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Literature Text
Tonnerres et destins
Flot de foudres
Passent comme une lame
Sur l'océan.
Thunders and fates
Flood of lightning
Strikes like a blade
On the ocean.
Frantz, 2006.
En mémoire de mon père / In loving memory of my father.
Flot de foudres
Passent comme une lame
Sur l'océan.
Thunders and fates
Flood of lightning
Strikes like a blade
On the ocean.
Frantz, 2006.
En mémoire de mon père / In loving memory of my father.
Literature
Confluence
According to the old religion, a scribe
must bathe in natural running water
before she draws what is dictated to her,
because writing's just like cleaning a mirror,
she says, it's like rearranging stains
left on wholesome rivers. For three nights,
I drew geometric shapes in the margins;
I had been instructed to take notes on
the underside of snow, and how it colonized
the lithosphere, musically and without hurt.
It felt like a call, but it wasn't a calling.
The paper was made in Himalayan foothills
by a woman who had cleansed knots from fibrous bark
and dipped her bleached hands into boiling water.
I mangled the page into a cottage, then
Literature
Wicker Horses
Across a scattered galactic arm arcing,
the false peace of stars clings to
the curve of the earth,
stillborn in a celestial rock garden
and I in its soil with limbs
pruned and trained,
until set into motion the undone slumber,
a kiss on the lips of a maiden
under glass for a thousand years,
whose kingdom succumbs to wicker horses,
their manes atrophied in midflight--
the meaning of hieroglyphs hang
like wind chimes,
pairs of sandals from many souls
line the steps to the entrance
of a monk's hut through which I've passed
uncharted many times,
to shake off the earthbound
'til I start to miss oranges again,
and blue peeking from b
Literature
Yardarm
I'm sitting in an alpha male's
piece of shit old car. Lunch break,
30 degrees in the shade,
the sun's burning down our arms;
and he's right pleased with himself,
you can tell by the way his hands
are touching the wheel
and the way his mouth is touching
his hand-rolled cigarette.
Impassive jaw, he looks away.
Hand to mouth,
mouth to hand,
my fleeting gaze.
Bright, smoked and ugly
the bush is flashing by -
I'm all those things and more,
there's a wolf's curve to my spine.
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10 ans aujourd'hui / 10 years today 
Un poème court à la mémoire de mon père, qui m'a enseigné tant de choses. Tu vis à jamais, samouraï. 
A short poem in memory of my father, who taught me so many useful things. The samurai live for ever.Translation by me corrected by =Wordeea
© 2011 - 2024 Exnihilo-nihil
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