Old haiku

Fought Death I have
though much was destroyed
none was defeated

***

Kites like rainbow dragonflies
hover furlongs above the
smell of the sand

***

Lovers in the setting sun
halting to embrace
one shadow on the shore

***

Seagulls reeling all
afternoon in the warm air
cold sobered them up                                                 28/02/2012

What the foot creates when the hand designs

"Roads endure longer than pyramids."

Karol Bunsch, Polish novelist and aphorist (1898-1987)
 

Edinburgh vestige

"It's starbucks o' clock on Princes Street
and droves of Ingmars, Colins and Manfreds
are let loose and white as sheet
confront the menu with scratching heads."

Thank you, Antoine, for the fond memories.

Le port

Dans le lointain de ténèbres le fanal scintille

comme une étoile trouant les nuages

le voyage s'achève à l'orée du canal

les mains, crispées au bastingage,

font les cent pas, intranquilles,

il n'a rien perdu, rien trouvé,

s'en est allé conquérir les cartes

pour revenir au point de départ

le navire usé, lui l'échine courbée

la voilure claque comme une vague de nuit

et le vent et le ressac ne peuvent cesser

ni les mers d'huile ni les vagues scélérates

rentrer au plus vite, au plus court,

le pressentiment plus fort que le sommeil

retrouver ceux qu'il sait déjà morts

le courrier passé par une frégate

son bélandre bas en eau, chargé de négoce,

il le voudrait rempli de plus encore

de ces draperies lourdes de Damas,

de ces écorces d'or du pays noir

de ces gemmes bleues du Sri Lanka,

de ce bois précieux de Sumatra,

pour envoyer par le fond, vain sabord,

la folie de cette course et de ces trésors

il voudrait lui-même plonger dans l'abyme

finir dans la vase du temps

mais ce dont la mer ne veut pas, d'une grime

elle le laisse en sillons sur l'estran

toujours cette impression, rentrant

d'un ailleurs toujours plus distant,

que le port arrive à lui, et non l'inverse

en bon marin que seul le roulis berce

il sait que c'est la terre qui se déplace

la mer, elle, en apesanteur,

immobile, fronde le temps,

contient les continents

met de l'espace là où on voit du vide

il a laissé les albatros dans les champs de houle

là-bas où l'air, rare et livide,

vient à manquer, à marquer de son fer rouge,

où le sel conserve et ronge,

où la vie se mêlant aux souvenirs

où le jour se mêle au songe

fait plonger les matelots en des plaines herbues

dans les rires tristes et sans sourires

de ceux qui pour oublier ont trop bu.

Alors, dans ce canal d'ennui où le jour poind à peine

il sent sa peine traîner comme la nuit de pierre

basse et sourde comme un battement de tonnerre

dans la trajectoire de l'horizon de sirène,

il se sent le cœur au bord des lèvres,

mais la carène vogue et au matin blême

il foulera ce sol affalé de dilemme,

écoeuré de gisement et affamé de déferlantes,

ce corps assagi qui ment, le large perlant

aux coins de ses yeux, relent de sel amer

au fond de sa gorge que rien ne fait passer

la démarche mal assurée sur le ferme

l'oreille à l'affût du moindre écho égaré

d'un goéland ou d'un cliquetis de cabestan

figuré au mitan d'une brume d'embrun

qu'aucun sextant ne saurait vaincre

encordée à l'ancre des mirages

long filin qui amène à la plage

attendant un pardon

que la mer adonne ou non

 

The Hunter

He had been told to wait here.

He had been told his opportunity would come.

He was lying on the ground, behind a few rocks.

Cold sand would occasionally trickle through his shirt.

He had been told not to move.

He had been told to wait, and to search.

He could see dewdrops hanging on bristling blades of grass.

Not a sound to be heard but the wind.

He had been told patience was key.

He had been told action was key.

Sunrays were crawling along the ridges of the plain.

Temptation to draw circles in the sand.

He had been told games were over.

He had been told he was old enough to hunt.

He had been told hunger made one more precise.

Hunger would make him a better hunter.

All had nodded, so there must be some truth in it.

He had been told that sometimes to search is to wait.

That waiting was searching.

He recalled his mother's stroking his cheek.

He recalled his younger sister's look.

He had been told to wait. To watch. To seek.

He was watching. Waiting. Seeking.

Secretly wishing for nothing to come.

He had been told to hide under the wind.

He had been told not to yield,

when the time came.

Wait and search was all he could do now.

He remembered the taste of blood, the pain

they had sought out of his body.

He had been told it would strengthen his spirit.

He had been told it would make him ready.

He didn't know what to expect.

He had been told what to do.

Shown what ancestral strikes killed.

He had been told everything.

Everything he had to know.

Yet he thought all was futile.

Yet he had rather ambush the red leaves

dispersed by the late wind.

Or scout the first shards of light

nose up in the electric air after the storm.

But the tremors in the ground echoed in his chest.

Shifting somehow made sand rougher

the air grew denser

clouds greyed the dawn.

The wait had come to an end.

The search had to be rewarding.

The time had come to hunt.

 

Hic Sunt Draconis

In the dark shade of the trees

Grow monsters hooded like monks,

Just as beautiful as peonies,

Under the aegis of the trunks.

Innocent-looking krakens

In the manifold places of their birth

Appearing from cracked earth

In the security of the gardens

In the fertile soil at the foot of walls

Or where any form of decay falls.

The neophytes, never taught but warned,

Still drawn to their shapely form

Took windrows home

And their tables therewith adorned.

Souls once immaculate

Now to the wolves thrown

The hem of their habit

Locked in their petrifying hand

Unable to run away

Or join their hands to pray.

Sheep, undisturbed most,

Thrive and graze

Feeding off these

Unminding of the dose

Which would be lethal

In vertiginous fall

For many other species.

That which kills could cure

If that which would cure didn't kill,

As love budding and dying

Which, in so doing, does death instill.

First comes the tingling, the shortness of breath

Then the numbing and the heartache

At the hands of the quiet Goliath

The flesh so weak, so weak

The mind numbed

the heart stunned

If ye need be angry, poison,

In thy tyranny be quick!

Less innocent creatures feed

Now on these fatal flowers

Born in terror and in terror breed

More formidable their powers

More potent their poison

Turn reason into treason

Deepen the hell of these bowers.

For now basilisks and asps

At leisure among these flower fields

Reshape our confidence in maps

Turn quiet lands into battlefields

Ready to rear up and hiss

For hic sunt draconis.

 

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.