borzois and wedding dresses
babies and mascara
snails and color pencils
sandwiches and Spinoza
tongues and wheels
tears and radiators
bus stops and vanilla
orgasms and clay
staples and foam
planets and mayonnaise
ants and electric bills
pine trees and leather jackets
placenta and fridges
marble and plug adaptors
shovels and muffins
sex and crumbs
passports and dinosaurs
jam and bridges
wallets and gravy
speakers and honey
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Sunday, July 28, 2013
The Nun
The light coming from the small window
Draws a cross on the stone floor.
The naked walls look at the nun.
She wakes up with the sun.
The wooden chair is broken,
She reads standing up.
She dries irises in her Bible,
Thanks her chosen Father
For the joyful silence she lives in.
She does not know her beauty
And in her sacred ignorance
Glows like a 17th century Madonna.
[Show French Version]
Draws a cross on the stone floor.
The naked walls look at the nun.
She wakes up with the sun.
The wooden chair is broken,
She reads standing up.
She dries irises in her Bible,
Thanks her chosen Father
For the joyful silence she lives in.
She does not know her beauty
And in her sacred ignorance
Glows like a 17th century Madonna.
[Show French Version]
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Sunday, June 16, 2013
The Desire
Oneness in love,
Flesh and thoughts,
Touches the essence of desire,
Waters it with colors
Until it invades my core,
Makes my Self conscious
Of the half I'm missing,
And need,
This other body my soul recognizes
As being where I belong.
Desire sings his name.
It is unfragmented,
Deeply physical,
Dizzily poetic.
It burns in me the need
Of finding myself
In that secure, warm and real
Place of vulnerability
And truth
And offering.
Again.
My perception shifts,
Desire blinds me,
My thoughts start a conversation
With my body.
Reasoning is silenced.
My mind does not understand anything
As being more important
Than expressing love
With the matter I'm made of,
My spirit in its shell,
The shell itself.
There is no place for hiding.
The naked Self
Does not lie.
It can be opened
Without resistance.
No trace of the ego.
In selflessness
Lies the desire,
Pleasure and fulfillment
That the most dogmatic God
Would celebrate.
Like creation,
Inspiration,
Awakening,
Birth,
Desire is sudden and loud.
[Show French Version]
Flesh and thoughts,
Touches the essence of desire,
Waters it with colors
Until it invades my core,
Makes my Self conscious
Of the half I'm missing,
And need,
This other body my soul recognizes
As being where I belong.
Desire sings his name.
It is unfragmented,
Deeply physical,
Dizzily poetic.
It burns in me the need
Of finding myself
In that secure, warm and real
Place of vulnerability
And truth
And offering.
Again.
My perception shifts,
Desire blinds me,
My thoughts start a conversation
With my body.
Reasoning is silenced.
My mind does not understand anything
As being more important
Than expressing love
With the matter I'm made of,
My spirit in its shell,
The shell itself.
There is no place for hiding.
The naked Self
Does not lie.
It can be opened
Without resistance.
No trace of the ego.
In selflessness
Lies the desire,
Pleasure and fulfillment
That the most dogmatic God
Would celebrate.
Like creation,
Inspiration,
Awakening,
Birth,
Desire is sudden and loud.
[Show French Version]
Friday, May 31, 2013
Painting Inspired 4
The Great Day of His Wrath, John Martin, 1851
The world's loud anger will pass.
Elements will forgive
And we'll make love again.
Elements will forgive
And we'll make love again.
[Show French Version]
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Untied 7
Shaken certitudes. Blurry winks. Dripping dichotomy. Glistening doubts. Golden ego. Holes. Numb dreams. Flashing screens. Broken seat belt. Cold interactions. Slow violence. Buzzing neon. Solitude. Creeping fears. Chipped plate. Ash stained shoes. Burning edge. Poisonous steps. Loud beat. Confusion. Peppery taste. Tight jaws. Absence. Empty illusion. Heavy mirrors. Crushed bugs. Oil puddles. Wet matches.
[Show French Version]
[Show French Version]
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
The Wind (and Him)
Slowly woken up
By the changing light in the room
And the sound of a vivid wind,
The man I love
Still full of dreams
Lying beside me,
I look through the window
At blurry and moving trees,
And small white waves on gray water.
Branches and leaves
Paint a palette of greens.
Luminous impressionism.
The wind,
Now stronger,
Anchors the present
Deeply into my ever-marveling soul.
I turn towards
The wonderful human being
I belong to.
He opens his smiling eyes –
Green gray.
They contain everything I see
And everything I am.
I put my hand on his warm forehead.
The wind sings louder.
[Show French Version]
By the changing light in the room
And the sound of a vivid wind,
The man I love
Still full of dreams
Lying beside me,
I look through the window
At blurry and moving trees,
And small white waves on gray water.
Branches and leaves
Paint a palette of greens.
Luminous impressionism.
The wind,
Now stronger,
Anchors the present
Deeply into my ever-marveling soul.
I turn towards
The wonderful human being
I belong to.
He opens his smiling eyes –
Green gray.
They contain everything I see
And everything I am.
I put my hand on his warm forehead.
The wind sings louder.
[Show French Version]
Friday, April 26, 2013
Painting Inspired 3
Roger délivrant Angélique, Jean-Auguste Dominique Ingres, 1819
On top of the cliff.
I step outside,
My naked feet on slippery rocks,
Pieces of my dream
Taken away by a black wind.
I look down
At the solid sea
And angry waves,
Like thousands year old creatures
Swimming to the surface,
Stubbornly charging at the cliff.
