Piece after piece

Please, break my heart.

It yearns for it,

rancour oft heaves it.

It longs to depart.

I know full well that you can offer nothing but crumbs, but it is ready, ready to feast on every minute you will carelessly let fall.

After that, you will break my heart, if you have the heart to.

Please, break my heart.

It wants just that.

It will grow all mat,

hence easier to tear apart.

It has no care for whatever this world proffers. 'Tis too bland, or too colourful to be trusted.

It has tasted the sweet sapidity of your lips. It cares for nought else but the beatings your hands command. Do what you will, my heart has no care for this sordid world.

Then, you will break my heart, if your heart wills it.

Please, break my heart,

'Tis the sole thing left

to do as it is bereft,

its soul but one, vivid smart.

Only the heart that has abandoned all protection and instinct of preservation knows the ones which erect tall ramparts about them. I know you have such a heart. Mine is bare and will suffer the onslaught of your newfound liberty. You will recover and be whole again, thanks to and because of the breaking of my heart, for your heart needs a sacrifice in its stead.

Soon, you will break my heart, unwholeheartedly.

Please, please break my heart!

And do not quicken the split

as one does when he a throat slits.

The rend should run athwart.

My heart knows the signs. The time is approaching.

Some wounds leave the healer speechless for they are beyond his power to ease.

The wounded heart knows what the whole one can't.

My hearts craves to feel everything and someday you will understand what it feels now, dwelling in the mire of your urges, so many tweaks your demands claimed, all, all but for a breath.

Now that you have broken my heart,

Tensed up the shivers and heaves in my chest,

Now that I have died at your behest,

Please, leave the smithereens to scatter apart.

Hell's hound

I strongly recommend visiting Jim Reed's website, a professional photographer specialised in severe weather. Stunning pictures.

Here's CNN's addition.

The eye of the hurricane

Love and hate with all your guts.

Lose and gain. Part and fuse.

(Pain and tears and gnashing of teeth and relief)

Love again. Love it all, till the last single drop of arsenic, to the last single flake of tamarind on the tongue.

Everything that is not given is lost. But do NOT forget to love.

Bitter pangs of irony spurring the sides like a marauder the flanks of a mad horse. Some need no reminder to hate.

(Long, sought-out hours of loneliness and solitude, for the better and the worse)

Expectations are being thrown out the window.

Being demanding leads to being on one's own.

Being demanding ensures quality of conversation.

Then should have come an age of patience, understanding and sensitivity – and humbleness.

But our age is one of love and hate, of total abnegation and selfishness, of hearthardedness and unforgiveness, for we have made it thus.

Unlove uncharting man's most intimate wisdom.

Hours unwound fire-gazing,

lancetting every single one of the thoughts.

Unhate uncorroding man's most innate sentiments.

Impeccable mud on the tux – noone cares but the most desperate fool.

Innumerable rants against fate and the annus miserabilis.

The heart tendered as a gift to be treasured, rendered or

ruthlessly crushed with a spin of the heel.

Love and hate are as inescapable as curiosity and indifference

No bulwark, no vaccine, no defence.

Whence I come they are synonymous with sounds and fury, respectively.

Whence I go, they are so loud they hush sky-high typhoons,

but I'd rather die than hold back,

choosing death with a knife between my teeth, spurning soul and body,

rather than dull life and the quiet of a new dawn each day.

Every hurricane has its undisturbed eye – this we must seek, and make no other concession to either love or hate.

The dead leaves

I would be lying if I said

I wasn't lying on the ground,

gasping for every breath,

clutching at my chest,

panting for dear undeath.

I am not unscathed.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

carouse in the wet grass.

A few drops fall on my face.

Whether by an ill fate or by grace,

we've had heavy rain again.

I remember, I remember someone,

whose heart I should have gained,

whose hand I have unwon.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

drowse on the neat path.

