.
Il est quelques regrets
Sur lesquels je devrais
Peut-être, oui, il est vrai,
Tirer enfin un trait…
Mais est-ce si facile ?
Malgré de grands conciles
Mon coeur n’est point docile
Devant un si sourd cil
Et il se laisse aller
A des perles salées
Depuis longtemps scellées
En des pages jaunies,
Car par ces jeux j’honnis
Cet amour que je nie.
.
MM. Jekyll & Hyde.
.
The time to go has come,
The time to come has gone,
Only that to live is left…
.
For once, don’t think. Just be.
.
As I walk
Alone
On the street
I know what I want
Where I am going
I can see the paths
Lying
In front if me
A crossroads
North, South, East and West
Perseverance
Or retreat
Yet
Hope and melancholy
Melt in opposites
And I stand
Final and tall
Here
In the unknown
.
As I talk…
.
Laissez passer, laissez passer les rêves,
Ceux des oublieux comme ceux des oubliés,
Ceux des temps où l’on rêve de mieux,
Ceux des temps où tout semble plié,
Laissez passer, laissez passer les rêves,
A trente huit ans on n’est plus qu’un homme,
Plus encore un enfant même si c’est tout comme,
Vingt mille yeux sous les mers vieilles du monde
Observant une terre qui brûle tant elle est ronde,
Laissez passer, laissez passer les rêves,
Sans les tasser, sans les casser,
A coups de vagues déchaînées sur la grève,
Laissez les, laissez leur une trêve,
Laissez passer, laissez passer les rêves,
Au risque de nous lasser.
.
Inspiré par les mots de Michel Berger et France Gall, ainsi que la voix de Diam’s.
.
He took the Hobbits whereabout was Bedlam’s
Countessant residence – a feast was hosted!
And when came the morrow all-about were exhausted
Remarkable happiness had they – honourable respect!
Guests whom the night cannot hold down, –
I cheer thusly towards the success of your quest!
*
Не этих ивовых плавающих ветвей
Касаюсь истово — а руки твоей!
Для всех в томленье славщих твое подьезд —
Земная женщина, мне же — небесный крест!
Тебе одной ночами кладу поклоны, —
И все твоими очами глядят иконы!
(only the second half, which was all that was presented to me)
[The complete poem with translation]
.
I do not speak Russian, this is not an actual translation of the poem. The exercise – as the first draft of this poem was first written during a poetic creative writing class – was not to understand the original poem, rather to feel its structure and it’s rhythm, in order to create a translation. Here is what it inspired to me, I hope you enjoy it.
The only reason I added the original poem is to give you an idea of what it looked like to me and a means of comparison with my production. I did not write it, it does not belong to me and I do not wish to take any advantage of it by posting it on this website other than that of showing you what inspired me. Thank you for your understanding.
.
Roses are red,
Violets are not blue,
Well, not all the time,
Sometimes they are white,
But let it be said
That I love you,
I have for some time
And do again every night.
.
A little something, stupid and rash, but true.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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…
Tales of Ore 