There's a sourceless light in the distance
Coming out from behind a large rock
In the middle of the sea.
I stare at the bright halo.
I wonder what I can't see.
Maybe a heroic gesture,
Beasts I can't imagine,
Blonde waves,
A virgin body,
A silent agony.
I step back inside the lighthouse,
Lie down.
Shadows dance on the ceiling,
They tell an epic tale
That survived time and storms.
The face of a serious knight
Watches me fall back into a dream
In which I live in a lighthouse
And hear the wind constantly.
[Show French Version]
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Painting Inspired 2
Forma negra sobre quadrat gris, Antoni Tàpies, 1960
Dust off your human nature,
It's time.
If negativity clouds your truth,
Rest your head on my shoulder,
Let me play with your hair,
Maybe it will go away.
If it doesn't,
We'll make a big fire,
Sleep around it for days
Until your smile is real again
And your hands warmer.
I won't ask questions,
Won't step on your darkness
But I'll put a firefly in your breast pocket,
Just in case one day
You need light.
That day,
You will look around for a while,
Walk on puddles of sadness,
Anger dripping from your clenched fist.
Then in despair
You will put a hand on your heart
And realize
You had light all along.
Dust off your human nature,
It's time.
Dust off your human nature,
It's time.
If negativity clouds your truth,
Rest your head on my shoulder,
Let me play with your hair,
Maybe it will go away.
If it doesn't,
We'll make a big fire,
Sleep around it for days
Until your smile is real again
And your hands warmer.
I won't ask questions,
Won't step on your darkness
But I'll put a firefly in your breast pocket,
Just in case one day
You need light.
That day,
You will look around for a while,
Walk on puddles of sadness,
Anger dripping from your clenched fist.
Then in despair
You will put a hand on your heart
And realize
You had light all along.
Dust off your human nature,
It's time.
[Show French Version]
Saturday, April 20, 2013
The Cats / Haiku 12-16
My door stays open,
[Show French Version]
The neighbor's cats are welcome.
One sleeps on my bed,
Another one looks
Through my window at his home
Across the courtyard.
They show interest
In my bag, my books, my shoes.
They lie on their backs.
I build simple toys
With tape rolls and some thick string.
They don't want to leave.
The neighbor once asked:
"They like you! Do you feed them?"
I said: "No, we play."
[Show French Version]
Friday, April 19, 2013
Painting Inspired 1
Morning Sun, Edward Hopper, 1952
Parenthetical time
In the slowly buzzing city.
A windless square.
Dreams faded by the light
Warming the sheets.
[Show French Version]
Thursday, April 18, 2013
The Father
Opening my eyes
In the incubator
Far from my mother's breast
I saw him first,
Mon Papa,
Reassured to see me alive,
Eager to hold me.
Since then,
That look on his face,
Protective and loving,
Remains.
It is even more apparent
With time passing,
Him aging,
Me growing.
There is mystery
And depth
In the relationship
Between the father
And the daughter,
Between my father
And me.
This umbilical cord
That we can't see,
Can't cut,
Is at times discreet
Or so present and obvious
That it brings tears to my eyes
And enlivens
My fear of losing him.
I can't watch his tears
Of emotion,
Of sadness
Or of joy
Without the Loulotte in the incubator
Being awoken
And wanting to be held
And hold him.
His vulnerability
Is the most moving thing
I know.
I love him
More than he knows
And never feel more secure
Than when he says goodnight
To Céleste and I
And kisses our foreheads.
[Show French Version]
In the incubator
Far from my mother's breast
I saw him first,
Mon Papa,
Reassured to see me alive,
Eager to hold me.
Since then,
That look on his face,
Protective and loving,
Remains.
It is even more apparent
With time passing,
Him aging,
Me growing.
There is mystery
And depth
In the relationship
Between the father
And the daughter,
Between my father
And me.
This umbilical cord
That we can't see,
Can't cut,
Is at times discreet
Or so present and obvious
That it brings tears to my eyes
And enlivens
My fear of losing him.
I can't watch his tears
Of emotion,
Of sadness
Or of joy
Without the Loulotte in the incubator
Being awoken
And wanting to be held
And hold him.
His vulnerability
Is the most moving thing
I know.
I love him
More than he knows
And never feel more secure
Than when he says goodnight
To Céleste and I
And kisses our foreheads.
[Show French Version]
Sunday, April 14, 2013
The Distance
Five thousand
Six hundred
And fifty two miles
Six hundred
And fifty two miles
Separate me from him.
My night is his day,
Our skies are different.
I witness his morning
And smile at his bed hair
While the moon slowly rises
In my courtyard.
I hear what he would say
About that tree,
About that painting,
About that shadow,
If he were beside me.
He always is.
The void of his absence
Whose expansion I feared
Got filled,
Flooded
With his undeniable
And omniscient presence.
The vast land
And the deep ocean
Between us
Evaporate
When he reaches my soul
With three words.
I experience my life
Through the filter
Of his existence.
It has colors
I have never seen before.
My mind can't comprehend
How far he is
And how close he feels.
Distance does not alter,
Affect or change
The us we became.
I'm not alone anymore.
I witness his morning
And smile at his bed hair
While the moon slowly rises
In my courtyard.
I hear what he would say
About that tree,
About that painting,
About that shadow,
If he were beside me.
He always is.
The void of his absence
Whose expansion I feared
Got filled,
Flooded
With his undeniable
And omniscient presence.