I have found a hair on my sleeve,

a blond hair only one could leave,

and there I was, unquieted, drenched,

sobbing for the one lost,

holding the hair in my fist clenched,

once more wrenched and tossed.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

rouse in a hellish din,

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

capriole, swish and spin.

I thought I could have diverted the blow

but now my head's bent, I begin to unknow.

I shall rest here awhile,

wait until this unshining pall

goes on to buffet another smile

with its leave-swirling squall.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

contuse the soul, contuse the skin.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves,

those dead leaves bruise the man within.

Kings and beggars

"True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it is not haphazard and superficial. It comes to see that an edifice that produces beggars needs restructuring."

Martin Luther King, Jr., civil-rights leader (1929-1968)

Striking hard

"I broke my heart in two
So hard I struck.
What matter? for I know
That out of rock,
Out of a desolate source,
Love leaps upon its course."

W.B. Yeats, Words for music perhaps and other poems, XI (1932)

Momentum

Ce moment où l'indifférence

blesse plus que la présence

Ce moment où même le thé

ne parvient plus à réchauffer

Ce moment que l'on sent monter

quand l'alcool montre ses effets

Ce moment de déliquescence

où il n'y a plus qu'inférence

Ce moment où l'incertitude

naît d'un mot dit ou tu

Ce moment où le sol se dérobe

et la tristesse tout englobe

Ce moment où le souvenir d'une robe

contient en lui tout un globe

Ce moment où la solitude,

de ses griffes acérées, tue

Ce moment où les hétérocères

fuient par milliers l'air de la mer

Ce moment où les vagues chargent

la mémoire de souvenirs sans âge

Ce moment où l'on brûle de prendre le large

alors qu'on échoue même à brûler une page

Ce moment où les sentiments sincères

se doivent mourir est amer

Ces moments ne sont, au final,

qu'un long et sinistre râle.

Regard(s)

Je viens d'user mon deuxième plafond

à force de le fixer. Pas d'œillades,

Non. Un long regard de typhon

qui laisse de grandes estafilades

larges comme le poing, et profondes.

C'est quand même fou de haïr à ce point –

haïr le temps avec une férocité, une hargne

qui nous fait serrer les dents et les poings.

Le jour devient torture, la nuit un bagne.

Le calme seul quand la première étoile point.

J'ai aussi usé trois amis avec la lecture

de messages d'amour et d'indifférence.

Ils m'ont conseillé l'ingestion de picrate pure,

de dormir, de m'occuper en permanence,

de travailler assidûment ma musculature.

Et j'ai perdu mon charme – quand on n'a pas de chance,

Rien ne va plus et on se sent foncer droit dans le mur –

tout ça pour dire qu'avant j'étais plein d'insouciance.

Je n'ai jamais clamé être un optimiste pur et dur,

mais là j'avoue être à deux doigts de la déchéance.

Je sens que ce plafond ne fera pas long feu –

Pourquoi diable suis-je tombé amoureux ?

Janus-faced love

"The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul."

W.B. Yeats, A Dialogue of Self and Soul, in The Winding Stairs and Other Poems (1933).



True indeed, but far worse are those woes, madder are the throes and the folly that one does, if the proud woman is kindred of one's soul.

Achever ce que l'on a commencé

"No hay que lamentar que yo no pueda terminar el templo. Yo me haré viejo, pero otros vendrán detrás de mí. Lo que hay que conservar siempre es el espíritu de la obra, pero su vida tiene que depender de las generaciones que se la transmiten y con las que vive y se encarna".

En parlant des éclats de céramique (trencadís) : "A puñados hay que ponerlos... si no, no terminaremos nunca."

Antoni Gaudí i Cornet, architecte (1852-1926)

Renversé par un tramway alors qu'il se rendait dans une chapelle pour y prier, on le prit pour un mendiant par ses vêtements usés et son allure dépenaillée. Aussi ne l'emmena-t-on pas tout de suite à l'hôpital. Il mourut trois jours plus tard, le 10 juin 1926.