Noma

The word has been spelt out.

Two syllables, just a handful of letters really,

which mean life will never be the same again.

The tremor has passed.

No shock to speak of,

as deep down we knew

that deep down

some thing had woken up.

We could almost feel it.

This word, with timid lips pronounced

a few months ago,

now has gathered its full impetus.

It doesn't mean anything, per se.

It simply is a diagnosis,

an explanation for the discomfort,

for the ache waking us up,

a description of the pain that be,

a herald of the pain to come.

As simple as it may sound,

the barbarity of its actual name

scorches the very heart out of us.

Yet it also brings a sense of conclusion,

some weird feeling that now that

the storm has broken through the overcast

serenity can finally be achieved,

independent from survival or defeat,

from absolution or culpability.

Some old words will acquire new meanings.

Others will become obsolete.

Others will need to be invented.

What is left now is the fight

against one's own body,

one's own determination,

ironically finding the cure

at the exact same place

where the sickness first grew.

Ironically finding a new direction,

a renewed impulse and a refreshed step

whilst before we so fervently wished to die.

It may even be that one word

or a word-within-a-look

uttered from someone's heart

shall give us strength beyond reckoning

or shall break us into pieces.

Such is their power, and ours.

Today, we heard the word

which spelt our rise or our fall.

Today, we are in the eye of the storm.

 

Briar

A simple touch had been enough

her fingers gently rustling

the hair on the nape of my neck

this simple touch was enough

to wipe out a thousand years of solitude

If only I could forget this simple touch

I would sleep at night.

 

fissure vs fusion

we need to

break the i

why should there be

a capital letter

i is no better

than you

words are br

oken

duct-taped together

and to the line

so they don't shift too much

nothing as more irritating

as a definition that

veers, realigns

auto-corrects

they don't mean nothing

unless you really need them

unless you sort the you out first

clear out the imprecisions

so we can understand one another

why should there be a form

norms are made to be br

oken

noone is made of straight lines

they converge or diverge

run parallel if only for a while

but choices change

they don't last

in the wake of headlines

full of eyes and alter echoes

it's a battle of words

while we struggle for words

to say we love

to say we understand

or that we care

you and i

should see eye to eye

not turn a blind i

when we err

in the i of the storm

for there is beauty in the i

when it means something

to you

 

Arctos Rhododactylos

– Le froid, insupportable, avec pour seul remède

une vinasse chaude, épaisse et aussi laide

que sa maigre cuisine sans espoir ni chauffage –

Oui, il est fini le temps où elle avait un âge.

Ces sons qu'elle n'entend plus – l'eau qui bout,

la faïence qu'on ébrèche sur l'évier –

et d'autres qu'elle n'aura jamais entendu –

ceux d'une vie dont elle a sans le savoir déviée.

Elle grelotte sur ce lit où jamais le repos

ne l'a trouvée, apaisée, aux côtés d'un tâte-au-pot.

Le soir tombe et ses nuages comme un laguis

referment leurs doigts sur son corps alangui.

Voilà que ce Christ étendu en miroir en face

lui rappelle des choses qu'elle voudrait qu'on efface.

D'un geste tendre et machinal, elle caresse sa poitrine :

la boursouflure en son sein qui la démange et la chagrine

ne lui concède que le seul réconfort, tout en pensant à Lui,

de la certitude charnelle de l'orage durant la nuit.