The vast land
And the deep ocean
Between us
Evaporate
When he reaches my soul
With three words.
I experience my life
Through the filter
Of his existence.
It has colors
I have never seen before.
My mind can't comprehend
How far he is
And how close he feels.
Distance does not alter,
Affect or change
The us we became.
I'm not alone anymore.
[Show French Version]
Monday, April 8, 2013
Untied 6
crickets crickets crickets crickets crickets
[Show French Version]
crickets crickets crickets crickets crickets
crickets crickets me crickets crickets
crickets crickets crickets crickets crickets
crickets crickets crickets crickets crickets
Phobia is a living thing,
As invading as it's irrational.
As invading as it's irrational.
I should stop playing with it.
My words jump too high.
[Show French Version]
Friday, April 5, 2013
The Voice
I listen to Chet Baker.
His voice replaces his trumpet
And he's there,
Present,
Breathing silently in my ears
Between "in the evening" and "when the day is through",
His mouth full of broken teeth and honey,
As sweet as he was beaten.
The voice is alive,
Close,
Still warm,
Suspended,
Unaware of death,
Existing only in its own sound space
And 02:46 minutes.
I put my hands on the earphones,
Push them deeper.
I capture the sound of the recording studio
Chet Baker is standing in.
I hear the color of the walls,
The instruments,
The souls,
The smoke,
The time of day,
The spring weather outside,
The lunch break approaching.
I want to go further,
Hear his thoughts,
Hear what he's wearing,
His side-swept hair.
I can't.
I slowly go back to realizing
I am listening
To the voice of a man
Who does not exist anymore.
I shake my head at that thought.
I am listening
To a man
Whose voice exists.
[Show French Version]
His voice replaces his trumpet
And he's there,
Present,
Breathing silently in my ears
Between "in the evening" and "when the day is through",
His mouth full of broken teeth and honey,
As sweet as he was beaten.
The voice is alive,
Close,
Still warm,
Suspended,
Unaware of death,
Existing only in its own sound space
And 02:46 minutes.
I put my hands on the earphones,
Push them deeper.
I capture the sound of the recording studio
Chet Baker is standing in.
I hear the color of the walls,
The instruments,
The souls,
The smoke,
The time of day,
The spring weather outside,
The lunch break approaching.
I want to go further,
Hear his thoughts,
Hear what he's wearing,
His side-swept hair.
I can't.
I slowly go back to realizing
I am listening
To the voice of a man
Who does not exist anymore.
I shake my head at that thought.
I am listening
To a man
Whose voice exists.
[Show French Version]
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Untied 5
I take a long dreamless nap on the cracked ground.
Fennec foxes chew on my hair.
Shadows of insects on red rocks.
A snoring toad wakes me up
And follows me for hours.
Old birds on silent branches.
I walk through a cold river.
A slow carp brushes against my ankle twice.
Pale leaves on wet roots.
The ladybugs in my pocket
Fly away at the same time.
Tree sap on my hands.
[Show French Version]
Fennec foxes chew on my hair.
Shadows of insects on red rocks.
A snoring toad wakes me up
And follows me for hours.
Old birds on silent branches.
I walk through a cold river.
A slow carp brushes against my ankle twice.
Pale leaves on wet roots.
The ladybugs in my pocket
Fly away at the same time.
Tree sap on my hands.
[Show French Version]
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
The Tree
for Zac.
It goes deeper than you think,
Higher than yesterday.
No matter what the tree sees,
How small its world is,
It seems aware of something
We often miss.
Even the tree that lives
Between two gray buildings
Grows wiser
And more patient
With each dawn.
Time scars it.
Men too.
Never reproachful,
It provides shelter for other species,
Inspiration for poets,
Shade for summer afternoons,
A hiding place for lovers.
Its strength and permanency,
Spiritual verticality,
Resistance to the wind,
Acceptance of seasons,
Grateful existence,
Oneiric grace,
Disarming simplicity,
Mirror my love for you.
[Show French Version]
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Untied 4
I'm reading French poetry again.
Philippe Jaccottet.
I want to write like that.
I want his words' pureness and simplicity and humility and accuracy and perfection.
There's a veil before my eyes.
His poems lift it gently, as if undressing my mind,
And I stare naked at the poetic grace of the words and the images they paint
- the sun on our back again, shining on the table, and the page, and the grapes.
They vibrate with disarming truth and overwhelming beauty.
French doesn't cast its heavy shadow on meaning.
It is used with such measure, wisdom and intelligence.
I can see the age-dappled hands of the old poet, his skin as thin as paper, his soul gathered in his eyes.
Reading him makes me feel dizzy like when I philosophize for a while and reach a state in my thinking where everything falls into place and what I thought was the last door opens to another one and I feel my consciousness going higher than I thought it could and I look down at the premise which started this vertigo-inducing mind ride and contemplate all the things that make me feel vast.
Jaccottet's poetry brings my mind to the last door instantaneously, shows me the wall behind it and crosses it, making me lose all perception of space as when dancing with someone you love and realizing by the end of the song that you're not in the same room anymore.
[Show French Version]
Philippe Jaccottet.
I want to write like that.
I want his words' pureness and simplicity and humility and accuracy and perfection.
There's a veil before my eyes.
His poems lift it gently, as if undressing my mind,
And I stare naked at the poetic grace of the words and the images they paint
- the sun on our back again, shining on the table, and the page, and the grapes.
They vibrate with disarming truth and overwhelming beauty.
French doesn't cast its heavy shadow on meaning.
