Étiquette : english poetry

When it comes to the subject of aging…

That’s the main wondering when it comes to the subject of aging :
What am I gonna lose,
What first ?
I don’t wanna lose this,
Whether it’s hair, vision, hearing, all sort of natural abilities,
Whether it’s beauty, grace, silhouette, muscles, good shape.
And in the meantime, while you’re so busy measuring your physical loss,
What you’re losing is soul, spirit, basic human qualities,
Your morals and values, your critical mind,
Your wits and humour, your gifts and guidance…

That is the most common trap in our focus on aging,
Hence how the process runs actually :
When you’re all about the flesh, all about the senses,
There is so much more missing that you don’t even realize is gone.
Then you lose your self and personality,
As the body fades inescapably.

Let the world know, let the heart show.

It blows against my principles
I’m used to act impassible
It would upset my own nature
Of never wanting exposure.

Yet I must find a decent way
To share the woes I can’t display
Yet I must clear another path,
On which I keep from grudge and wrath.

It might just seem hysterical
When I’m much rather cynical
It wouldn’t fit their impression
Of someone short on confession.

Yet I must pave a noble way
To shine a light on my dismay
Yet I must tread a different path
For a less daunting aftermath.

So let the world know
Let the heart show
And for once in a desperate time,
Wailing, wouldn’t be a crime.

Do it right the first time.

Let us do it right the first time,
And less room for redemption, amendments,
For « I’ll make it better tomorrow ».
Less chance for revival, resilience,
For « let’s have another go ».
It makes you wonder sometimes if our wrongs and failings
Are not just drawn by a natural impulse
To clean forget the previous night,
Or what we did last week,
Or what happened last year…

You can screw it up all the more
When you know it never matters for long,
Not in this urban community
Where you make ten new friends a night,
Keep in touch by attending the same bars,
And where whom you offended weeks ago
Rarely seems to hold any grudge,
As they probably acted worse, said worse, behind your back.
Or whom you rely on their discretion
Already spread the news and betrayed your secret.
But they’ll make it up to you, so you don’t need to get upset.
There’s so much heart to be received
From someone who did it all wrong
In the tacit expectation of having still another shot.
What if there was no second shot ?
At least in an adult world
Where you’re supposed to bear the consequences
Of your deeds and opinions.

Let us do it right the first time.
And less room in heaven
For the one sinner who repents,
Than for the ninety-nine righteous.
How seriously flawed can it be
That you should give more credit and consideration
To a single hell-raiser in penitence,
Than to hundreds of decent people
Just doing their best every day
Without any special want for publicity… ?

If you think life deserves a more novelistic approach,
As a good story-telling prefers harm to justice,
Failure to achievement ;
There are so many further chapters left to be written
On the basis of human duality,
For an epic that started too well,
For true romance and cloudless skies.
You don’t need to blow your first shot,
You don’t need to take a piss in the fountain of youth,
You don’t need to spoil beauty,
You don’t need to fuck it up just to make it more real.

Let’s do it right.
Let us take the first shot.
Let us go clear at first sight.
And only then, if you should claim for one more chance,
Would it be fair, as it felt right in the first place.

To love yourself (is such a painful job).


To love yourself is such a painful job
How would anyone sane apply for this duty ?
When it takes little effort to self-loathe, self-destroy,
To ruin every best piece of your personality.

In a more realistic common sense,
It is a hard enough task to give yourself respect.
And I mean, it’s a full-time job as well,
Just to keep your dignity, your balance and values,
A true sense of who you are, and who you’re not.
But you don’t have to love yourself at least…
What a high commitment to impress on your daily behaviour,
On your conscious and unconscious way of living.

To love yourself, it’s someone else’s job.
And who’s that brave for such intense giving ?
Except your parents really, who would this burden self-impose ?
You might be lovable, sure, yet even so,
You’re only one in the many.

There’s a less hypothetical chance
That you’d be taken care by someone else
And this could mean a lifetime job as well.
So if you’re blest enough to find protection and concern,
Avoid resentment against whom that keeps you from self-pity,
From all your « nobody cares for me ».
Surely someone does, whoever they might be.
Then it’s your painful job not to resist, not to break free.

I want dedication (more than ever)


Any subject is worth considering
Any question deserves your addressing
And if I had a hundred lives to spend
On each and every small facet of the being,
I’d go after any precious detail,
Make sure I deepen the searching.

But I’m running out of lives to spend on politics, economics,
On science, infrastructures, or coexistence…
I may even run out of potential lives to spend on music and culture,
Taste and colours.

Still, every problem is worth being treated
Every topic implies you debate it

But I’m running out of lives.
And I want the hardcore of my spirit,
Of my ideals and beliefs,
Of my reasons to live through the next day.

I want the obsession,
I want the focus,
The greatest of all attention,
The longest of all passions.

I want dedication
More than ever
I want dedication
All the way stronger.

I need you all.

It’s a shiny July afternoon,
And I finally settle at my usual spot,
In the « Jardin de l’Abbaye »,
On that big stone ledge,
Over a generous row of flowers…

At a short distance, I witness that very simple scene
Of what I presume to be a grand-mother and her grand-son,
Gently savouring a pack of biscuits.
Surely what a tender view…
I might be mistaken though,
Could be a different type of relation ;
And the boy’s not so young,
More like a twelve-year-old.

I don’t give’em much of attention
Until I realize that I could play, or precisely couldn’t,
Both parts of their situation.
It’s not a question of gender, nor chocolate biscuits ;
This is about sharing a special link,
More than just a bloodline.

And now I’m musing on the uniqueness of their relationship,
And how important it must be, assuredly to this woman,
Even more to this boy,
That sweet looking clumsy boy…
Then I reflect on the subject of otherness, and how long,
How old for a child,
Does it take to conceive how many more humans live on earth
Than his relatives and friends.

I mean, not just on paper,
But fully realizing for the first shocking time
The multitudes of complete strangers out there,
When you only get to know so few of them.
That scaring fascinating sensation that anything is possible ;
Life is so vast,
But then you feel quite reassured
To be on summer holidays
Eating biscuits with your grandma.
_ well, perhaps his god-mother in fact.

It’s a shiny July afternoon,
Now the sunlight strikes a bit harder ;
And I am no schoolboy anyway,
Nor his grandma either,
And I’m hungry for love and otherness
Like I never was maybe…
But you don’t feed me on chocolate biscuits anymore.
I need the flesh,
I need the spirit
I need you

I need you all.

Derealization

Can’t recognise the season, the year,
Or which part of my life.
I know it’s Tuesday, I can feel it,
I know this bar, and it seems to know me.
But I’m not so sure of the timing anymore.
That must be called « derealization »,
I guess it happens :
You slip away from your own conscience
Of the past, present, and future,
Of what’s been lived,
What could’ve been,
Or what you think you should have lived.

Can’t say if we already met.
Is it just a while before, or long way after ?
Can’t say if you ever existed at all.
It turns like a post-trauma effect.
I just don’t remember when the car hit me,
Or was it a fall, a brain shake ?
Or was it just despair, in the last degree ?

Can’t recognize the season, the year,
Or which stage of my journey.
I only know the city,
And it’s neither hostile nor friendly,
It just won’t tell me if I’m alive or dead already.
And I’m not certain if any option really suits me.

Can’t recognise the season, the year,
Is it dawn or dusk, love or regret,
Longing or missing ?
Is it the mind willing to forecast,
When the soul’s waiting to forget ?

– 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 »)