Étiquette : Edward Hopper

Reach for beauty


Reach for beauty
For the beauty itself
Not for the memory of beauty
Nor its fantasy

If you can stop your mind
From jumping to the next thought
Usually filled with longing or nostalgia
Then you can keep your feeling of beauty
From heading you straight to misery

Reach for beauty
And for the beauty only
So your remembrance of the sublime
Is never tainted with grief
Or insufferable missing
So your dreams and visions
Instead of turning to denial
Only stand for the desire
And impatience for grace

Let them be self-prophetic and fruitful
No more blame your unconscious so hurtful.
Let your mind’s eye precede the next perception of beauty.
It’s an appeal to your senses
As the light comes through your fences
If you reach out for the beauty
And for the beauty only
Then overall it might just be.

(Painting by Edward Hopper)

What do I get up for ?


The same question flies on every waking up :
What do I get up for ?
If it’s not any employer, any proper job
If it’s not a child, nor a family
If it’s no lover, no soul mate
Whom or what do I get up for ?

If it ain’t for a nation,
For a civilization
Not for my people
Not for war
Not for peace
What do I get up for ?

Every waking up is a nihilism.
It’s only when the day is done
That I can feel whom or what
I’ve been up for, living or aching for

Every waking up is a nihilism
It takes the whole day to believe in something
It takes a whole life _ if you’re lucky
To believe in someone.

(Painting by Edward Hopper)

People walking solitary (on a springtime evening)

I believe in people walking solitary on a springtime evening,
Who’re not drunks, hoboes, or weirdos,
Who’re not junkies or pushers,
Hustlers and hookers,
None of them typical midnight freaks.
Who’re not even walking their dog,
Or joining a free party in the woods…
It might seem unlikely,
But they just need a little talking to themselves.
And whatever the season, I guess.
It only goes nicer in May.

Their face is an island of sanity
Amongst every gathering of loud, drunken and gross people
Overfilling the space even two hundred yards away ;
Those who make you change direction,
Not by security,
Yet for the sake of quietness.

Their silhouette is a shade of dignity
Amongst all predatory occupation of a street,
Or a simple byway.

They seem to walk their line,
And this lane of intimacy
I’d never mean to swerve.

I believe in you
Solitary girl, solitary boy.
Let the night be yours
And tomorrows be more sensible and reasoned.

You don’t behave like you want to hurt someone,
Or like you want to hurt yourself.
You don’t seem to believe that the earth is flat.
You just think better on your own.

And I believe in your thinking,
Whether I do agree or not with your thoughts.

I believe in your thinking,
And I believe in your walk.

—

(Drawing by Edward Hopper – « Night shadows »)

– Is it safe, is it sane ? –

Is it safe ?
Of course not
Is it deadly ?
Depends on the shot
Is it hurtful ?
Depends on your nerves

Every step is your potential fall,
Every leap of faith is when you recall
This is how you get over the wall

Is it sane ?
Of course not
Is it risky ?
By chance, quite a lot

Every break into the outside world
Can be the scariest experience ever,
But hell,
Is there a more unsafe area
Than the depths and width of your mind ?
Is there a more life-threatening moment
Than when you’re stuck into your brain wires,
And no one else talking to you
But your conscience of an absolute loss…

So let me be your otherness
If you ever sense you need one.
Let me fill the emptiness
When a soul mate you have none.

I mean you no harm,
I don’t bear any grudge
And I’ve taught my own arms
Not to unfold with urge

Is is safe, you wonder ?
Let us try
And if it hurts
We know why

—

(Painting by Edward Hopper – « Two comedians »)

(Être) une page sans fin

Edward-hopper_compartimentC

—

Tu voudrais que cette page en vienne à tourner seule…
Et tienne au vent léger d’apprêter son linceul.
À peine un courant d’air, aussitôt le rabat,
_ Quand c’était juste hier, du pli sur nos ébats.

Tu voudrais que dette passe, au premier chant du deuil.
Empreintes à effacer : mieux, retourner la feuille.
On prie bas de se taire un si proche au-delà,
Oraison reste à faire, en sourdine à ce glas.

Mémoire insiste, où vision cesse.
Aucun repos n’éteint la cendre…
Émoi résiste au train qui presse,
Un dernier mot, freinez cassandres…

Il te siérait de n’être otage ainsi d’un autre cœur…
Et ce volet d’histoire en essuie ta rancœur,
À redonner sa chair au cordon ceint d’éclats,
D’une antérieure affaire insoumise au trépas ?

Feindrais-tu que cette page oscille en ta main seule,
Et vienne à ton regret d’en arracher le seuil…
Aimé.e, crois-tu défaire en parenté deux âmes ?
Apprends qu’un jet de terre n’a su courber la flamme.

—

(Tableau : Edward Hopper – « Compartiment C, Voiture 293 »)

L’absence au demeurant

New-york-movie_moma

—

Encore une fois sorti dernier.
Déjà nous n’étions pas nombreux,
Sept occupants disséminés,
Trois couples et moi, solo d’entre eux.

Bientôt la fin du générique,
Un fond de Jean-Sébastien Bach.
Or rien ne me presse au portique,
Ainsi j’attends le noir opaque…

Au sein du hall, un plan désert.
En raison, la durée du film :
Un peu long ce documentaire,
Et plus le moindre cinéphile…

Aussi je reprends le couloir,
Afin d’accéder aux toilettes.
En l’écran cintré du miroir,
Y crois-je observer un squelette…

Idée me vient donc à l’esprit,
Qu’en traînant dix minutes encore,
À dépasser bientôt minuit,
Céans je pourrais faire le mort.

Au su de l’employé restant,
Paraîtrait que la salle est vide…
Alors absence au demeurant,
Cette occasion me rend avide.

Puisqu’on me laisse errer, fantôme,
Je prends le temps d’être oublié.
Comme un clochard élit royaume
À flanc de cartons empilés.

Ceux qui m’attendent au coin dehors,
Ombres du soir, autres égarés,
M’accorderont la métaphore,
Et l’illusion d’une échappée.

—

(Tableau : Edward Hopper – « New York Movie »)