It is used with such measure, wisdom and intelligence.
I can see the age-dappled hands of the old poet, his skin as thin as paper, his soul gathered in his eyes.
Reading him makes me feel dizzy like when I philosophize for a while and reach a state in my thinking where everything falls into place and what I thought was the last door opens to another one and I feel my consciousness going higher than I thought it could and I look down at the premise which started this vertigo-inducing mind ride and contemplate all the things that make me feel vast.
Jaccottet's poetry brings my mind to the last door instantaneously, shows me the wall behind it and crosses it, making me lose all perception of space as when dancing with someone you love and realizing by the end of the song that you're not in the same room anymore.
[Show French Version]
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
The Garden
I cut branches off a dead tree,
Put them in a wooden crate,
Bring the crate by the fireplace.
A splinter in my thumb.
I fill up the watering can
With the outdoor tap,
Carry it with both hands,
Water heather that mark
Where Toulouse is buried.
I plant tarragon
And smell everything.
Birds are loud,
I wonder what they talk about,
And how we sound to them.
A dog I don't know
Comes in the garden,
Runs in circles around the apple tree
And goes away.
I have slow and quiet thoughts.
My hands in the ground
Connect effortlessly with nature.
My mind doesn't have to put me there.
I'm already here.
I look up,
The sky is a sudden painting.
Put them in a wooden crate,
Bring the crate by the fireplace.
A splinter in my thumb.
I fill up the watering can
With the outdoor tap,
Carry it with both hands,
Water heather that mark
Where Toulouse is buried.
I plant tarragon
And smell everything.
Birds are loud,
I wonder what they talk about,
And how we sound to them.
A dog I don't know
Comes in the garden,
Runs in circles around the apple tree
And goes away.
I have slow and quiet thoughts.
My hands in the ground
Connect effortlessly with nature.
My mind doesn't have to put me there.
I'm already here.
I look up,
The sky is a sudden painting.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
The Goodbye / Haiku 5-7
Toulouse is gone now.
Céleste put him in my arms,
His body softened,
Lulled by our voices.
My warm breath on his white neck
One very last time.
We smoked on the couch
And listened to Debussy.
Bright room, quiet tears.
***
A song I sang for Toulouse: Meadowlarks (Fleet Foxes)
Monday, March 4, 2013
The Wine
Wine and cheese tonight,
I feel French
And inspired.
I move my glass
Right under the light coming from the ceiling
Just to see the wine's color.
Even the glass' shadow is red.
Ella is scatting on Blue Skies with Buddy Rich.
I look at nature photographs by Eliot Porter
Accompanied by texts by Henry David Thoreau.
Oh, one of many wonderful books
Lovingly given to me
By the man who holds my heart
And whose soul shines softly on mine.
The last sip of wine pushes my mind
Which falls into nature's portraits
With emotion.
Emotion.
No philosophy tonight.
Wine closes that door sometimes for me.
There's only emotion.
Wet leaves move me.
Bird eggs at the foot of the tree move me.
Tall ferns move me.
Blackberries that are still green move me.
Thoreau says:
There was a time when the beauty
And the music were all within,
And I sat and listened to my thoughts,
And there was a song in them.
I feel dizzy, overwhelmed, in love.
In tune with the world.
I read again what Thoreau says.
A text about colors and time,
A picture of orange moss on rocks.
I smile at each season.
Wine isn't what this poem is about,
It just started this flow,
Amplified a few perceptions.
It's about the intensity of living,
The importance of finding
The little string
That links us to everything else.
It's a thin string
But it's there.
If you find it,
Hold on to it tightly
And don't let go.
I feel French
And inspired.
I move my glass
Right under the light coming from the ceiling
Just to see the wine's color.
Even the glass' shadow is red.
Ella is scatting on Blue Skies with Buddy Rich.
I look at nature photographs by Eliot Porter
Accompanied by texts by Henry David Thoreau.
Oh, one of many wonderful books
Lovingly given to me
By the man who holds my heart
And whose soul shines softly on mine.
The last sip of wine pushes my mind
Which falls into nature's portraits
With emotion.
Emotion.
No philosophy tonight.
Wine closes that door sometimes for me.
There's only emotion.
Wet leaves move me.
Bird eggs at the foot of the tree move me.
Tall ferns move me.
Blackberries that are still green move me.
Thoreau says:
There was a time when the beauty
And the music were all within,
And I sat and listened to my thoughts,
And there was a song in them.
I feel dizzy, overwhelmed, in love.
In tune with the world.
I read again what Thoreau says.
A text about colors and time,
A picture of orange moss on rocks.
I smile at each season.
Wine isn't what this poem is about,
It just started this flow,
Amplified a few perceptions.
It's about the intensity of living,
The importance of finding
The little string
That links us to everything else.
It's a thin string
But it's there.
If you find it,
Hold on to it tightly
And don't let go.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Untied 3
The woman behind the cash register
Is spitting out sootballs every two minutes.
They're all over the counter.
It upsets customers.
She doesn't give the slightest damn.
She smokes cigarettes she keeps in her back pocket
And sits on.
They're bent.
She cuts the filter off with her teeth.
She has a third eye in the back of her head
That allows her to watch reality TV shows
On the small color-saturated television hanging on the wall behind her.
Along with a new sootball, she spits out "stupid Chinese"
When the American guy whose grandparents are Vietnamese
Comes in to buy his model cars magazine
And keeps the fridge door open while picking his beer.
There's a grass-snake living in her hair.
