Wednesday 15 March 2017

The lost art of spinning plates

 
while the plates whirl
in white bouquets of porcelain petals
like gyring butterflies
defying the gravity of the situation
spiralling like flat earths
their barycentre elsewhere
well-known flying objects
in typical domestic brawls stilled
common household paraphernalia
hurtling through apparent inertia

while the hunched man announcing the show
moves like a gorilla in an impeccable suit
weaving platitudes and
praising the infinite movement

while the audience sees through the lies
they know the ropes and tricks
the plywood effect
the ridge under the plate
the impression of flatness
the distractions histrionics

while all of this is just coordinated effort
strategical jerks of the wrist
a keen eye for loss and gain
and a good supply of plates

while the spinner doesn't do much
just entertains the delicate balance
dishes out the illusion of control
with pivoting accuracy
on the axis of ceramic cynosure
makes our heart fluster at every turn

while other hands pick pockets
the motion captivates our emotions
the looped words and gestures
the invisible orchestra twirling symmetry
our mind wobbles out of focus

while all our eyes can rivet on
is the swirling of the spinning plates

while we want and don't want catastrophe
it will happen no matter what
with soft bangs and loud whimpers

while the plates whirl
 

Saturday 11 March 2017

Dazed


Days like dark, rainy sheets of night,
dazed like a man just told he had cancer
longer than the longest night ever
unmoored, left to wander and fight
on their own, each step a stumble
yet giving every appearance of peace.
 
Days like lasting days and days
with interspersed periods of heartsease,
short, relative lulls,
atolls of tinnital silence
drowned in tidal rage,
numbing roars and senseless fury.


Days like these hurry the departure,
ready us out, give logic
to the horror, the horror of leaving,
leaving behind the atolls, the lulls,
blur the contours and with
absolute clarity of mind make us see
what the others dare not imagine:
lightless shores stretching to the horizon.

Edinburgh 28.VII.14
 

Friday 10 March 2017

Au temps la mer


On attend que le vent change
on serre les dents en attendant
que le grain passe
on tourne on chavire
ficelé dans la nasse
on flotte dans des maillons étranges
on s'attend au pire
on n'est plus dans son assiette
pourtant rien ne s'arrête
on ourdit des plans
qui tombent à l'eau
on tisse des rêves de liberté
en un instant
qui file comme une éternité
et qui revient au point de départ
on veut changer le sens du vent
on veut changer l'essence du vent
on s'emmêle dans les contretemps
rebattus par la galerne
les lames vont et viennent,
battent contre le vent qui durcit
battent contre le ventre qui s'endurcit
les franges laineuses des vagues
comme des nuages de semonce
on tisse, on tisse, on défait l'ouvrage
l'orage détrempe les fils
on panique, on retisse
les foules se tordent malaisées
on rapièce le bateau de Thésée
du mieux qu'on peut
et puis, avec le mauvais temps,
progressivement,
on se détache du fil du temps
on se laisser porter par la houle
par la foule par ces flots
brodés de mille fils d'une eau
ni tout-à-fait verte, ni tout-à-fait bleue
et à perte de vue au loin, l'écheveau
des nuages qui rumine
déjà une autre ruine.

 

Wednesday 8 March 2017

Sur la colline


Nous sommes les enfants qui jouent sur la colline
tombe la pluie, tourne le vent
nous jouons dans les blés qui côtoient les vignes
à colin-maillard presque tout le temps
tombe la pluie, tourne le vent

Nous faisons des rondes jusqu'à l'ivresse
tourne le vent, tombe la pluie
nous dormons tard souvent car rien ne presse
nos souliers trempés aux flaques de nuit
tourne le vent, tombe la pluie

Nous échangeons des baisers et des regards
tourne, tourne le vent !
nous jouons à cache-cache dans le brouillard
nos mains cherchant, nos mains cherchant
tourne, tourne le vent !

Parfois il arrive que l'un d'entre nous meurt
tombe, tombe la pluie !
tombé de la colline, petit dormeur
petit sauteur, tombé du nid
tombe, tombe la pluie !

Nous ne connaissons pas la tristesse
vive la vie, vive le vent
nos cœurs sans cesse bercés d'allégresse
nous sommes tous bien vivants
vive la vie, vive le vent

Nous célébrons les levers de soleil
sombre la vie, triste le temps
nous admirons les lunes vermeilles
nous chantons à nos cœurs palpitants
sombre la vie, triste le temps

Mais chaque réveil décuple nos ardeurs
triste la vie, sombre le temps
nous dessinons des fleurs aux mille couleurs
nous nous embrassons haletants
triste la vie, sombre le temps

Nous sommes les enfants qui jouent sur la colline
tristes et sombres et joyeux et lents
portés par la vie et chantant la pluie opaline
peu soucieux du monde et du temps
tombe le vent, tombe le vent

Friday 3 March 2017

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

Friday 24 February 2017

Thursday 23 February 2017

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.

Wednesday 22 February 2017

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
 

Wednesday 8 February 2017

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.
 

Friday 3 February 2017

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.

 

thirty thousand people

The day was torn and  grim birds yet began to sing as if they knew nothing’s eternal and old gives way to new that man, one day, will fall ...