Nights are warm now; Magdalen
Doesn’t sit on her porch, admiring
Liquid sunsets. Magdalen doesn’t,
Magdalen isn’t – Madgalen
Never cut her hair, she takes great care
Of it, its roots as white
As the fur of winter’s beasts.
Magdalen’s dreams are full
Of burning trees and wooden crosses;
Magdalen left the Passion
So many years ago. She sailed
Away – Its shining summits
Got lost in the fog of time –
Perfumes faded away… some turned rancid, others
Magdalen’s house is cool on summer’s days, and warm on November’s nights –
But Magdalen doesn’t sit, still, when the sun
Has set behind the hills, when light
Is a soft touch that blurs the fields –
Madgalen remembers, and doesn’t look
At the liquid sunset.
says the foggy brain: spring is so late!
says the hidden snake: but leaves are tender.
say the crumpled pictures: it passed away – slowly.
but the flame said nothing; it embraced, mostly.
Red, and green; the night’s gray
There is no star
In the city; green, and red –
The plane passed away.
Mother, the moon
Shines in half tonight –
Mother – she’s asleep, no twinkle –
There is no moon
In my city.
Crawling in the void, every station
Hurts more than the previous one;
Crawling in a tunnel, moist walls
Choke me – there is no air there is no light there is only the flameless void
How could I go so far into the darkness that doesn’t greet you? How could I, you know –
Brightness came before me, around me
I had the blessed flame over my head
And all I could say was heard
Neatly drawn, neatly said
I spoke – clarity – oh clarity – lost clarity –
It was charity who inspired me –
I said what I had to say
Clear voice, precise verb, hopeful all around –
But I gave up on this.
Now the lack of oxygen extinguished my light,
My whole body hurts; it yells
In pain, my soul
Is long lost – I don’t know where
It departed – I’m way better without it, I say
As my tongue tells the wrong words
But they’re mine –
And I’m crawling into the void.
Another prompt, written in less than 5 minutes.
I’m serenading my cat, about childhood stories
while he sleeps on his cushion; for I have no one to talk to
who wants yet another gruesome anecdote? I say, chuckling,
a glass of champagne in hand, with my high-heeled shoes
and sequined dress, or am I wearing a tux? the company
smiles knowingly, ready to laugh, what I have to say
is captivating as always –
« you see I was a rather odd child – and loved black paint
I painted all black pictures, of cats, that I called houses;
of cats, that I called family; of cats, yet again,
that I called friends. And so
I’ve always loved liquorice, that long rubber band
that nobody wanted! They would fight
for brightly colored paints and candy
while I waited, patiently, for them to be finished
for the battle to be over – and I got the leftovers
black paint, liquorice
shiny dark matters, that I cherished
oh, how I cherished you! »
the company is all gone. No notification on my phone. My cat wakes
up, and stretches; then goes back to sleep. It’s late, on a
Wednesday evening; all my pearls, all my friends, my handsome clothes, my fine china –
where are you?
my slippers never answer; really, they never do – and my cup of cheap tea
is cold, half-empty, on the table.
And another prompt – poem written in less than 5 minutes.
Once upon a time lived a woman,
fair and young, then old and gray;
and one day, as we all do,
she died, alone, in her bed.
Her children bought her a pretty stele,
of fake marble; and two hundreds and seventy-four years later, a cat
spent hours laying on it, rolling
in the sun – the stone
was warm and so were cemetaries.
He was a very polite cat. He greeted
anyone who came to see dead relatives
or passed friends; his tail up, purring loudly
he accompanied them all to their goal,
and accepted some pets, his eyes half-closed; but ultimately
he came back to the forgotten woman’s stele
and rolled in the sun.
But cats, even them, have to die; and when he did
people bought for him a little stele, right next to the old
broken down tombstone, her name faded away;
and some days, when it’s sunny and warm, you can still hear
a faint purr where the cat’s stele stands.
Another prompt – written in under 5 minutes!
“and left – and right
and down – and up!
I’m battling, for air,
between two waves, or three
no, really: so many
I can’t count.
and up – and down! the shore
is so far! and right – and left! my arms
are sore. I see two dots,
away, on the beach; but will I ever
leave the waves? and up – and down,
they claimed me, at least my body,
what a delicate color to die in!
and left – and right –
and down – and up –
will I ever
leave the windy shroud
I say, sitting in my shower,
flapping my arms, panting –
the waves are distant; but how pretty
to die in a stormy sea!
Lixandre dared me to write a poem about flowers in less than five minutes – here is it (quick sketch)
the whole room smells of jasmine; I picked them up for
the love who never came.
the air lits up: roses and lilies, given by
the love I quickly forgot.
dust and dust and dust still, chiseled stone, and violets for
the love I never met.
rotting in their old china vase, daffodils, fading yellow, heart of white
but who put them on my table? who, daffodils, that won’t dry? my love
doesn’t know any flowers!
Each line of poetry
Lits up the way –
Each dark day
Without poetry, could as well
Be lost, garbage
That men dutifully collect
On the next morning.
But what will I do,
What will I be when
All poetry is written, when
I stand burned from the inside out
Nothing but a useless form,
Shapeless and vague; I’m opaque
I can’t see how much combustible I still have.
What if it’s tomorrow? What about next year?
What will I do when I run out of candles,
When I can’t light the next one at the flame
Of the previous light?
What will I do when I’ll run out of poems?