She burns it with her cigarette each time it slides down her neck.
The gossips she reads all day play on repeat in her plastic head like a pop song.
She shakes her head and the ashes off the cigarette butt stuck to her bottom lip.
"Spoiled bitch. Hope he dumps her ass."
A kid comes in,
Five dollars in his pocket and a Nike cap on.
He takes out a fake cowboy gun,
Points it at her.
She looks up at him,
Gives him a badly pink-lipsticked smile
And before he has the chance to say bang,
She forms a finger gun with her tobacco-smelling hand
And shoots herself in the head.
Is spitting out sootballs every two minutes.
They're all over the counter.
It upsets customers.
She doesn't give the slightest damn.
She smokes cigarettes she keeps in her back pocket
And sits on.
They're bent.
She cuts the filter off with her teeth.
She has a third eye in the back of her head
That allows her to watch reality TV shows
On the small color-saturated television hanging on the wall behind her.
Along with a new sootball, she spits out "stupid Chinese"
When the American guy whose grandparents are Vietnamese
Comes in to buy his model cars magazine
And keeps the fridge door open while picking his beer.
There's a grass-snake living in her hair.
She burns it with her cigarette each time it slides down her neck.
The gossips she reads all day play on repeat in her plastic head like a pop song.
She shakes her head and the ashes off the cigarette butt stuck to her bottom lip.
"Spoiled bitch. Hope he dumps her ass."
A kid comes in,
Five dollars in his pocket and a Nike cap on.
He takes out a fake cowboy gun,
Points it at her.
She looks up at him,
Gives him a badly pink-lipsticked smile
And before he has the chance to say bang,
She forms a finger gun with her tobacco-smelling hand
And shoots herself in the head.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
The Newborn
Two years ago
A woman called me,
A photographer,
She knew someone I knew.
She said
Can you babysit my daughter?
I said yes
Then asked her age.
7 days old.
I thought:
This woman is crazy.
I know she can trust me
But how does she know
I can take care
Of the most precious thing she has?
The tiny human
Woke up when I arrived.
I heated milk
Carefully
And held her.
She looked at me.
I felt intimidated.
She was so close to creation,
To nothingness.
7 days ago,
She did not exist in this world.
And yet there she was,
Already herself.
This little person
With her curled, warm little body
Breathing,
Dependent on me.
I felt honored to be part of
Her first perceptions of the world.
It made me be my better self
That afternoon.
I held her close to me.
Like a baby animal,
She buried her little face
In my neck,
Chewed on my collarbone,
Looking for the breast of her mother.
She moved her minuscule and perfect fingers.
I looked at them
In awe.
Then I pictured the woman
She would become,
Feared how life might slowly
Erase her innocence,
Bring knowledge
And experiences
That could make her a sad
And bitter person.
So I whispered in her perfect ear:
Be kind. Always.
Compassionate and grateful.
This is a big strange world
And it can be scary at times
But keep your sense of wonder,
And sing a lot.
I added what André Breton said
To his newborn daughter in a letter:
I hope you will be loved madly.
A woman called me,
A photographer,
She knew someone I knew.
She said
Can you babysit my daughter?
I said yes
Then asked her age.
7 days old.
I thought:
This woman is crazy.
I know she can trust me
But how does she know
I can take care
Of the most precious thing she has?
The tiny human
Woke up when I arrived.
I heated milk
Carefully
And held her.
She looked at me.
I felt intimidated.
She was so close to creation,
To nothingness.
7 days ago,
She did not exist in this world.
And yet there she was,
Already herself.
This little person
With her curled, warm little body
Breathing,
Dependent on me.
I felt honored to be part of
Her first perceptions of the world.
It made me be my better self
That afternoon.
I held her close to me.
Like a baby animal,
She buried her little face
In my neck,
Chewed on my collarbone,
Looking for the breast of her mother.
She moved her minuscule and perfect fingers.
I looked at them
In awe.
Then I pictured the woman
She would become,
Feared how life might slowly
Erase her innocence,
Bring knowledge
And experiences
That could make her a sad
And bitter person.
So I whispered in her perfect ear:
Be kind. Always.
Compassionate and grateful.
This is a big strange world
And it can be scary at times
But keep your sense of wonder,
And sing a lot.
I added what André Breton said
To his newborn daughter in a letter:
I hope you will be loved madly.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Untied 2
She hits play.
Her ears are open, her pace steady, the air cold.
It's morning.
She listens, waits for the first note, smiles in anticipation.
She's transported instantaneously to a place inside of her that is submerged with so much grace and so much joy.
It's coming out of all her pores.
She's on the jazz bus, the jazz teleporter, the jazz drug, she doesn't know what it is.
Her spirit is lifted so high and so fast that her heart jumps a little.
The place she goes to in her mind makes her feel safe.
The light is dim, wine is at room temperature.
She hears laughter, plates and trumpet.
The first notes of The Jitterbug Waltz. Seconds later, the other jazz monsters' instruments come in and it all just flies out of the speakers and breaks the ceiling open and lets so much light in. That cymbal beat.
She doesn't need anything else. It's so fucking perfect.
"Fucking" isn't the poetic word she's looking for but it pretty much sums up how truly, spontaneously, insanely perfect jazz makes everything.
It captures and distils life's essence, filtering negativity and stupidity and close-mindedness, forcing her awareness to focus on the present moment, to measure its glory and gorgeousness.
Her happiness is complete, immediate, orgasmic and religious.
