Étiquette : french author

Every second lives on.


Every second lives.
Every second lives on.
Even when you think,
When you feel it’s gone
Every slice of time,
Out there is alive.

What if we considered the passing of our present
As a non-evolving process in fact…
While we are supposed to revive the moment
Purely by recollection, through memories.
But what if the human conscience
Was simply unable to treat more
Than a small portion of chronology,
And we had mentally adapted our limitation
By counting seconds, minutes, hours, days,
As a « lost forever » mechanism… ?
When in truth,
At least theorical,
Time is a whole.
And every year, decade, or century,
Happens simultaneously.

As if by self-preservation,
We had invented this past and future
To keep our minds from exploding
In a saturation of data,
And it’s a common ancestral denying
We share for the sake of the greatest illusion ever seen :

Humankind…
Life and death
Before and after
Memories and prospects
Coming from, moving to…

But every second lives on.
Whenever you mourn a dear and hurtful memory,
And you can feel it almost back in your present,
It’s just that it never died actually.

And the best or worst moments of your life,
Instead of filling a rather closed file
Upon the shelves of your brains,
Remain as a full and constant reality.

Without this so-called perception of time,
We’d go crazy.
Still, what if you’d rather go mad,
And let yourself be flooded entirely
With all you ever lived and will live ;
Wouldn’t it seem quite a better fate,
Than forever mourning the few seconds you regret ?

(Painting by Edvard Munch)

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)

For the sake of being, breathing, and feeling.


I want to enjoy
Enjoy singing, performing
Enjoy the search for a missing line
Enjoy your company
Enjoy that coffee
Any time
Enjoy the meal I’ve been waiting for
I want to enjoy
Every inch of sunlight
Every shade of dark and bright
I want to enjoy
Every natural thing
Like breathing
Or resting

And if it seems too much to ask for
Let me rephrase it :
I’m not talking of enjoying life
Or the human condition
In all its tragedy
To enjoy one’s meal
Is not an acceptance of life as it is
To enjoy a long breath
Is not a winning over death

I rage for what I’ve just lost,
Like sunset, good mood,
Perfect timing, appetite,
Mojo, social opportunities…
I rage about the stuff I can do something for
On a very daily basis
What is supposed to be simpler and easier
Unlike moving mountains
And God knows I enjoy moving mountains
In my humble scale
But I want to enjoy the power of standing at ease
Without any special purpose
Any urge to appease
Just for the sake of being, breathing, and feeling.

(Painting : Egon Schiele)

A vision of you at the counter

I saw you like ten years younger
In a flashing vision at the counter
With that same shy enigmatic smile
You used to give me back then
Always dimmed by sorryness

« Hey honey, it’s me again…
And I wish you hadn’t noticed me
I wish you never noticed me at all
In the first place »

« And I know you recognise me
Though not the same person,
But the same look
So familiar »

« How typical of you,
Not only typical of men, should I say,
Yet precisely you,
Who will search for the same gaze upon his destiny
Every five or ten years
The look that reminds you of someone else of course
Yet mostly, the look that makes you recognise yourself…

This is who you are,
Through my eyes
Who you were
And who you’ll remain »

I saw you like we’d always known each other…
It’s a lightning shot
I get those every day :
I recognise you in every corner
Of every street
Then I breathe deeper, shake my head
And know how easily confused I am again
I don’t need a scientific notion over this trouble
You say it’s more typical of me
Than most men
Well, good for them,
Good for them all.

It’s in the shadows of her face
The way these lights fall back on her nose
Much like yours under the same beams
Not the mouth though
And while she’s covered by two of her friends
It becomes even more puzzling,
As if the covering is intentional
Just to drive me increasingly nervous
I know she’s not you,
But I don’t want that pretense to be so finally revealed

Come on, let me see again
Just a glimpse,
Half of her profile
Oh, that pout she wears,
The tension in her cheeks
Like when the lips too long restrained
Push forward in the wait for speaking…

That’s you.
That used to be you.
And you’re crazy beautiful
Younger
Older
Taller
Smaller
I never really cared…
It’s the look
Always the look

(Painting by Egon Schiele)

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 »)

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

Coffees and cakes on the house (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #9)

I must be on time for the gig
Which leaves me about an hour
In the palliative care unit
And I took the wrong turn from the subway
Like it wasn’t enough of a tight schedule

This growing haste before I enter the room,
It’s a bit of apprehension, and a bit of missing you
You’ve got me pretty addicted, you charming cancer-boy

We’ve had quite a long and heroic trip together, haven’t we ?
Transferring you from this bunker of yours
Way up to the fifth floor of medic town
In one of the best service you could ever ask for…
Hey, that was neither anticipated, nor even planned for yesterday.
You just decided you had enough,
And told the nurse who was visiting you.
But she could not wait for the ambulancy
And when I called, you didn’t want me around, remember ?
I found you completely dazed on your bed, almost naked,
Talking to yourself
I just wonder how you were gonna let the paramedics in,
By telepathy maybe ?

But don’t worry about this,
We made a pretty great duet together
For the rest of your emergency tour
I saw you restore every color of your being
For just a few hours, that was fantastic
The humour, the comraderie, the style,
As the friendship
And this droning memento mori above our heads
Above yours indeed.
We both understood it was the last step
And what a true relief that I could help.

So now you’re just sleeping ?
I knew you probably would.
That’s fine,
The families’ space nearby
Is such a haven to me,
So quiet, appeasing
No one around, mostly.

And it has a free coffee machine
With a few little cakes available.
I must confess I’ve had probably half of them
With two or three black coffees
Just pouring another hot one over the previous getting tepid
I knew I wouldn’t have time to eat,
So it did for a lunch
Then I sat there, networking for a while,
Dealing with a few urgent points about the gig.

Finally a nurse told me a word about your condition today
And your sleeping,
Which is not really « sleeping ».
« You hear his breath ? It’s typical of a dying person,
It won’t last very long »

So you’re not waking up anymore ?
Not even goodbye,
Not even a half-conscious smile ?

You gave it all yesterday, I guess.
But man, I took a serious blow
Right when I thought I could easily spend a few visits more
And grab coffees and peacefulness on the house

I had just left a funny note on your bedside table
That you’ll never read
Could not assume it would go that fast.

And fast should I go myself.

I have to work, sleeping beauty
So don’t die tonight, please
See you very soon

Your voice on the responder (It’s Ok, you’re just dying #7)

Your voice on the responder
A poignant gesture of civility
I’m busy working
While you’re busy dying
How poorly scripted can it be ?

She was busy dying too, your mother
« I wasn’t there » you said, with a sob
Were you busy working back then
Or just standing in a cold distance ?
Like we all do,
And you’re not worse than any other kid
Raised by a single child-mother

You don’t eat much anymore,
We tried everything
Easily chewable,
Fine meals,
Your favorite pudding,
But you’ve grown tired of it
Creamy pastry, something fresh and melting
Or just a bit of basic rice and soup
Please, would you ? Just a few bites.

It’s meant to get worse
I don’t resist the verdict
And I don’t expect you to
You didn’t want the chemo,
And we’ll never know how long
It would have kept you alive
Nor in what condition

Your legs won’t bear you anymore
On your bycicle they made miracles
It’s ground zero, it’s back to earth
But you’re not buried yet,
And it’s both a long and short way
That leads one to their final breath

I’m only asking you for this courtesy :
May you not go while I’m busy toiling for my own life.
It’s a bit off-topic, I know
But we’re all self-centred, when it comes to survival
Please have this friendship to me :
Don’t die alone.