Cut to the head
her big eyes of fiery wick
salient of terminal arrows
she darted life
in these highlands that the wind shapes
of his woolen mittens.
506
Category Archives: Year 2019
crumpled paper music
crumpled paper music
on the rippled pond
between the archangel and the murex
purpurine strangulation
Sunday bells
sans reminder
the bag is full of dandelions
going against the shore
she was rolling her stone.
A bird passed
smiling with a smile
the eyebrow of the clouds.
507
at the Brion bistro
At the Brion bistro
there are no more butts
just books
and Cézallier herb dishes.
The room is dark
the layout of odds and ends
let the light in
through the low windows.
Outside
between nettle and hogweed
the pedal table
receives the liquor.
508
the rose of may
She slipped
of light surrounded
between stone and metal
from the rough window.
Home crack
joined thought
the rose abhors
stage exit.
She entered
of the universe
in the appendix
with a soft touch.
She is a trait of Breath
widening
tearless
on the feminine of the flame.
Transparent
sleeping doe
she hatches
she disposes.
505
sleeping Messalina
sleeping Messalina
within the symphonies
the ivy muse adorned with make-up
enucleates the gray face of boredom.
To the sound of cymbals and olifants
the knight of Trencavel
light up with a fiery sword
the pack that devours him.
Here no lantern
point of carabistouilles
according to passion
just some inaugural oracle.
Stay the little man
to callunes subject
loved by the gods
with immense tenderness
destined to take flight.
Little man
little woman
turn the clock
dangling their truths
social and planetary
in the shadow of a life of exile.
In this inextricable web
bruises come to term
nothing to say
apart from the silence.
( Ceramics by Martine Cuenat )
504
at the edge of the forest
At the edge of the forest
life
the helping life
life as an offering
life full of friendships
the life that weaves its way and that nothing stops
A square of greenery
where to step
such a fragile indentation
than the look itself
draw the curves of the future
A puddle of water
To have walked
ahead
towards the night
release hope
of his convenience
There remains a furrow of light
where a gap
choir
without backtracking
without bone of contention
a horn of tenderness in the heart.
503
(sculpture by Martine Cuenat)
Larmes de pluie en godille
The dog was running sur le chemin des bergères entre les fougères accoutumées. Navré de devoir frapper such a handsome man at the carotid. mom in front had moved away en simulation d'être pressée de rentrer. The rain was stinging and pricked the face une brume nous recouvrait. The tide was rising we could hear the surf frapper les dalles de granite. The pier was deserted a sailor in his small boat sculled firm you will see a charge ancré entre les jetées du port. ( painting by GJCG ) 502
at the extension of the day
At the extension of the day
when the night is deep
where the navigator trembles
in the face of the dangers that assail him
there is this light
this bird that heralds the earth
and the sun
when knowledge is birth
that the day is love
balloons inflate
in graceful ascent
noisy torches
scaring away the birds
like manna in the desert
when hunger grips us.
Do we measure the steps to take
matter of time
look affair
worn in place
until evening ?
501
(painting by Manon Vichy)
Locks open
Living the canvas covered with colors in both dimensions from one to another the brushes move the air coulures aux lanières gouleyantes the signs are hatching as soon as they are returned to their origin. Locks open the rise of emotions unique wave fact when the bow ransacks water and shore between rows of plane trees au vent sifflant sur les bourgeons à venir. 500
Le détachement du poète
The poet does not read again He writes He never retraces his steps Il s'éprend de l'agitation des foules. He understood both everything and nothing. The great detachment. The poetic expression is poorly thought out Mais elle réfléchit le monde. The outside is a well of words Of evils - a - u - x À la source des mots. The poet does not save humanity He tries to save himself His In its existential contortions Qui le font s'ouvrir. Le poète est un gyrobroyeur He is the wordsmith Other existences Present or past. He is the verse and the fruit And the noise And the glass and the water. 499