She wants to laugh out loud, make love on the grass, dance with a dog, talk for hours, draw freely and eat a vegetarian curry, one with seitan, mushrooms and potatoes.
Her ears are open, her pace steady, the air cold.
It's morning.
She listens, waits for the first note, smiles in anticipation.
She's transported instantaneously to a place inside of her that is submerged with so much grace and so much joy.
It's coming out of all her pores.
She's on the jazz bus, the jazz teleporter, the jazz drug, she doesn't know what it is.
Her spirit is lifted so high and so fast that her heart jumps a little.
The place she goes to in her mind makes her feel safe.
The light is dim, wine is at room temperature.
She hears laughter, plates and trumpet.
The first notes of The Jitterbug Waltz. Seconds later, the other jazz monsters' instruments come in and it all just flies out of the speakers and breaks the ceiling open and lets so much light in. That cymbal beat.
She doesn't need anything else. It's so fucking perfect.
"Fucking" isn't the poetic word she's looking for but it pretty much sums up how truly, spontaneously, insanely perfect jazz makes everything.
It captures and distils life's essence, filtering negativity and stupidity and close-mindedness, forcing her awareness to focus on the present moment, to measure its glory and gorgeousness.
Her happiness is complete, immediate, orgasmic and religious.
She wants to laugh out loud, make love on the grass, dance with a dog, talk for hours, draw freely and eat a vegetarian curry, one with seitan, mushrooms and potatoes.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Thursday, February 21, 2013
The Absence
His non-presence
Is real.
It takes space
And has his shape.
I'm afraid to step on his invisible toes,
To crumple the trace he left on my reality
By rolling over it in my sleep.
The air moves around his absence.
I hallucinate his touch and his laugh.
My brain actively imitates Morel's invention
And spends long and soft hours
Recreating his smell
And the texture of his hair
And the trillions of cells
That lovingly compose his being.
The machine must be broken.
The sudden deprivation of him
Makes my heart heavy
And the colors paler.
Until we close the distance again
I will wrap myself in his words
And my memories.
Is real.
It takes space
And has his shape.
I'm afraid to step on his invisible toes,
To crumple the trace he left on my reality
By rolling over it in my sleep.
The air moves around his absence.
I hallucinate his touch and his laugh.
My brain actively imitates Morel's invention
And spends long and soft hours
Recreating his smell
And the texture of his hair
And the trillions of cells
That lovingly compose his being.
The machine must be broken.
The sudden deprivation of him
Makes my heart heavy
And the colors paler.
Until we close the distance again
I will wrap myself in his words
And my memories.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
The Present
I can feel myself
Moving in time.
I'm different
With each second
Passing.
Not new,
Just different,
Grown.
An instant just vanished
And my old self with it.
Continuous creation
On the canvas of time.
I can change all the colors,
Wear my best thoughts,
Rejoice at the gorgeous idea
Of someone's existence in mine.
One perfect moment
Follows another,
No matter what it contains.
Its ephemeral nature
And uniqueness
Make it perfect.
My now is grateful,
Full and unpolluted.
The past doesn't taste
Anything.
The future doesn't hold
Anything.
Yet.
I will look at it
In the eyes
When it will be
My present.
This is where
Freedom lies.
Moving in time.
I'm different
With each second
Passing.
Not new,
Just different,
Grown.
An instant just vanished
And my old self with it.
Continuous creation
On the canvas of time.
I can change all the colors,
Wear my best thoughts,
Rejoice at the gorgeous idea
Of someone's existence in mine.
One perfect moment
Follows another,
No matter what it contains.
Its ephemeral nature
And uniqueness
Make it perfect.
My now is grateful,
Full and unpolluted.
The past doesn't taste
Anything.
The future doesn't hold
Anything.
Yet.
I will look at it
In the eyes
When it will be
My present.
This is where
Freedom lies.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
The Universe
Those giant, slow, moving,
Loving celestial bodies.
Stars forming, others dying,
Their persistent light
Travelling for years
To feed our wishes.
Planets dance
Compassionately.
The cosmos,
In its perfect pace and order
Is overwhelmingly abundant.
It owns the secret
Of time,
And space,
And life,
Whispers it into the darkness
And infinity.
My mind is the size
Of a pebble.
It can not seize
The vastness and
Deepness,
Immensity and
Eternity
Of the Universe.
It only has the intuition
Of its beauty
And majesty.
I try to expand
My consciousness of it,
Step back enough
To bring my arms around it
And embrace it,
Contain it.
I try hard
And fail.
It is beyond
My human imagination
That I thought limitless.
So I just
Accept my littleness,
And in that humbleness
And awe
Feel vast,
Feel loved,
And remember
I am made of stardust.
Loving celestial bodies.
Stars forming, others dying,
Their persistent light
Travelling for years
To feed our wishes.
Planets dance
Compassionately.
The cosmos,
In its perfect pace and order
Is overwhelmingly abundant.
It owns the secret
Of time,
And space,
And life,
Whispers it into the darkness
And infinity.
My mind is the size
Of a pebble.
It can not seize
The vastness and
Deepness,
Immensity and
Eternity
Of the Universe.
It only has the intuition
Of its beauty
And majesty.
I try to expand
My consciousness of it,
Step back enough
To bring my arms around it
And embrace it,
Contain it.
I try hard
And fail.
It is beyond
My human imagination
That I thought limitless.
So I just
Accept my littleness,
And in that humbleness
And awe
Feel vast,
Feel loved,
And remember
I am made of stardust.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Untied 1
I walk on loud twigs
In a forest
I think I remember.
