Ohm

Claims of achieved greatness,

of being a remarkable man

have been drowned

once and for all

all possible events were now

sunsets seen from rooftops

dousing the plain with fire

prime location to witness the end of the world

you put an end to us

you left me on the pavement

unwarned, unprepared

with nothing on but what I wore

you were a swarm of locusts

and hail like fucking cannonballs

a great tinnitus that wouldn't stop

a roaring gale felling trees

and you didn't care

you had to move forward

– leave corpses if need be –

it was a beast of a year

and you almost killed me,

I have to say,

first with love

then with hate

– oh, how much more potent hate is –

that great force you used

like a typhoon's

could hardly be resisted

turning soil into mud

levelling houses and minds

you were a freaking natural disaster

and quite oblivious of the magnitude

of the earthquake which you were about to raise

I stood there in the palm of your hands

and suddenly your hands

were in a fist packing a snowball

with locked jaws and a frowned brow

It's going to take a while to recover,

you know,

like learning how to walk again

(yes, I know what it feels like

it makes you wince

and cringe

and sometimes cry)

but I'm breathing

against all odds I should say

and, like you, moving forward

not as easily as you strut and parade now

looking great and feisty even

it's the slow march of a dead man

on his way back into the light

but one thing you made me realise,

haggard and panting and uncomprehending,

with fantasies of death dancing before my eyes,

is that I was happy and you weren't

– you couldn't and will never be –

so you went ballistic

and laid waste where our house stood

where our family might have existed

and be ruined much, much later,

because of you.

but claims of near-satisfaction

and of happiness

will be made once more

even if on an atoll somewhere

lost on a mountain range

on a squall-battered beach

daydreaming in front of a blank page

in a bloody bookshop I don't care

because to walk is to be happy

because I'll be happy again

I shall leave, then,

and not glance back

steadfast and fierce

in my exile

in my silence

cunning and subtle

scheming

perhaps dying alone, yes

but my spirit able

my voice untethered

unnormed

whole

like a tremor swelling from the ground up to the chest

 

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

 

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

 

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.

 

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

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.