silver wind…

silver wind and blue fabric


what remains of consciousness

tidy town and flower trees


cicadas in the dark

a satyr crouching behind the supermarket
laughed at me when lights went down
and ominous gardens are growing
and the air still smells like summer
the satyr looked at me
and mouthed:
« too late »

Instant-Né en photo (et en anglais)


Saw you at the festival
Of the Ancient dreamers
Saw you here

Human’s legs
Are always quick to fester
Saw it here

Not far enough
Less of a century
From a war
Made of mud

Not far enough
We’re always here
Staring at the voices
Stuck in the mud

Saw you at the festival
Among those dirty legs,
(Feet sinking into the mud
So far from last year
When we still had grass to lay onto…)

Saw you here,
You picture,
Saw your legs
Dressed in white by that skin

Your legs
Thin and white
In all that grey
Your spooky legs were
Spotted with glitter and mud
Covered with hair and skin

Under your calf
That clodhopper
Encrusted with mud

Saw you at the festival
Of the Ancient dreamers
Saw you here –

Among those who are quick
To fester.

La poésie du mercredi (#39)

Notre invité du jour est anglais, romantique et mort depuis 193 ans, 2 mois et 15 jours : il s’agit du poète Percy Shelley avec « Ozymandias », composé en 1817.


I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said : « Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, 
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed,

And on the pedestal these words appear :
« My name is Ozymandias, king of kings :
Look on my works, Ye Mighty, and despair ! »

Nothing besides remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

La poésie selon Edgar Poe

J’ai trouvé, dans deux nouvelles de Poe (A Dream Within A Dream et The Fall Of The House Of Usher), de courtes définitions de la poésie.


For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words with even more distinctness than that which I conceived it. There is, however, a class of fancies, of exquisite delicacy, which are not thoughts, and to which as yet I have found it absolutely impossible to adapt to language. These fancies arise from the soul – alas ! how rarely ! – only at epochs of most intense tranquility, when the bodily and netal health are in perfection. And at those weird points of time will the confines of the waking world blend with the world of Dreams. And so, I captured this… fancy… where all that we see, or seem, is but a dream, within a dream…


Shadows of shadows passing. It is now 1831, and as always, I am absorbed with a delicate thought. It is how poetry has indefinite sensations, to which end, music is an essential. Since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception, music when combined with a pleasurable idea is poetry. Music without the idea is simply music. Without music or an intriguing idea, colour becomes pallor, man becomes carcass, home becomes catacomb, and the dead are but for a moment motionless.

Et pour une adaptation musicale de ces pensées, allez écouter l’album Tales of Mystery and Imagination d’Alan Parsons Project !

La poésie du mercredi (#8)

Un peu d’anglais, aujourd’hui, ça vous dit ? Bon, on va dire que oui.

Donc un poème de Jim Morrison, mis en musique, « The Soft Parade ».

(Le texte est déjà très intéressant en lui-même mais c’est encore mieux avec la musique !)

The Soft Parade

« When I was back there in seminary school,
There was a person there
Who put forth the proposition,
That you can petition the Lord with prayer
Petition the lord with prayer,
Petition the lord with prayer
You cannot petition the lord with prayer!
Can you give me sanctuary, I must find a place to hide,
A place for me to hide
Can you find me soft asylum, I can’t make it anymore,
The Man is at the door
Peppermint, miniskirts, chocolate candy,
Champion sax and a girl named Sandy
There’s only four ways to get unraveled,
One is to sleep and the other is travel, da da
One is a bandit up in the hills,
One is to love your neighbor ’till
His wife gets home
Nursery bones,
Winter women,
Growing stones
Carrying babies,
To the river
Streets and shoes,
Leather riders
Selling news,
The monk bought lunch
Ha ha, he bought a little,
Yes, he did,
This is the best part of the trip,
This is the trip, the best part
I really like,
What’d he say?,
Yeah, right!
Pretty good, huh,
Yeah, I’m proud to be a part of this number
Successful hills are here to stay,
Everything must be this way
Gentle streets where people play,
Welcome to the Soft Parade
All our lives we sweat and save,
Building for a shallow grave
Must be something else we say,
Somehow to defend this place
Everything must be this way,
Everything must be this way, yeah
The Soft Parade has now begun,
Listen to the engines hum
People out to have some fun,
A cobra on my left
Leopard on my right, yeah
The deer woman in a silk dress,
Girls with beads around their necks
Kiss the hunter of the green vest,
Who has wrestled before
With lions in the night
Out of sight!,
The lights are getting brighter
The radio is moaning,
Calling to the dogs
There are still a few animals,
Left out in the yard
But it’s getting harder,
To describe sailors,
To the underfed
Tropic corridor,
Tropic treasure
What got us this far,
To this mild equator?
We need someone or something new
Something else to get us through, yeah, c’mon
Callin’ on the dogs,
Callin’ on the dogs
Oh, it’s gettin’ harder,
Callin’ on the dogs
Callin’ in the dogs,
Callin’ all the dogs,
Callin’ on the gods
You gotta meet me,
Too late, baby
Slay a few animals,
At the crossroads,
Too late
All in the yard,
But it’s gettin’ harder,
By the crossroads
You gotta meet me,
Oh, we’re goin’, we’re goin great
At the edge of town,
Tropic corridor,
Tropic treasure
Havin’ a good time,
Got to come along,
What got us this far
To this mild equator?,
Outskirts of the city,
You and I
We need someone new,
Somethin’ new,
Somethin’ else to get us through
Better bring your gun,
Better bring your gun
Tropic corridor,
Tropic treasure,
We’re gonna ride and have some fun
When all else fails,
We can whip the horse’s eyes
And make them sleep,
And cry… »


Dropped stone on coffee marks

Pearly white and rumpled stone

Opening edge when the stone falls

Ivory dentin of this stone man

Extracting of his cage


He looks at you with stoned eyes

Regreting the grey sea

And says


I am the mollusc

Lost when its shell


Afraid of the sea

I heard around


Better to have a look

A spiral in the eyelid

Than be the stone

Singing the secret sea