Étiquette : english poetry

Not in the same boat

We’re not in the same boat
But don’t worry
Mine is sinking faster

I may look snobbish to you
High-educated, higher in values
And we’re not in the same boat, it’s true
But you don’t have to get upset
Mine is downing deeper, I bet

You know, I hear drunks every night
And I don’t judge them
But I won’t join them either

I hear those French clichés
On white southern America
As the barmaid loudly plays
Some redneck blues singer…

I hear them frogs laughing at the kettle of culture
That’s been cooking them since Marshall plan
Yet still unable to line up a decent phrase in English

Oh boy, must I look snobbish…

Some musician fella told me sooner
How we were the last units of our species…
He asked me if I intended to write a novel,
Which came out of the blue :
« You’re still young for a writer’s career… »
I agreed, only hoping it didn’t mean I was too old
For any proper job

We’re not in the same boat however
And I still don’t reflect that much on my aging days
On my chances to become a well-known author along the way
It is such a daily struggle just to keep afloat
That is why I’m telling you :
This is not your boat
And I mostly don’t welcome any captain
Nor any passenger on board
That’s a solitude not many could afford.

(Painting : Egon Schiele « Trieste fishing boat »)

Hobo

What makes a man seem more like a hobo ?
What first impression of him who you don’t know ?

Is it the clothing, the hair, the face,
Or his backpack ?
When you may not see him beg,
What tells you of his lacks ;
If he’s using both his legs
And isn’t truly marked… ?

Is it the walking, the look, the pace,
Or his manners ?
When you may not see him stand,
As we mostly pass him by,
And not waving up his hand
At one with a suit and tie…

What makes a man seem more like a hobo,
What observation, clear, that will lead you to know ?

He was sitting on the terrasse yesterday,
Sunburned in a too obvious way
Still you’re never quite sure he’s a vagrant

Now he’s staying on a bench, at a length away
Is that how he looks a little more astray ?
But you’re never that sure he’s so errant

What makes a man seem more like a hobo ?

I realize he’s not talking over his phone
Yet his expression tells you so
He has that conversation all alone
At least the sign of a life weirdo
Or only what it seems from my window…
And who’s the guy, I wish I’ll never know.

(Painting : Edvard Munch « The night wanderer »)

First-degree murder in poetry

—

The only shock is that you’re still not dead
The only shame is how you keep your head

For what you did, you should take more than threats
For what you said, your blood it must be shed
The only shock is that you’re not dead yet
The only shame is you’re not full of dread

You keep insulting whom you never met
You keep injuring those who need respect
How can it be that you’re not dead right yet,
When there’s so many of us you neglect ?

You keep agressing whom your laws affect
You keep arousing who your throne rejects
The only shock is that you’re still not dead
Oh what a shame, if you’d conserve your head

I wish I didn’t have to write these words
I wish I didn’t have to rhyme these terms
I wish I didn’t want you getting killed
I wish I didn’t pray you lose your shield

You made a surly person out of me
You made the citizen your enemy
I wait for one who’s even more angry
To give you murder in the first degree

Let’s keep it second as a poetry.

A rainy Sunday at the morgue (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #11)

A rainy Sunday at the hospital morgue
Is the reason for dark humour to exist

I wasn’t required to stay the whole morning and afternoon here
It was only a question of maintaining a presence for any visiting mourner,
Except no one came.
There was supposed to be a bunch of people showing at 4pm,
But they neved did
And the morgue would close at 5.00 anyway.

No coffees and cakes in here.
It felt more like an east-german recruiting office,
Where the applicants are the grieving families
And I sat in the waiting room for too long over my cell phone,
Dealing with the announcement of your death,
Anticipating the following procedures
And having only slept four hours in three days,
While you gently rested in your death chamber…

We had to take a little break from each other, I’d say
I was your first visitor anyway after they moved you here
And you didn’t seem to have more conversation today,
So I left when I realized I’d spent almost an hour
In such a cold and grim space,
_ Looking more like an autopsy room,
And I was gonna start making calls in a funeral home…

Forgive the humour too.
Seemed like the only available drug in a morgue
I asked the intern at the reception
If there was any place to eat over the whole site.
Not on Sundays alas,
And even for the morgue’s medical staff,
Direction told’em :
« The dead don’t eat,
Why should we deliver food ? »

Forgive my hunger as well. Privilege of the living.
By the way, and for what it’s worth,
You look alright as a dead man, really.
A little stern maybe,
But surely not scary or like you suffered a lot

That being specified,
I’m gonna go home now. I’m so exhausted.
I just wanted to see you for five minutes more.
But this is not farewell
Two group visits confirmed this monday,
We’ll have to talk funerals and other post-mortem issues
Of course you never took a moment
To properly write your will down.
If only you hadn’t been so quick to let yourself go…
But that suits you perfectly well, I guess
To make a last mess of your death

Excuse me again for not crying
Maybe later… Maybe never.
Doesn’t mean I love you any less

You were not much of a weeper yourself,
So I presume you understand

Take care of your soul now.
And we’ll take care of the rest

Can’t blame you for being dead (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #10)

Can’t blame you for being dead, I suppose
That was the plan after all
You’ve chosen a Saturday night
But that’s okay,
I wasn’t gonna party anyway

I guess we feel it coming, we humans
And I felt like staying,
Even past visiting time
No one that told me to go,
As if they knew as well

I finally sat down at your bedside,
Holding you with my both hands
Singing a few lullabies
Like one would do for a new-born
Only very mature

Then it just happened.

