Responsage

""Si on lui parlait de son courage, Guillaumet hausserait les épaules. Mais on le trahirait aussi en célébrant sa modestie. Il se situe bien au-delà de cette qualité médiocre. S'il hausse les épaules, c'est par sagesse. Il sait qu'une fois pris dans l'événement, les hommes ne s'en effraient plus. Seul l'inconnu épouvante les hommes. Mais, pour quiconque l'affronte, il n'est déjà plus l'inconnu. Surtout si on l'observe avec cette gravité lucide. Le courage de Guillaumet, avant tout, est un effet de sa droiture."

Sa véritable qualité n'est point là. Sa grandeur, c'est de se sentir responsable. Responsable de lui, du courrier, des camarades qui espèrent. Il tient dans ses mains leur peine ou leur joie. Responsable de ce qui se bâtit de neuf, là-bas, chez les vivants, à quoi il doit participer. Responsable un peu du destin des hommes, dans la mesure de son travail.

Il fait partie des êtres larges qui acceptent de couvrir de larges horizons de leur feuillage. Être homme, c'est précisément être responsable. C'est connaître la honte en face d'une misère qui ne semblait pas dépendre de soi. C'est être fier d'une victoire que les camarades ont remportée. C'est sentir, en posant sa pierre, que l'on contribue à bâtir le monde."

Antoint de St-Exupéry, Terre des Hommes (1939).

Three days of rain

Three days of thrashing rain

the path glistens like mercury

dampness impossible to dry

cold tremors running up the spine

the days dwell in darkness

impenetrable to sunrays

to any sense of joy

trees and rocks coated in molten metal

yet all things colder to the touch

and older too, and more spiteful

those affronting the downpour

shoulders hunched as under yoke

head down and that forward thrust

of one ploughing the field of dark

the cows bored stiff, the sheep silent

the dogs shuffle from hearth to door

sniff the air from the slit and trot back

spin into a pungent bun on their mat

only the cat imperturbable

her silvery coat blending in

her yellow eyes like lit windows

pierce the deluge in a drowsy vigil

her ears poised for abating rain

even when cleaning her spotless paws

the torrent drumming in the gurgling drain

 

Histoires

Les histoires, on préfère les raconter qu'en faire

les écouter du bord du sommeil,

certains les écrivent au fer

rouge, d'autres à l'encre du soleil.

Certaines histoires ne vivent qu'un soir,

d'autres pour s'écrire attendent la veille,

pour d'autres, encore, on a besoin de boire.

Les histoires, il y en a autant que de gens,

même s'il n'y en a parfois qu'une qui compte.

Elles se créent toutes en se multipliant.

Certaines sont fières, d'autres nous font honte,

d'autres tiennent à l'oubli d'un gant,

d'autres s'effacent alors que l'eau monte,

et toujours, toujours une autre qui attend.

 
 

Insatiable

"The truth isn't always beauty, but the hunger for it is."

Nadine Gordimer, novelist, Nobel laureate (1923-2014)


The full essay, entitled "Leaving School - II", is available here.

No man's land

Dogs pacing to and fro in kennels

ears and tail hanging low, whimpering,

growling

the thick darkness

slowly cowling the broad daylight

not your typical summer storm

it seemed a spoonful

would be darker than

the darkest night we ever knew

the people stopped ploughing

hand on brow as a visor

soon the sun blanketed

a sense of dread like a clod underfoot

a finely-polished listlessness

imperative to avoid panic

and the clouds, the clouds

amassing like billowed fear

and the dogs barking, barking

gravity warped the mirror into smithereens

people fell to their knees, prayed,

called for shelter

ran away from the epiphany

it was too much reality

too much science

too much life in one sitting

the last starless night fell upon the earth

tucked us motherly in

whispered gently, gently,

“good night”.

 

Another morning

This morning I woke up thinking of sex

I didn't touch myself lest I be sad

as when I fantasize about an ex

I always end up dribbling an aubade

The half-hearted morn attempt in the shower

got thwarted by my sagging embonpoint

I try to lose but more come each winter

to the point I no longer see the point

Lunch had me push the chair back for some space

I felt tired of eating while eating

nap on the armchair, telly face-to-face

threaded clumps where my elbows were sitting

– mug of tea and biscuit plate tummy-topped

outside a prison, evasion daydream –

The only prospects of glee I have left

life to be seen solely at the seam

At midnight I dozed off thinking of sex

I didn't touch myself as I was sad

as I knew there would be nobody next

I'll never have the proper serenade.

 

We were expected

We were expected earlier than the rain.

The swollen river had snatched the bridge,

crawled a yard out every time the

church bells rang. We hurried and hurried.

We washed up a month later downstream

when the brambles let us go, at last,

when we no longer were expected.

 

Waiting for the train

They were all poised to board the train

platformed, tweed-and-silk couples

with eager tickets and febrile voices

paper-ribboned among the common,

which even the back-from-debauchery

Saturday bunch couldn't outsmart

and from the three-pieced to the bow-tied

a thirsty dog licking the condensation off

their last-minute, soda-filled plastic bags.

 

Brute

This brute of a world this

relentless beast on the prowl

or so it seems to us

who bow down, one knee

on the ground and the hair

raised like briar on

the nape of their neck.

We don't believe in fate we

thought we would be safe

but we weren't we

couldn't for we 'drew breath'.

To us patient observers the

brute never ceases to pounce

every piece of beauty

to maul to shreds all

of what brought us joy

knowing doom was spelt within.

Wrought-iron wrench in the works

that's what the brute does

and is, and if for a moment

we fancied fighting back

we had sooner wished we had died

when last we slashed our veins

because this brute of a world this

 

outspoken

I was told to be out-spoken

but how can I be when

so often I've been spoken out

out of the playground

out off the bus

not a sound, never one sound

taken out to avoid the fuss

how can I be when

I'm so soft-spoken

never one word above the other

never have I given

anyone the f- word

or the n- word, even

when I was down-trodden

and I never bother

I just want to have fun

but people hold on

they hold it up against you

like you have to be outspoken

or they'll tread on you

they make a hell

out of a possible heaven

and you can tell

it's such a burden,

such a burden

speak up, speak out

step up or step out

I guess I'm more in-spoken

perhaps I'm broken

but I pay attention

I'm not a bespoke human

but I like to be spoken to

even though it doesn't show

even though between me and you

I prefer to be alone

and be unspoken

biding my puns

honing my lines

because let's face it

when it comes to words

I have more grit

and more guts

than all of you cowards