A sad moon
Shines on a horse
I used to own.
Underwater foxes
Dance in silence.
I wear my velvet soul
Stained with colors
I have never seen before.
I have dinner with
Five hundred ants.
They cook,
I bring vinegar.
Moss is on fire.
I dig a hole,
Burry my necklace.
The moth and the grass snake
Conspire against me.
I step back.
In a forest
I think I remember.
A sad moon
Shines on a horse
I used to own.
Underwater foxes
Dance in silence.
I wear my velvet soul
Stained with colors
I have never seen before.
I have dinner with
Five hundred ants.
They cook,
I bring vinegar.
Moss is on fire.
I dig a hole,
Burry my necklace.
The moth and the grass snake
Conspire against me.
I step back.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
The Scar
Léonce,
My joyful friend,
What have you done?
You were my Pinocchio,
Wanting to be a real little boy,
Thinking you were my brother,
That fighting was ok.
They should have told you
You were our dog.
Sometimes I wonder
How life was
Through your expressive
French bulldog eyes.
You seemed trapped
In your small furry body.
I can not forget you
Because every day
I look at what you left me.
A little λ shaped scar
On my upper lip.
It was a sunny day
At the country house.
A cow had stepped
On your little paw.
I didn't know it,
Sat down next you
On the warm stone steps,
And stroke you.
You tried to kiss me
Is what I told my friends
That year.
What were you doing
Chasing cows
Anyway?
The scarred memory
Remains.
Fifteen years later
I still remember you
With love
And hope you're in a place
Where you can
Eat comic books
Without consequences.
My joyful friend,
What have you done?
You were my Pinocchio,
Wanting to be a real little boy,
Thinking you were my brother,
That fighting was ok.
They should have told you
You were our dog.
Sometimes I wonder
How life was
Through your expressive
French bulldog eyes.
You seemed trapped
In your small furry body.
I can not forget you
Because every day
I look at what you left me.
A little λ shaped scar
On my upper lip.
It was a sunny day
At the country house.
A cow had stepped
On your little paw.
I didn't know it,
Sat down next you
On the warm stone steps,
And stroke you.
You tried to kiss me
Is what I told my friends
That year.
What were you doing
Chasing cows
Anyway?
The scarred memory
Remains.
Fifteen years later
I still remember you
With love
And hope you're in a place
Where you can
Eat comic books
Without consequences.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
The Mother
She is resting on my sofa.
I turn the music down a little.
She thinks I'm working,
But I'm writing about her.
She closes her eyes.
I look at her.
Every inch of her is a fractal
Of who she is to me.
Her nose is my Mother,
Her ears are my Mother,
The wrinkle around her eye is my Mother,
The apparent and elegant veins on her hands are my Mother.
But I also know
The woman she is,
The human she is,
And that makes me love
Even more deeply
The mother she is.
Not because she's flawless,
But because of her vulnerability,
Her mistakes,
Her profoundly human qualities,
Her reflection on life,
Her addiction to words.
I treasure when
She doesn't know
And ask.
When she imitates Woody Allen,
When she kisses my Father,
Dances with me,
Quotes Groundhog Day,
Cries when I tell her
About something that moves me,
Expresses her love
For the woman I am,
Tells me that the day she dies,
She just asks that Céleste and I
Watch a Marx Brothers movie,
And laugh.
I turn the music down a little.
She thinks I'm working,
But I'm writing about her.
She closes her eyes.
I look at her.
Every inch of her is a fractal
Of who she is to me.
Her nose is my Mother,
Her ears are my Mother,
The wrinkle around her eye is my Mother,
The apparent and elegant veins on her hands are my Mother.
But I also know
The woman she is,
The human she is,
And that makes me love
Even more deeply
The mother she is.
Not because she's flawless,
But because of her vulnerability,
Her mistakes,
Her profoundly human qualities,
Her reflection on life,
Her addiction to words.
I treasure when
She doesn't know
And ask.
When she imitates Woody Allen,
When she kisses my Father,
Dances with me,
Quotes Groundhog Day,
Cries when I tell her
About something that moves me,
Expresses her love
For the woman I am,
Tells me that the day she dies,
She just asks that Céleste and I
Watch a Marx Brothers movie,
And laugh.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
The Bike
Early Sunday morning,
The weather hesitates.
So do I.
I stand in the empty street.
There's a fine rain.
The bike ride home takes half an hour.
Twenty minutes if I go fast.
I rarely do.
Will the rain stop?
Grow heavier?
Does it matter?
I look at the bike station.
There's only one bike left.
I slowly walk towards it,
Still thinking about the rain,
Staring at the sky,
Using my non-existent knowledge of meteorology
To evaluate the probability of the rain stopping.
I do my usual bike check.
The brakes,
The tires,
The gears,
The seat.
This bike is perfect.
I don't even have to adjust the seat's height.
This probably influences my decision to take it.
It's almost waving at me.
Ten minutes later
On the Saint-Germain boulevard,
The rain is heavy,
My hair is damp,
The wet pavement reflects the street lights,
My glasses are covered in raindrops.
I feel tired,
Slowed down,
There.
My legs start to hurt.
A strong wind plays against me
And I forgot to change the gear.
I notice it
And don't change it.
I smile at my inability to predict the weather,
At my ability to be surprised,
At the physical effort I have to make.
This awareness
Along with the elements around me
Make me feel very much alive.
Streets are empty and mine.
I drive where it's not allowed.
I cross a third bridge and hear seagulls.