The near-death breathing is like an old vintage clock
And your ticking was so regular the whole day
It only took a few misses to suddenly make it stop

As for the companion in the room,
Things don’t change that much really
I stood the same position
Until the night shift made their appearance
In a very light pushing of the door.
I gave’em the sign it was over
And waited another half an hour
For the intern to certify death

The body temperature drops very slowly
As long as you keep your hands on
It’s like a bath getting cooler, degree by degree
And you know you have to leave at some point
But it’s colder outside

Your face is quite relaxed
It looks in peace
You’re almost the same
Only not breathing anymore

And I really don’t feel like crying at the moment.
You wouldn’t want me too sad, would you ?

But they already have to cut this brotherliness cord
Between you and me
So I must leave the room
While the nurses follow their ritual
And when I’m back it’s so different :
You’re now a lying corpse
Lit by a tiny candle that’s braving the fresh air
From a slighly open window

You’re set up for the night, my beloved stiff
And I felt ready for another vigil
But with the growing cold and my empty stomach,
Having really nothing else but an armchair to crash on,
I realize it turns pretty creepy for a noble gesture

I have to make it to the last subway
Try to sleep, even for three hours
Come back at 7.00

We’re not done my friend,
Rest well.

Sorry I didn’t call you any sooner (eight days have passed) – (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #4)

I’m sorry I didn’t call you any sooner
Eight days have passed
And it makes a year at least
When they give you less than a few months

I’ve been busy
I’ve been not too well myself

You’ve had a bad night, you say
But did you have a good life ?

I did not know your mother left you an orphan so prematurely
I thought I heard you mention her presence later on your timeline
« I have no one, you understand », you said in that cool cat’s tone
To the female oncologist who follows you at the hospital
She shows empathy, complicity,
She has that little extra time in humanity

Of course she tried again to push the idea of a treatment
Now that you know the nature of your murderer :
A small cell lung cancer
But you already sensed it.
And somehow it suits you better
You don’t want the chemo
There’s not enough in your life
To make you wanna fight for a little more
And you won’t have much more
Might be too late for a short trip,
Is it too late for friendship ?
Some sort of relation
That won’t make you feel under assistance

You wouldn’t call me, would you ?
I have to guess when you need help
It’s like for most of our relationships :
We have to guess, not just to hear, ask,
And it can’t be a lousy job

I’m surrounded by a bunch of « no-hopers »,
You said also to your doctor
« Which is of no surprise, because I’m one as well »
Then in a charming line, you added to me :
« Oh but you, you’re worth better than this »

Oh no, just a piece of mess
Under a brighter exposure
And I’m sorry that it’s all you’ve got,
Without any self-depreciation :
Bar workers, unsung loners,
Underground musicians,
Real drunks and wannabe poets
Random misfits…

But hey, I’ll do my best
If this is what is left

The sound of a little hope (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #3)

I’ve heard the sound of a little hope in your tone
Over the telephone
The first random words after picking up,
They’re like an uncertain shade of dawn
And today’s not so cloudy, as it seems,
Even a bit lighter really

You rave about your new female doctor,
As if you had a date and not a biopsy
No matter how terrible the sickness,
A little crush is always sign of vitality

The way you’re explained a fatal truth
As naked and painful as it is
Makes the prospect very different
You may not be so dead yet
It will demand further exams to see it clearly
And they have this new treatment process
With only pills, to face the end more peacefully

I’ve heard the sound of a little hope
And it sets me in a great mood actually
I know you don’t expect to be finally saved
But if you get nine months,
When you were told nine weeks,
That makes a spring and summer
Enough to put a smile on your cheeks

(A tribute to) the remaining condition of life.

 

Don’t ask for life not to change
For the city not to reform
Or the people around not to evolve.

Don’t ask for your favorite places,
Bars, venues, streets,
Not to be altered, reshaped, or redesigned.

You may not like the new front, the new background
You may properly hate the kind of music they’re now playing
Or not be so keen on the new bartender, compared to the previous one.

It’s agreed,
We all knew better days, better nights, better playlists
We all knew truer smiles, deeper converse at least
And the lights were dimmer, or if harsh, felt sincere
We all knew better versions of the same bars, the same freaks
We all knew better stages of this town, of them streets.

And so you’re left with only two options :
One is to run away as far as you can
From this feeling of alteration
By breaking your habits and routine,
Or simply move to another city, to a different country.
There’s no going back to what you loved so much,
But if you can’t revive the past, at least you get a future.

Or a second way of dealing with transition,
Is to pay tribute somehow to everything or everyone you liked better
By celebrating their persistence.
What or whom was not replaced, has only changed,
Not disappeared, only reborn.
And if you continue to discern the blue print of things and people,
Of objects and places,
Then you know that the reason you’re coming back
Even ten, twenty years or more after,
Is not justified by memorial despair,
Mostly you’ve come to honour
The remaining condition of life.

And you’re so grateful to this bar to still exist,
Although you don’t expect much anymore from having there a drink
It’s not going out, it’s no party time,
It’s paying tribute.

That’s when nostalgia weighs too heavy on your consideration
Of something or someone, and you no longer bear this burden,
That’s the moment to leave or die.
But over the changing of times, one should never cry.

– I believe in pushing that rock –


I believe in that rock
I believe in the pushing
And I believe it never stops

It’s not about feeling happy
While pushing that rock,
Like some form of accepted slavery

I’m not a slave,
And never wish to become one
I believe in pushing that rock
Because it defines me
Because I believe in this motion
Not because it keeps me from thinking outside of this condition
Not because the road somehow is straighter and clearer
As long as I’m willing to produce the effort.

I believe in that rock
Because I guess I know what it is
That’s not like being a courier
Never knowing the nature of the message carried

I guess I know what that rock is about
And it’s about faith, love, pursuance,
Fluency, transmission, humanity

Well I guess in the end, it’s about eternity.