La Rose


Loin de son noble amant parti pour d’autres étoiles

La belle et fière rose préserve en son bocal

Un palais de lumière où filtre son parfum,

Ses beaux et fiers pétales mirent le firmament

Et proposent au vide bien tendres métamorphoses.

Elle n’est pas coutumière de contempler la faim,

Pourtant là est le terme dont elle n’a plus le goût –

Il quitte la terre ferme sans le moindre dégoût

Suivant le séraphin vers ses amours premières;

Et si l’âme est avide quand l’eau va à la toile

Voilà que l’univers attend avec patience

La rose sous son verre et l’heure de son essence.


Il paraît, dit-on, qu’il y en a neuf. Voilà la dernière.

Instant – VI


Depuis un cadre de chêne

Où trône son portrait,

Taillé, poli, et sans écharde,

Sous une dorure de plomb,

Les couleurs l’enchaînent

Prévenant tout retrait,

Et son regard vous darde

En cet innénarable surplomb.


Instant – V


Il touche mais ne goûte à la terre

Sous bien des siècles noyé,

Le marbre froid qui l’enserre

Est depuis toujours son foyer;

Lui, si loin de sa terre natale,

Arbhorre à jamais ce sourire

Car si blessure n’est pas fatale

Jamais ne se verra guérir.


Instant – IV


Dans une pièce vide

Sans fenêtre ni cloison

Depuis longtemps réside

Le prisonnier de foison,

Si ce n’est dans l’espace

C’est tout au moins du temps

Que son coeur se déplace

A mesure qu’il attend.




There stands the such as which I’d like to know

Words come in myriads yet breathe no meaning

Akin to the miner that digs

With only majors for leagues

Finger clicking good at random until winter is well come


I relish love this art though it is not my type

For whatever is touched is lead to become gold

And were this poetry

About ever such poem

One might expect some charm and be disappointed


The pen is mightier than the ink, for the word is but a page in the book of thoughts.

First draft


The proverbial chisel awaits for the hammer

To fall and to give shape to a body of mind,

None ever has before seen anything of kind

Yet the heart hesitates letting the hand stammer.

A moment not as such comes but once per eon

Awaiting to be grasped, for ever too soon gone,

By the sun, by the clouds, by the rain or by dark,

Through silence, through great bangs, through Man and its kind hell.

So when the creaking raft lowers anchor to dwell

Believe not dry feet words, trust yourself and embark

For if this journey costs it is yet worth it all;

Hesitance may ponder over the need to stall

But the hand may not stop just as the heart must beat,

So shall the eye still see despite all Life’s blankets

Reminding who forgets of work still to complete;

The mind is a glutton and the soul its banquet.


Perfection à dessein, à action, à moyen.



Du sang et des larmes

Coule un temps orageux;

Des sans et des armes,

Coût du pain et des jeux.


Il a l’air d’être dans l’air du temps

Pour l’hère qui ère et qui attend

De RER en heureuses aires, d’être content;

Héros de colère et de contraires instants.


Si monseigneur lapin se retrouve prit en chasse

C’est parce qu’il refuse l’honneur de la Cour

A ceux qui jouent piano et ceux qui jouent la basse

Et – soi-disant – restent à mi-parcours.


Pansez bien vos mots à défaut de les penser

Car à force de bals, de pas à posséder,

Ne soyez étonnés si tous viennent y danser

Forçant loups et chasseurs à se de peau céder.


De la politique et de tous ses filets,

Le plus sournois et le plus saisissant

Est encore celui dont le gilet

Tente de se départir en réfléchissant.



Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds is H. G. Swell!

I’ve just been slapped in the sci-fi muscle, the musical fibre, and the storytelling boner at the same time and, by my future handsome and well-maintained moustache, did it feel good!

If you have an hour and a half to spare, give a listen to this incredible audio journey in the world of other-worldy invaders, it’s definitely worth it.

Now, on to figuring out how to quench my thirst for more Martian-related sci-fi and perhaps a reading and viewing or two of the other forms this story possesses.

The experiment


In a drop of water: the world. In a grain of sand, cosmos.

Sitting on the table is the penultimate patient,

The mind has been gently blown to pieces of sentient

And the body grounded into a ficticious pulp

From lack of atmosphere by a mishapened gulp

All to unexist in creation of enthropic osmose.


Proposition: let it be sewn back and together by silver threads.

Once shape has been restored to this primordial clay

Thunder shall begin the first scene of the first act of this new play;

Puppets once actors could be moved back in place,

Could be pushed back in time through clever-patterned lace,

Mayhap even luck might turn back busts and turn back heads.


Observations enlighten but scatter – automation is of the latter.

What wood cannot bend and steel cannot perceive,

Flesh may replace as living avatar of what means to deceive;

Inconclusive results permit no absolute truth to be breached

Yet hope remains, lighting the way towards new heights to be reached.

Time is running out, night is waltzing in, shall this even matter?


To the idealist who has none, and to the realist who is done, look at the pessimist: he is gone.



Bruises that flesh has torn apart

Appear as the day’s colours

A vital flaw in the rempart

That Time credits with due valours

All white the knight and the lady

See rooked the tower of babble

Talking away night malady

On this bored of dust and rubble;

Smart believes the jester thinks

Before the power of a pawn

When any and all can be kinks

Although few do see a next dawn

Without a blade through their shoulder,

Many revere the common shop

A Tentalus with a boulder

Moving no church but a bishop

For what belief is but they lack

From the great ship, upon their deck,

Both sea and night are robbed in black

Power not to be kept in check –

And while others content in par

Simply replace the missing stone

Some twilight battle deepened scar

Must etch itself into the bone.


What is felt can be no words.