers of skin, under her nails
what was once bitten was no more – oblivion.

What was she flashing about?
What was she fleshing about?

Sometimes the breast was off the shirt.
Sometimes the strap marked down to her collar
bone bitten by her own body
she had forgotten she had.
Sometimes one sex was off the other
like lust that had followed up
but – she had forgotten she’d had

those five hundred days.
She had learnt how to live up to
expectations and down, down.
One cycle at a time, painkillingly,
heartbreakingly, she had gotten to the rim of
words that would always define herself
and them, hem, hem.

*** Poem written for dVerse Poets Pub. You might have got that the prompt was ‘buttons’… That was my version of it, together with a -sadly expressed- celebration of my 100th post on Hiroshimem. Please don’t be mistaken, I’m actually quite happy that I was able to write so many posts. Thanks to everyone who read and slash or commented. Feedback is always appreciated. ***

October

The wind still smells the same
and brings nothing
but all my memories in one shot
down the gust, down my guts.
Time is flying inside me
one shot, strong spirit
drawing back my stomach
from under the soils.
Another internal flight,
another domestic crawl.

January

The cold still feels the same
and brings home
a suitcase that’s heavier than me
starting now
snow will punch holes in me
will patch me with holy
sheets
shared from winters in.
Love organs:
another all-white horizon,
another night on the sofa.

October

If it hasn’t killed me leaving
will have worn out
my string of days, so fragile
of a hundred twenty five million hai‘s
before my eyes. What’s close
is not even able to make it
-self another place among them,
another pace among traps.

January

If it hasn’t awakened me coming home
will have called me again,
recalled the string of years, the knots, the ribbons
and balls behind the sofa.
Being back is leaving again
in the past, in the vast
nothingness that’s pretense of nostalgia
that my eyes sniff in those cities of yes‘s
and yet without finding
anything else than wanderlust,
anything else than punishment.

October

Deliberate, my exiles stick
a bar into my mouth
a nail into my foot
and my other, rusty.
Every cure will have to be
geographic, metallic.
There’s an earth spinning around me,
months pass but don’t stop.
Other red leaves straight in my teeths,
other dead words rummaging in.

January

Deliberate, my escapes smash
a shot of wine down my throat
waste this body that’s suffering
too much alcohol.
Strangled memories,
estranged futures.
« Paris is spitting on us », he said
with love in his eyes
and am I not also
just another nostalgia hunter,
just another raincloud stirrer?

*This poem has been published in its original French version in the magazine La Tribune juive. I am still working on this English translation, but because the theme of this week’s dVerse Poets Pub is exile, I thought I could share it with you.

With conflict and breast
a-rising
at the same lack of time

with resistance and nerves
a-wrecking
the same sack

oh rest

let my body soak back into the same
round disquiet
meantime
forced
still
am
I
.

I took a breath so deep it took me with it
away into the dream of breaths all over the court
and the swift moving of one’s heart to passions’ sounds
and the skips moving one’s heart to passions…

still.

With softness and beats
caressing
the same lack of skin

I grow
changed
still.

***
Both the haiku on the picture and the poem that follows were inspired by a change in my health… that has fortunately got way better since I made the decision to be open. Thank you to dVerse Poets Pub’s prompt for today, ‘Choice’, that was really inspiring to me. The depicted haiku will also be given out to a person (that remains unknown… still) as I’m taking part in AndHeDrew’s 20-day ArtGift challenge.

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.

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.

$OUND$ 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. #