Cloud and chimera

Pensées hybrides


Words and Whispers

Moisson d’été

Récoltes. Temps des.
Temps de le prendre. Moment suspendu.
Attente. Un temps.
Temps de l’attente. De l’ennui aussi.
De l’insouciance certaine que le pire est passé.
De l’abondance et du calcul.
De la préparation de ce qui vient.
Redouté, anticipé, désiré.
De la protection et des murailles.
Des orages au loin ou bien très proches.
De l’aire, du fléau, des ânes en cercle, du silo.
De la graine désirée, priée, célébrée.
De son attente, des chants, des danses.

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Summer Harvest


Some poem comes to mind
Life in the making, constant work in progress
The decision-making
The reiteration of a commitment made long ago
The idealized vision of what could be
The undertow of fear and longings, imaginary belongings
Rupturing and breaking
Fixing and repairing.

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A visitor in this strange city. Lost in cultural translation. And geographical shifts.
Glistening water. The pebbles hissing. Nothing left of the summer restaurants.

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(Reading a poem, going for a drive in the imagination, riding the wave of memory)

Light shadows, harsh light, as if from some unknown stage
Unusual light, never seen before, ghostly and ghastly
Spelling out some oracle that cannot be deciphered
No matter how hard we try
How hard we peer through the puzzling texture around us, in the sky and on the ground
Shroud or cover, mist or veil, fog or fine snow
In between-ness of Nature’s postures
Twilight of human reasoning and endurance.

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Je veux les lumières des anciens feux et l’obscurité solitaire de la nuit.
La marche infinie vers un monde que tous ignorent, la fuite au-delà de tout, le silence et la peur.
Je veux les jours passés à acculer la bête effrayante et la joie du succès.
Je veux la violence et la douleur, la pluie sur le sol sablonneux et le vent chargé d’inconnu.
Autour de moi le monde empli de vie et de mystères sacrés, d’ordre et de règles.
Le son des tambours et les ombres sur les parois folles.
Notre vie à marcher.
Les rencontres avec ceux qui nous ressemblent, les batailles et les fêtes.
Je veux l’univers à lire et la mort à dévorer.

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Silver Musing

Billows lapping against the shore. Faraway yet distinct.
Imaginative leap provides the sound, the smell, the feeling. The story and its characters.
Including you, sitting on the beach, listening to the waves lashing out against the rocks.

Brooding. Gazing. Musing.

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Voyages In, Voyages Out

Remembering your words about this particular beach being a place where you would/could take vows—swear eternal love. Self-fulfilling prophesy: a couple taking wedding pictures, giving flesh and blood to a mere idea, a pleasant memory, a poetic vision.

Wind and sea in amorous embrace bristling with a thousand lights, resounding a thousand notes.

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In Clouds Begins Responsibility


The sky is at war. One breakthrough lets an unruly beam of light peer out through the aerial wall. Clouds hide the mountains, they have stolen the high daunting ridges away. You are walking, suspended between earth and sky. Thoughts poised between physical and spiritual longings. Clouds hanging over you like cruel gods. Like cruel thoughts in the mental landscaped that will not go away. Relentless, stubborn, indomitable. Thoughts that will continue to conceal the beauty beyond. Invisible but present, if you could only see it! But happy are those who can believe without seeing.

It seems like you are sitting above the clouds. Striding right into them. Yet distracted by a pale pinkish slip in the far away distance, harbinger of hope and truth, reminder of the all-powerful presence of the sun. Of God. You looked up just on time to see it.

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Some thoughts on seeing the glacier

(Keeping in mind Keats’s poem “ On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”)

After twenty days, you feel ready to face the glacier and come to terms with your own barrenness and harshness. At that altitude, no flowers, no birds to comfort you and release you from your existential angst. You must bring enough life in you to stand up to the surrounding desert. Bracing up for an expected fight between darkness and light, fullness and emptiness; your resilience will be tested by a full space of emptiness and void. By your fear of heights, your fear of the fog, your fear of the truthfulness and exposure involved in such an experience.

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Walking to the tune of the moon

The sun is gone, now just a faint yellow blemish in the horizon. The moon is left alone as stage manager.

Piercing eye through the curtain of green.

White moon sitting on top of a snow-capped mountain like some giant Host offering itself to the world.

Pink stage, yellow and orange wings, deep blue proscenium. Then the pink gives way to a darker shade. Orgasmic light over snow shielded peaks. Knights in full armor of beauty and nobility. Spotless sky, pristine evening.

Every night a different show. A miracle of life offered anew to the beholder. Au veilleur.

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