Archives des articles tagués transit

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. ***


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.


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
shared from winters in.
Love organs:
another all-white horizon,
another night on the sofa.


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.


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.


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.


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.

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

just like we had no other
when we met them drenched
covering their needs
on a pure floor

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
doors close anywhere around you
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

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


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


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

Away for twelve hours
already we had killed two birds with
various stones we
couldn’t help leaving one in lieu of

We avoided rush hour
all the way we rushed to get where
various angles were softened
we found skies of dots and lines

Oh all that’s ours
always leaves fleeting out
various trajectories we
can’t help seeing circles

Ceci est un poème qui n’en sera pas un qui aura un titre qui n’en sera pas un

Ainsi le thé coule le long des parois puis des mêmes parois
de la tasse
ainsi va
le train des gens qui ne vont nulle part mais ne font que
le train de ceux qui ont des titres mais qui n’en sont pas

Je suis assise à la gare celle où je connais tout le monde
qui va
ça va
et je regarde les épaules se tendre les lèvres se crisper
j’entends les pas aller venir s’égrener
le long des courbes des croupes dessinées

Le thé fait naitre chez les uns ce qu’il soulage chez les autres

Des fardeaux s’écoulent que d’autres repêchent
une ligne lancée au fond de la théière
une ligne
puis deux
j’avais commencé à tracer des pensées noires pour les autres

Et la nuit tombe déjà m’enfermant dans le carcan des respirs
celui où rien ne se passe
qui n’arrivera pas

J’étire le liquide jusqu’à ne plus m’entendre penser
la douleur
je remballe mes nerfs avant de partir les effondrer
dans une poubelle

L’électricité me meut dans la coulisse jusqu’à la tasse
jusqu’à la prochaine

Ceci est un voyage qui n’en aura pas été un

Pourquoi cette fixation sur le transit comme thème de nos vies?

Peut-être parce que rien n’est fixé, justement. Tout passe… et laisse sa marque en passant. Les émotions, comme de gros chunks de chocolat avalés tout rond, irritent l’oesophage, font gicler des acides, débattent le coeur. Qu’on aime ou non, on ingère, prend ce qu’on peut quand ça passe, puis on doit recommencer, le chocolat étant ce qu’il est – c’est-à-dire fondant.

Je me sens parfois comme un gros bloc de chocolat, fort au gout mais friable et fondant, justement. Je me dis parfois que les femmes sont faites en chocolat – et non en bois, peu importe ce que vous en pensez. Elles émeuvent, font saliver, fondre, battre. C’est à se demander pourquoi j’ai utilisé le pronom elles au lieu de nous.

Je suis le chocolat pendu dans mon estomac, tentant de se reposer du mieux qu’il peut dans un environnement anxiogène. Je me sens aussi suspendue dans cet air qui passera à travers tous vos poumons, l’un après l’autre. Pas seulement en transit : en transition.

Je ne vais pas quelque part comme Hiroshima, cette fois. Je passe par quelque état pour arriver… à moi, toujours. C’est comme ça. On ne peut pas être partout.

D’un appartement à l’autre, d’un ménage à l’autre, je prends le temps pour moi, de m’écouter mais aussi de me mettre sur mute. Et j’en profite pour aimer… et pas que le chocolat.

Presque arrivée, à Hiroshima.

Qu’est-ce qui sera en carton, à Hiroshima ?

(Prononcez tout cela d’un intonation finale montante emmanuelle-rivaesque. Ça pourrait s’éterniser mais je vais m’arrêter, de toute façon, je suis même pas rendue, à Hiroshima. Que les muffins, les gobelets, les toilettes et les pancartes cheap soient en carton ou pas, au fond, ce n’est pas utile comme information.)

Bon, ce peu de mots pour dire que j’ai trop de choses à dire (clin d’oeil à la célèbre réplique familiale : « X, je t’appelle pour te dire que je n’ai rien à te dire »…). Mais comme faut bien commencer quelque part, voilà : je suis en transit à Narita (Tokyo), presque rendue à Osaka, presque rendue à Hiroshima. Hé oui, j’y étudierai, à Hiroshima. C’est pour ça que je suis là, mon portable branché sur un kompyuutaa desuku en buvant du mugicha et en me demandant non mais franchement, qu’est-ce que je fais là (voir la phrase précédente pour la réponse, peut-être pas suffisante toutefois).

Bon, je vous jure, des fois je serai plus drôle.