Archives des articles tagués love

on fly
au sommet de Montréal
en bus bardé
de pub qui blesse les yeux

je ride un seul pied
à terre
toujours à moitié su’l’brake
— shake me

Montréal. ma couleur
« regardes-y le smug de béton
à la madame »
belle et brune

on vole
et revole sur ses courbes cassées,
dos encore au lit
et yeux couleurs de nuits

sur Saint-Laurent.
toujours ciel et terre
de la même estie de teinte
un homme étalé entre les deux

on touche
deux extrémités d’ile mais
ça connecte pas
le bus est vide

d’essence. cheap
parfum de coconut
bonne couleur, baby,
but now bum it back

— your back to me
on fly
chacun dans l’moment

puis on vire.


il y a des fois où tout commence par une collision.

et toi tu es de celles-là
-bas, amant des vitesses

il y a des points qu’on n’ose pas mettre
à la fin de chaque mot,
par soupirs
ou par égards pour les pertes
chaque fois qu’on n’ose pas laisser

je savais
comme tu savais
qu’il n’y avait d’espoir
que dans le mot lui-même,
que dans ce mot qui luit
dans la slotche des yeux

il y a des nuits où tout finit par une collision,
celle en laquelle tu crois
la retient entre ses doigts,

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. ***

En tout cas, des poèmes en 5 lignes. Un
soir de chauffage, de tisane et de poil. Originally published on my Twitter account, @meme_aimee.

tu me dis si seulement
je te dis c’est mieux pas
pour toi
l’histoire se retourne
contre moi

ajouter des espaces dans un poème
laisser les mots respirer
à ma place

créer de l’espace entre mes omoplates
là où l’amour est
juste comme il faut
(pas) aimer

rose d’automne et
jour des morts si près
ce soir le thé me rappelle
à la vie
aux morts

i’d like to love
but i don’t know how
(not) to
stay all open
to heartwaves

life is just a matter
of timing
we are scattering ourselves
in all directions, expecting
to be crossed

and to cross me, follow my new tumblr, hiroshimem.


Falling up.

This is what’s written on my new sky-blue no-sleeve
the one with clouds on

what I’m wearing is an exact reflection
of what I (think I) am
and words type themselves
across my chest,
burn it on the left side,
and leave handmarks

your hands
were sent to me by email
open wide and blank
like the pages I would have written on your back
if you had stayed across me in the mornings,
pages inked with this purple pen
that left a bruise-colored stain
on the other side of my heart

when I left you leaving me I
now I am
falling up,
rising in a sunny vest
over the clearest double rainbow
a 50-year-old had ever seen

but how can things be
so clear?
white on white
ink on ink
that is
the clearest of things


I’ve got this moment
and no idea when it will end,

(Andrea Gibson, « Thank Goodness »)

– Penses-tu pas que les profs, on se garde les bras pleins de cossins (ou ben qu’on brasse de l’air) juste parce qu’on sait pas se toucher?
– Peut-être ben. Mais en échange on développe des yeux qui touchent ben, ben fort.

– Tu travailles tu beaucoup aujourd’hui?
– Oui, pis j’ai pas trop dormi, mais ça je te le dirai pas pour pas que tu penses que.
– Pauvre toi.

– Oh, t’as changé de look toi!
– Oui.
– Me semblait aussi.
– Merci.

– Merci pour la tasse de thé!
– Celle que je me suis presque toute renversée sur la main parce que je shakais? C’est rien!
– C’était quoi au fait?
– Euh, Feng quelque chose… C’était un 95 en tout cas, parce que brun mauve.
– ???
– Estifi.

– Salut, je peux tu t’emprunter tes ciseaux?
– Salut! Oui, mais je suis donc ben déçu.

– J’ai tu une trace d’oreiller dans’ face? J’ai mon cours dans cinq minutes…
– Ben non, ça parait pas, de toute façon ils vont tous dormir aussi, tes étudiants.
– Pis c’est vrai que c’est pas comme s’ils m’avaient jamais vue cogner des clous dans l’autobus.
– Tant que tu fais semblant que c’est sur leurs copies.