I close my eyes for a handful of seconds,
First making sure that the road is straight and clear.
I see and remember Bréhat,
This small island off the coast of Brittany
Where there were more seagulls than people
And cars were forbidden.
Everytime I hear seagulls I go back there
For an instant.
I'm almost home.
I hum Summertime...
"Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high"
...and feel grateful.
The weather hesitates.
So do I.
I stand in the empty street.
There's a fine rain.
The bike ride home takes half an hour.
Twenty minutes if I go fast.
I rarely do.
Will the rain stop?
Grow heavier?
Does it matter?
I look at the bike station.
There's only one bike left.
I slowly walk towards it,
Still thinking about the rain,
Staring at the sky,
Using my non-existent knowledge of meteorology
To evaluate the probability of the rain stopping.
I do my usual bike check.
The brakes,
The tires,
The gears,
The seat.
This bike is perfect.
I don't even have to adjust the seat's height.
This probably influences my decision to take it.
It's almost waving at me.
Ten minutes later
On the Saint-Germain boulevard,
The rain is heavy,
My hair is damp,
The wet pavement reflects the street lights,
My glasses are covered in raindrops.
I feel tired,
Slowed down,
There.
My legs start to hurt.
A strong wind plays against me
And I forgot to change the gear.
I notice it
And don't change it.
I smile at my inability to predict the weather,
At my ability to be surprised,
At the physical effort I have to make.
This awareness
Along with the elements around me
Make me feel very much alive.
Streets are empty and mine.
I drive where it's not allowed.
I cross a third bridge and hear seagulls.
I close my eyes for a handful of seconds,
First making sure that the road is straight and clear.
I see and remember Bréhat,
This small island off the coast of Brittany
Where there were more seagulls than people
And cars were forbidden.
Everytime I hear seagulls I go back there
For an instant.
I'm almost home.
I hum Summertime...
"Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high"
...and feel grateful.
Monday, January 28, 2013
The Duck
I am waiting for the train.
Three more minutes says the arrival board.
It says two now.
I must have looked at it at the end of the first minute.
Or the board and I don't have the same perception of time.
I look outside.
The gray canal and gray boats.
An empathetic gray sky.
Gray humans.
On the water, three black ducks.
My seconds are numbered.
I focus my thoughts on a duck,
The one on the right.
The duck is alive.
No one seems to care.
It is alive!
Its body moves and breathes in and out.
It has a beating heart like mine.
A liver and lungs.
And feathers it carefully waterproofs with oil,
Webbed feet that propel it in water.
It does not reason.
It knows.
Whose personal mythology
Does such a perfect creature come from?
The duck does not need me.
I need it.
The duck does not even notice me.
It lives in a perpetual present time
Without having to look at its reflection
In another being
And ponder life and nature
To reach that state.
It's already there.
I'm in awe before the duck's effortless existence.
It is grand.
Its divine essence is palpable.
It already possesses the abilities I seek,
And teaches me.
We are as blind as angry children.
We need simpler and windier lives.
Three more minutes says the arrival board.
It says two now.
I must have looked at it at the end of the first minute.
Or the board and I don't have the same perception of time.
I look outside.
The gray canal and gray boats.
An empathetic gray sky.
Gray humans.
On the water, three black ducks.
My seconds are numbered.
I focus my thoughts on a duck,
The one on the right.
The duck is alive.
No one seems to care.
It is alive!
Its body moves and breathes in and out.
It has a beating heart like mine.
A liver and lungs.
And feathers it carefully waterproofs with oil,
Webbed feet that propel it in water.
It does not reason.
It knows.
Whose personal mythology
Does such a perfect creature come from?
The duck does not need me.
I need it.
The duck does not even notice me.
It lives in a perpetual present time
Without having to look at its reflection
In another being
And ponder life and nature
To reach that state.
It's already there.
I'm in awe before the duck's effortless existence.
It is grand.
Its divine essence is palpable.
It already possesses the abilities I seek,
And teaches me.
We are as blind as angry children.
We need simpler and windier lives.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
The Kettle
The iron kettle is bigger than me.
Wiser.
It boils water and sings, shakes, lives, does not get hurt.
It can burn my skin.
I look at it from every angle,
Open it,
Touch the bottom of it,
The inside of it.
I knock on it,
Fill it with sounds.
It has a strong simplicity.
It is clear, brilliant and deep.
Immediate.
It will survive me and my daughter and my daughter's daughter and her dog.
It will contain more water than our bodies put together.
I, am opaque, vulnerable, full, changing, soft, breakable, unopened.
I want to be the kettle,
See my skin turn into an iron armor,
My inside boiling,
Steam suddenly and loudly coming out of my teethless and gaping mouth
Before someone empties me and fills me again,
Leaving me warm and shaken.
And there.
[Show French Version]
Wiser.
It boils water and sings, shakes, lives, does not get hurt.
It can burn my skin.
I look at it from every angle,
Open it,
Touch the bottom of it,
The inside of it.
I knock on it,
Fill it with sounds.
It has a strong simplicity.
It is clear, brilliant and deep.
Immediate.
It will survive me and my daughter and my daughter's daughter and her dog.
It will contain more water than our bodies put together.
I, am opaque, vulnerable, full, changing, soft, breakable, unopened.
I want to be the kettle,
See my skin turn into an iron armor,
My inside boiling,
Steam suddenly and loudly coming out of my teethless and gaping mouth
Before someone empties me and fills me again,
Leaving me warm and shaken.
And there.
[Show French Version]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)