Archives des articles tagués dverse poets pub

« on the other hand », she wrote
that’s easy to write
when you’ve got more
than one arm
to your clock

(am I being)
or counter-clock
wise now?

or most probably just
I mean just dead inside
my right arm,
with this heavy limb to extract
from under my pillow and
throw like
tons of feathers

but don’t worry death’s left
five tweeting fingers
with their right to live
and typing fever
tapping on the right

/it’s as if life took a turn,
freeing one half of me while running
to the other side/

(am I plainly
suffering or rather
discovering unused paths
from mind to sheet,
from wrong to right?)

I am.


*** This poem has been written for dVerse Poets Pub; you will have noticed that this week’s theme is « on the other hand », or seeing both sides of the coin. Don’t worry, I haven’t lost an arm, I simply sprained my shoulder almost 2 weeks ago, and therefore have had to find new ways to do things without my right arm.***

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

who’s left for me
tell me

as i wear ochre and black
every day that i’m walking
a forest of skinned bodies)

don’t talk to me i’m busy
i’m already in disguise
can’t you see?
i’m crying

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

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
my cry will let you all
know —


*** 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. ***

Here are a few more (see yesterday’s post) micropoems (haiku… or most probably senryu) in French. Tonight, at dVerse Poets Pub, we are allowed (even encouraged!) to write in another language than English. I then decided to write in my first language, French… and added a few Japanese words to them.

(I guess I should record myself reading them out loud like… right now and join the file, so that you can at least hear the sound of them. Sorry I didn’t provide an English translation this time.)

My reading out loud (open in a new tab)

Voici :

Dans la ruelle
derrière le bar
l’odeur des croissants

Ce monde
toujours plus blanc
il neige

Deux adolescents
se racontent
leurs voyages imaginaires

Le chawan* de mes rêves
trop cher

Lecture de haiku
au salon de thé :
issa nomi**

Soir de tempête
les néons du cinéma
ciel orangé

Sous la lune
impossible de mentir :
je suis une femme

Il y eut une neige
il y eut une pleine lune

La théière vidée
puis remplie
un autre invité

Dans l’arbre gelé
les pépiements redoublent
aware ari***

Gomme balloune
qui attrape la langue
couleur de pantalon

* A chawan is a bowl made especially for tea-drinking.

** Issa is/was a haiku master. His nickname literally means ‘one tea’, ‘one cup of tea’. The noun nomi means ‘drinking’.

*** Aware is a feeling of compassion, or sensitivity to the ephemeral nature of things. I thought it interesting that it writes the same as the English word aware. (Ari simply means that it’s there.)

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


I melt
my self
in snow

this year
vanish anew

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.

— William Butler Yeats


I am foreseeing things

You are foreseeing things

Who is ahead?


My back to the past

My forehead to the future

I am facing my heart


My head is full with

Both the best and the worst cases

A new scenario unfolds


You are afraid to die

From fear of dying from fear

Alone in your head


Meditating, you think

You are getting prepared

To live in the moment


I must prepare to write

A poem, I thought

But it was already finished



* Those are a few notes — micropoetry style — on the idea of preparation, which is dVerse Poets Pub‘s theme for today. I borrowed the quote from them, and it inspired me to write about the — sometimes — foolish nature of preparation.

And for those of you who read French or like beautiful objects, please check out my offer — it lasts until the end of the world, due Dec. 21st. *


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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Contribution to dVerse Poets Pub – Artwork by SueAnn*

In the 3 minutes and 14 seconds
that this song lasts
I went back and forth in time
3 and 14 times

Safely seated in the bus
I pointed my chin forward,
let past and future unfurl,
let go
back first.

Paris and its wild lights / trajectories I couldn’t grasp / too high on my bike / and his blurry picture / before me

rays of light, laughs / did we roll on the grass / trying to pick up a friend / fallen apple too full of juice? / yes we did

and did I make a wish / meaningful and dear / while everyone was away / except me and / a shooting star?

She says, « but there was not
enough space for you /
I couldn’t find any place
for you / now it’s too late »;
is it ever?

I let go
and forth,
into this life
and the next

This form is already souvenirs,
the rest comes in flashes
on a bumpy ride:

bodies curled in fallen leaves, crying / tears to come

I, chasing a rush of stars / through loud sound

« everything will be alright », your voice / fading soft

your kiss again, and its apple taste / city to go

tea scents

dog spirit


snow bed

rose drops;

sugar rush

head massage

bass pumping

seasons’ descent

blood dripping.

Time flies
but I make space for all lives
I could and could not have,
I will and will not have,
all the same

words fly
leave whiter holes

In 3 minutes and 14 seconds
I have found a place for this
one thing
that’s all

* Here is the song I am talking about : Too Late, by Ariane Moffatt. *
* Oh, and I missed dVerse Poets yesterday, but I used their prompt anyway. *

All these times I haven’t fed myself
when I needed to,
all this food denied
like there were no loads of bread
running from truck to gutter
in Austria or anywhere else
I haven’t been
’cause I was a ghost in those places
blown by wind and filled
with hunger.

Had you cracked me open like a hot chestnut
– with your gloves taken out and
the tip of your fingers reddened –
you’d have found a sweet,
sweet void,
repeating softly – or would it be the wind?
-, « She is empty.
She needs to be filled. »

You didn’t get that
but I did.

All these times I have fed more than myself
when anything else was needed,
all this space denied
like there were no loaves of flesh
running from bones to mouth
– or was it the other way around
too? –
in France and everywhere else
I have been
with the same body, unaware of the place
it had blown itself to
filled with
fleeting pastries.

Even you couldn’t open me up like a jar
of chestnut cream
with your slow hands all over and
your jaw all tense –
otherwise you’d have found a half-empty
with trails left by a knife on the sides.

« She’s emptying it out.
The sweetness of life. »

Yes, I once used a knife
but I got it anyway.

I once reached rock bottom
in a jar of spread
labeled with my fake room number
locked in a pantry high
in the basement low
in the city among all cities,
I once reached a hint of myself
down there
but it took time.

After all this time I got fed up with
needing not to need,
denying denying.
Like pouring sugar in a gutter
would make its contents edible,
like coating my life with cream
would make things possible.

I have been
to many places but now I want to go
for real, blown by my hunger,
with stomach open wide.

*Written for dVerse Poets Pub.*

Bottles by Borg de Nobel / / used with permission /

The best bottles remain hidden deep down in history
of the self-
contained people and words, self-
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,
and puked on your own shoe-
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. ***