Tag Archives: poésie

Far

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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.

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And yet so close…

Esspeacueare

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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…

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The last unicorn may very well be dead…

Imagine

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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.

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Well? What would you do?

Cher journal

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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.

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Petit exercice de passe-passe avec les sons.

Mare lunar

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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.

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A series of relatively poetic images.

Wanted

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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?

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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

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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.

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The peace of the weary is no rest.

She Was Ital

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She was a magician and she was her white dove,

she was the hand of steel and she the velvet glove,

she was ammunition and she was the canon,

she was the faithful seal and she was the danaann,

she was from the deep gorge, she yearned for the high cliff,

she took upon herself to make self of her ‘if’,

she was the mighty forge, she the godly smithy,

and of her loving delph she made burning pythy,

she was of great beauty, she, beautiful greatness,

she was the proud peafowl, she was the graceful swan,

she honored her duty, she was left with her dress,

moonlighted, broken howl; together they were one.

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Imagine a meeting that shall never happen…

Promise

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In about three week’s time,

Not long after the year

Once more be gone anew,

I shall release the fear

Without figure or rhyme –

Though without losing mine –

And untangle the vine

And its twisting sinew

To attempt to express

What I have left to guess,

I will attempt the leap,

Surrender faith to jump,

To keep face don’t undo,

For I can no more keep

This growing painful lump

That time and space plunder;

To hell with sage senses!

Be it my Waterloo,

Mine the consequences

Were I broke asunder…

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Do or do not, there is no try.