– Ça te tente tu de venir te noyer dans la piscine avec moi? Elle ouvre la semaine prochaine.
– Non merci, la seule longueur que je suis capable de faire, c’est celle entre la douche et mon casier, en sous-vêtements devant mes étudiantes. La tête baissée – mais pas dans l’eau, jamais. Well, dans ma tête, ça doit compter… En tout cas, j’ai comme l’impression que tu veux déjà pus m’inviter.
– Ben, j’ai dit te noyer, hen.
– T’es con.

– Je me souviens pas comment qu’on s’est dit bonne journée.
– Ça devait être doux, debord.

I am on a bus under a full moon.

Is this a dream? As in, « life is a recurring dream »?
Clouds don’t want me to watch but my heart knows. My heart is drawn up while my body passes on a bridge too high. A bit too high. A roller coaster squeezes my spine.

Wait. My heart knows.

My heart knows we’ll be fully together soon. Soon after I have passed these rushing hours, in which the round softness of ease remains nowhere to be found.

My body is nowhere.
My body is to be found.

I am on a bus and the bright horizon stretches itself wide under sagging clouds. Arms wide open, wide crushed.

My heart is wide bruised. I’ve bruised it myself. Since I was born.
But there’s the full moon. There’s tea that makes me cry. There’s you and own imminent reunion and our sobbing and our blessings. There’s a dream that my body can find its center again.

My body is round.
My body knows how to be.

I am up in the air again, launched as a book with no cover. I’m flying like a stack of papers defiantly thrown (up) by a student. And while I’m up in the air I think the moon is not far therefore I can reach her. I can reach myself.

My heart is round.
My heart is a fist under a veil.

The veil is the same colour as my lips, which are the same colour as my gums. She made me laugh so hard today while we were walking along a brick wall, and because she burst out laughing at the exact same time my gums actually vibrated. It hurt. Slightly. I was shocked. And laughed once more.

My heart can be moved up, so can my body. I’m on a bus and I’m everywhere to be found. As long as there are bright colours I can picture myself easily. I can picture myself easily in your autumnal leaves. « Of Autumn », it read.

My body is red.
The moon is red.

Red as passion and emotions that flow back in. Red as the sheets we used to lie on before they got furry with cat hair. Red as cat fury, red as our laughing at him.

My heart knows where the moon is. It knows the road to you, too.

Our hearts know how fully human each of us is.
But they also know how fully we’ll be together.

I am on a bus under a full moon.
And my dream is everywhere to be found.

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. ***

Winter has started at last, and so has my life, or so it seems.

November had stretched and stretched for too long – hibernation had to end. And the child heart had to come back – the one that’s pushing colleagues in the snow, jumping over snow benches, not caring about borrowing phrases from one language to another, not caring about anything at all, in a way.

The weight of the snow is slowing me down when I’m walking, leaving me more time for a few reflections. A few dances, too, hidden under pretended slips on the coat of ice.

Winter has reminded me that I was happy. Winter has reminded me that I could choose my happiness. That I had to choose it, somehow.

What does that mean? I need to say yes to what makes my heart pump. I know I need both extremes to live; I’d already come to that conclusion earlier. Today, it meant dream through two extra hours of sleep – sip through a latte made by loving hands – stumble upon great poetry I don’t understand and love the fact that I don’t understand it – and later, go dancing in the snow, under starry and city lights.

But I’m not only saying yes to the weekends. I say yes to the purpose I’ve had for a year full-time now: My job as a French teacher, and the numerous connections revolving around it. My life is not about looking perfectly white and brilliant in front of a blackboard; It’s about giving whatever I have – knowledge, patience, empathy, encouragement – to students and see them move forward. (Even see them cut through a snow bench sometimes.)

Thanks to Sui Solitaire and her book the thing about thin for that smooth reminder. (A book review coming up on this blog!)

It may all be about jumping out from oneself and see things differently. For my part, I’ll step into the snow, where the cold bites… and brings back to life.

Maybe I was just meant to make angels. I’ll make mine, and then help a couple angels make themselves.

Let’s help each other, OK?