.

i

In a silky wind of early summer

That blows over hills in my motherland

Come sweet, foreign scents wrapped in warm murmur,

What they speak – mystery; though some say what is planned.

ii

If one were to gaze atop from the cliffs

Down into the gorge spanning the decor,

They might view wonders akin to old glyphs

That resonate inside and shake them to the core.

iii

I still remember the quiet riverbed

By which I would lie and rest on warm eves,

The peace of the world would imbue and spread

Through my love-weary soul and, with me, all night, grieve.

iv

Imagine you could hear the beating drum

Of my sweet folly, slash, melancholy,

Imagine they spoke in a rhyming thrum

The truths of my silence, what would they say really?

.

Hear here!

.

You may be what I may know,

I may see what I may show,

I may well dream what you are

And may never be on par,

But may I hope for what I hope

I shall do so on this rope,

Little by little climb a slope

No matter how obvious the trope,

You may see what I may show,

I may be what I may know,

And this dream may remain far

But what is life without scar?

.

Time shall tell if I am mad,

In the mean time: let’s just add.

.

Count the numerous paths I have never taken;

They reflect in the glass of a tainted window

Or is it in my eyes that I see them broken?

Let me lie in the shade of the old tree’s meadow

.

As notes die in the air, I feel the aftertaste

Of sugar in the lime, light on my tongue, heavy;

The song must now conclude, the script shall go to waste

As each potential reel fakes another prelude.

.

I have seen the future and yet live in the past,

Silence melts the dischord symphony in no blast,

The voice finally breaks, in time even ink fades…

.

The screen goes back to black, the race comes to a close,

The moment is over: anew the river flows,

And I feel the prickle of a myriad sharp blades.

.

The name of this poem came to me as it was almost upon completion – wherefrom, I know not.

.

There is much to be done before I am gone,

There is much to be said before I am dead,

So much to be taken while I am shaken,

Although I may be tossed and put to the test

About in this tempest, I feel far from lost –

Rather I am floating between two nethers,

Oh they may be gloating with their white feathers;

I may struggle and swear, wish they heard my prayer,

I may be worse for wear, run back here from there,

But whatever the cost I know I shall best

Both the deep biting frost and the blazing jest,

For I am confident that naught is over,

That each and every dent struck deep in the steel

Is a lucky clover, a charm of the past,

The reason why I kneel but ne’er away cast

The hope nor the fire no matter how dire;

For, yes, time may stand still and my palms empty,

But much remains to be said, done, and to see…

One small have beats two will: Rome is my city.

.

I am what I am.

.

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.