.

Les roses sont rouges,

Les violettes sont bleues,

Sous la neige rien ne bouge :

L’espoir se fait bien trop frileux.

Dans la structure du flocon

Se cache un monde de beauté

Fragile et parfaite à la fois,

Tout en symmétrie se distille;

À qui boira de ce flacon:

Si ton coeur a hésité

Sache qu’entre tes doigt

Tu me tiens, disent-ils.

*

La jeune fleur n’est défaite

Tant que ses pétales flattent

Ces grands idéaux qui flottent

Dans les soupirs du prophète.

.

Hmmm.

.

Elle relie ce qu’elle relit, les poings liés par la pudeur;

les mots posés sur ce rameau,

eux qui jadis semblaient la calmer,

font virevolter en son cœur

une chamade charmante

mais méchamment doucereuse.

Qu’elle est vive cette eau qui coule sur ces pages

qu’elle en inonde le magnifique cépage.

Elle qui vivait si haut que même les nuages

ne venaient obstruer de leurs obscures vaguelettes

les oboles de son âme,

laisse à présent glisser le sens de ses lames

qui viennent lui glacer le sang

sur la pente de vieilles feuilles séchées.

Princesse ou générale, jumelle sans moitié,

sur son dos roulent les ardeurs de la piété.

Un jour peut-être verront-ils

les vivantes couleurs qui se cachent sous ce châle,

un jour peut-être tairont-ils

les violentes couleuvres qui s’arrachent et se déchalent.

.

Maria, Helene Schjerfbeck, 1906

Un texte poétique commencé dans le cadre d’un atelier d’écriture.

Avec, encore et toujours, des références.

.

Rome was most assuredly

Not built in a single day,

However, eventually…

All paths seem to lead to it,

If I were to hope and pray

While also sit back and stay

My hand, I would then permit

Nothing, thus I shall commit;

Shall? Or must. Tis laborious

A job to lay brick by brick

The high wall not yet glorious.

Hear: my Rome is not a trick,

Tis neither built nor rubble,

My Rome is green as the plain

Upon which it shall be lain,

And though it may bring trouble

To this quiet, reserved life

I have taken for a wife,

Watch me rise it from the ground

With a smile and with much tears,

As I face all my old fears

And rewrite my own background.

.

Ad victoriam.

.

In the distance, can you see?

A flower grows in the sun.

There are petals of seasons

Blooming in a million hue

And leaves of such pure emerald

Chiseled by Ouros himself;

It grows taller by the day

Beaming its song to the sky,

Only it has gained the right

To claim its own existence,

All else is but her shadow

Drowned into a starry night

Some say lily, some poppy,

Some say daisy, others rose.

A flower grows in the sun

Her seeds old and her thorns deep.

.

I’m not really sure about this one, but I felt it was today‘s poem and no other day so, here you go…

.

Neither do I hear I see no more

It has been a year I left the shore

In these strange waters creatures of yore

Here nothing matters as I explore

My tongue is a twister I kneel before

Pure silence or a careless whisper

Night and day turn into month-minutes

And the vast world outside becomes less than minute

From the Americas to great Antartica

I am the sole sailor of my subnautica

I travel through the cold seas of forgotten streams

Sad and salty prayers that each passing year breams

A thousand one layers gilded on an altar

Yet just as moss or mold its footing may falter.

.

Is the man made bigger by the journey, or is the journey made bigger by the man?

.

Love me true

Love me tender

This is for you

I am the sender

.

Of the size and the use.

.

See how he looks back in hope and forward in shame,

Hopeless feeling, naught will ever be the same;

And now, front again, he has no word.

While the train rocked and rolled along the tracks

Hope remained in him to somehow veil the cracks,

But stillness brings silence, and, in silence, loss.

The dwindling flame under great Boreas’s sigh,

Sinking anchor in the waters of divinations nigh,

Is prime example of Promethean pride.

A word shall be broken, promise will not be kept,

A cool, life-tainted blade will forever be wept

As all possibles but one fade.

.

Too little is sometimes too much and, too much, too little.

.

Black bird on my shoulder,

A young crow is aquothing,

It has removed the boulder

Or was it but clothing?

The omens have spoken

And the bone dice have been cast,

Virgil stands atop the mast

A ship not yet broken;

What see his elvish eyes

Upon the seas and their rhyes?

It is for the sailor’s heart

Only to know this part.

.

Even eighty days might not be enough to cross this sea…

.

and silence is devoid of nothing.

.

There [] stand alone yet unbroken

With [] after-image as the only token,

[] wanted to be gone – to smithereens ! –

Chiseled into pieces of a thousand other scenes,

[] am whole and yet [] am empty

A dark hole, a soundless entity

Writing words to exist and to be remembered

By others and [][], a seal burned in the flesh,

And the soul, as dry wood is embered

Before a cloud of dust turns [][] into mesh.

.

[] wanted to experiment with something else. There [] go.