Much

.

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.

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Far

.

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…

Esspeacueare

.

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…

Imagine

.

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?

The Eighth Dead

The Eighth Dead is a project for a short story in three parts that I have decided to try to work on over the course of the next few days. It is based on a script for a hypothetical movie that I wrote last year during a class on script writing. The story itself is something I’ve had in mind for a few years now but, regretfully, I never had the motivation or time or energy to turn it into what I wanted it to become: a short story. At least not until that class last year. It now exists in the form of a script in French, therefore, the broad outline of the story is defined and all that is left for me is to (successfully) turn it into a short story.

It is the story of Jackson Parker, an ex private eye, or private investigator, turned cop (sort of the opposite of the usual “noire” novella) who arrives in Louieville, a small town in the south of the United States, to start his new job and is faced with a series of mysterious murders. The whole “ambiance” is supposed to reflect the early 30s-40s and perhaps 50s, and that “noire” characteristic of movies set in that time period.

I will try to post one part very two days (the key word is ‘try’) for two reasons: one, it will allow you, readers, to be able to read it without having too much time between each part, therefore making it more clear for you. And, secondly, it will give me time to work on it a little more than one part a day (especially considering what I have programmed for myself in the next few days and that each part will be much longer than a poem), while at the same time being a challenge towards myself (idem). Finally, it will make it easier to publish for me (really long pieces always seem to have some kind of issue) and it makes work on a longer and different project while keeping a writing schedule (or at least try).

I will do my best to make this small – albeit important to me – project as entertaining and high in quality as I can. I am starting the actual writing tomorrow, thus the first of the three parts should be published around Saturday (or something). That is all I wanted to say, this post is both a means to catch your attention and to ‘force’ myself to actually do the work by binding my word to it. And, who knows, perhaps it will motivate me to work on all those other shorter writing I have had int he back of my mind for some time now…

So, yeah, we will see how it goes. That’s all folks! See you all later.

PS: Perhaps one day I will make the original script, in French or/and translated, available. Perhaps.

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.

Mare lunar

.

Just as a beach of sand is forever stranded

Or a forest of leaves are lost into the woods,

The starry skies of night shine deep into my eyes

And yet I cannot see for darkness is in me.

Just as an open wound with a scar is branded

Or a smile is happy and a tear ever sad,

Just as this perfect role becomes but a disguise

Swept by a coarse wind of restless serenity.

.


A series of relatively poetic images.

Wanted

.

You have passion? You have good verve?

You like action and excitement?

New things to leave? Need incitement?

Do you believe that you deserve

Another chance to show your worth?

Or to give meaning to your birth?

To be the lance forefront the earth?

We are gleaning talent and mirth

And we need you in our program!

The right are few, others are wrong,

We seek brilliance, we seek the strong!

We seek valiance in potential,

But no prior, nor credential.

You are on queue, a photogram.

Yes, we do hire, with your accord,

All you desire; are you on board?

.


Once again, having ‘finished’ this piece (meaning I have written all I feel I should have written/all I needed or wanted to write), I feel as if I do not completely know or understand what I wanted to achieve or where I wanted to go. I have a vague idea – a feeling, an image – of what I meant, and an interpretation but it remains partly unclear (and will probably remain so for some time). Also, it feels like it still lacks something, some sort of tenure or substance that I will have to come back and add in the future. I shall see, time shall tell.

As often, a mix of bittersweet, clear and obscure, light and uneasy feelings while reading.

Rest

.

She was sitting there, by the window,

Her face sullen, full of sorrow,

Such a young face, yet a widow,

For her, no today, no tomorrow;

Suddenly the wagons began to rumble

And as the wheels began to roll

She felt the strain, she felt the toll,

Oh if they could hear her heart crumble,

The fated train rocked on away

And she let its slow rhythm sway

Her wounded soul, lull her spirit to rest;

The sky had long cleared of the smoke

When the landscape faded and the yoke

Melted in a salted flood on the old leather vest.

.


The peace of the weary is no rest.