Poem readings | Lecture de poèmes

Here is a project I have been thinking about and working on for a bit of time now. It is not grandiose or anywhere near finished and polished enough, but it is something that I very much enjoy doing.

To make it short, let’s say I was curious about what it would sound like if I tried reading my own poems, and so I did. Some have music to accompany them, others don’t. Some have more feelings carried in my voice, some less. But all are read the way I felt they needed to be read when I did so.

It is not an ultimate and eternal adaptation (if I am allowed to call it so), as I may read them differently at different times – either because I feel like it or because I want to try another way -, but also because  each person who reads them has their own interpretation and feelings behind their reading of it. This playlist is just one way of viewing them in a myriad of possible ways

I have read some of my poems in French and some in English, you are very welcome to go through the list and listen to whatever you want. And don’t hesitate to review them if you want to!

I will try to add more over time but, as I said, I read them whenever I feel like it because I love to add meaning to a reading. I therefore cannot promise a regular schedule, just check my SoundCloud out from time to time!

I hope you enjoy, thank you for reading (and listening to) me!

PS: One of the last poems I read this way – Hearth’s Ong – couldn’t be uploaded to SoundCloud due to music copyrights, but you can find it here if you want (or just below).

PPS: If you want to read the poems as you listen to them, or know more about the songs used in some of them, you can go to my SoundCloud and take a look at the descriptions of each reading, everything is over there.


My hope


Although it may grow weak my hope will never die,

Let me explain to you the reason of the why:

My hope is not a way nor a response to fright,

It is not a bright flame burning deep in the night,

My hope is not a sword with which I fell my wrath,

It is no wildfire cindering all on its path,

My hope is no symbol, it is not a fanfare

Nor a thousand candles lit for as much prayers,

My hope is neither sun, nor moon, or any star,

Bringing soft, wanderful warmth to and from afar,

Tis neither a lighthouse guiding me in darkness,

My hope is not either a string or a harness;

For given enough time they will rot and wither,

Scatter in the wind never to come back hither.

No, my hope is no light, but the music of dawns,

Sometimes it might seem bleak, but the colours it dons…!

On and off again, in a never-ending dance,

Never quite far away, never quite by your side,

Empty of any form, yet filling the expanse,

Always so beautiful, yet fleeting as the tide;

My hope is not a gift. No, my hope is a curse.

It will never vanish no matter all my verse,

For every door I open, every step I make,

For every score I begin, every breath I take,

I hope you are behind, I hope you are beyond,

You are my piece of mind, you are my Amy Pond.


Once again, I hope.

Some sort of essay on the hopelessness of hope sometimes.

Fourchettum Vitae


Que ça n’aille ni dans le cœur,
Que ça n’aille ni dans la tête
Et que la vie vous fasse peur,
Violente comme la tempête,

Qu’elle vous prenne au dépourvu
Ou se répète à l’infini,
Lassante, éternel déjà-vu
Qui toujours trop tôt se finit,

Gardez tout de même à l’esprit
Quand cette espiègle et vieille dame
Vous joue un tour, vous offre un drame,
« Qui croyait prendre, tel est prit ! ».

Ah ! La vie est une fourchette
Où quatre chemins j’entrevois,
Il vous faut choisir votre voie,
Être maître de vos conquêtes,

Car si vers demain depuis hier
Vous souhaitez un jour transiter,
Ni en couteau ni en cuillère
Ne trouverez utilité.

La vie est donc une fourchette –
Cela est sûr et va de soi –
Dans laquelle chacun perçoit
Le reflet de ce qu’il souhaite.


Petit défi datant d’un moment lancé par une camarade, sur le sujet “la vie est une fourchette“, relevé haut la main. De mon point de vue en tout cas.

Themes reimagined


Just as notes on a note sheet

Or colors on a canvas,

Just as words shot in the air

Or a scene in a movie,

Thousand eyes see not one blue,

Thousand ears hear not one note,

Thousand mouths say not one word,

Thousand films play not one life;

Change the lighting of the street

And wrinkle becomes crevasse,

The child most sweetest and fair

Turns frank and further groovy,

What you feel is but a glue

Stitching the strange ship afloat,

For, when all the lines are blurred,

Your own face may become rife…



When colors on the canvas

And when notes on the note sheet

Spell the words “porque te vas?”

It is ever bitter-sweet…



And when there is so much to be done

About all that there is, about nothing,

Can we truly believe everything

Our spirits murmur once they are gone?

Oh when there is so little to do

For all we make, we destroy, we undo,

Can this beautiful world truly be changed

By a family that has long been estranged?

Is it worth it to keep on fighting this fight?,

Asks the wanderer with a sad smile;

He who has finally set foot home feels in exile

For everything has changed with insight…


We are the children.



Atop his high tower the weary guardian knows

That only the power of light thwarts eerie throes,

That the bright and warm fire, as Ariadne’s thread,

Guides the ships to the shore, keeping them all ahead

From Charon and his barque through all the thickest nights,

Through all the deepest fogs, as they brave the great sea;

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

He knows this, yet he doubts: oh would anyone see?

Would his absence be felt, hidden by the great lights?

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

How many moons have rocked the dreams he tries to keep

Concealed behind his heart? For the red-hot iron

Rising again each day burns the true number deep

In both his skin and soul: a thousand one aion.

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

And yet there he is still waiting for who to be,

Come what may, standing fast against the salty brine,

Eternal assailant of this lost, godless shrine;

No reward, no witness, only hope of what maybe.

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.


And yet so close…



A heart is not bleeding despite the cold dagger

Plunged into its entrails for hope, if not stronger

Than the steel of the blade, can never be wronger

Than the light shadow cast by its dual stagger,

Now, as the shallow mist of the breath gets slower,

The bold and young emperor contemplates the old,

They can feel the regret in the new snow-white cold

Spreading through the ichor as withers the flower

Of this past suffering: a rose, bright red with thorns,

And roots deeper than wounds, have they made the right choice?

A death is not a death if it is only voice.

Right? They try to remain impartial from the scorns

That their predecessor inflicted on their soul

As they feel the fleeting image of the young fool…


The last unicorn may very well be dead…



Close your eyes and imagine

– Imagine your own mind

Now silent and peaceful –

You are in a dark room

Without light or music

And a single window

Casts a shapeless shadow

Upon the cherry brick,

In your hand is a wand

Of steel and magic boom,

A butterfly floats in

With feathers made of gloom

And fingers full of wick,

– Edging err bred the brand

Of the incoming sin;

Imagine and tell me

What do you do and why?

Do you listen to see

This sibling of the sky

Or do you let the sand

Drip into the hollow?

Perhaps that is the key

Or perhaps it’s a lie,

Who knows and who will know

What noes are really no

When a gust on the skin

May turn the world around…?

Image in your own mind

Now silent and piece full.


Well? What would you do?

Cher journal


Aujourd’hui je t’écris depuis une lointaine

Et paisible retraite où coulent mes vieux jours,

Je regarde le ciel et admire la mer,

Non sans regret, sans peine, mais je noie mes cris

Car ci, et pour toujours, la douleur n’est soustraite

Par aucune eau amère d’un coeur artificiel,

Ceux-là, voyant ma penne, hissent en néo christ

Quelque idée abat-jour tracée de main distraite

Et donnent aux chimères allure de six ailes,

Moi, d’office conscrit – bannière puritaine -,

Ne tord et maltraite que des belles-de-jour,

Autel sacrificiel des plaisirs éphémères.


Petit exercice de passe-passe avec les sons.