Written to Matthieu,


Loving

The pain of a doubt .
Seeking.
Perhaps, perhaps, seeking.

Healing

A futureless
Sentimental Wound
Meeting you again


In your words.
Isn’t that just
In real life
Role-playing?

Feeling
In lulls

Your long absences
That’s not a lie

Not getting

If we should take
What’s left to us
What we’re testing.

Remembering

For a few minutes…
Whether we were lovers
I watch you wither.

Thinking

About giving you back

What you thought
You discovered

Seeking, seeking,
Seeking.
Where desire
Has gone



I could tell you

That the past

Must have engraved
What happened


But giving up
Repelling

This memory
Everything is nighttime…

Writing

To know

That darkness
Is hard to drain!


Translated on August 7, 2015

Philosophy Café
Going downstream
Smoking
Its thoughts
Taking short drags

Trash Kant
Forget it all
One’s life upside down
A disappointed
Slow life
Trash Kant

If it’s without a hero
It is not Cicero
No one gives a ****
About any dame
Trash Kant
Yes, we can’t

Socraes would blush
If he heard the dialogues
Nothing would be written
Down a Decalogue
Sade’s sayings
Are insipid to them

Trash Kant
They pay the rent
To live in their
Oh, what a racket!
Pitiful alcohol
A risible sadness

And well they wouldn’t fare
In front of Charles Baudelaire
They only get of *****
The pensum
Trash Kant
No, we can’t






That’s an inspiration
A slow, peaceful
Aspiration
But you can’t get away
Without a sigh
And a bitter spleen


Translated on November 13, 2015
Villeurbanne

Tender mystery of nature
That I hold in my hand
You, sweet secret so secure
Shiniest charm than the sand
Who would have thought that I
Could cherish the iris of your eye
You are the reason of my dream
And each time you let me in, your stream
Brightens my heart, the effect never wears off
With you the book is never written
In advance, so what are you made of ?
I have cast different spells on you so often
Your soul, so seldom opened has smiled
Your existence elates my enameled essence
Being one light, thence to me your beauty has never lied  
Why are you such an elixir, core of my diligence ?
Each time I drink your words, you recreate my Renaissance
Let me reach you again, we will enter in our trance.  

Will you read my bold words, behind that mild romance ?

November, 2, 2013

The mountain surrounds a limpid lake
Of a calm and captive silver-green
Like the waist of the wedded, a sylph
A besotted body, light, loved by the wind like the yew
Where are you escaping to, peaceful flow
In your fertile floor above which there is plenty of lives?
To the point of triggering the blue sea’s breeze jealousy
You hold, silent, Lamartine’s soul
He described you, lake, time’s metaphor
On your shiny waters, necklace of photophore
The sun beholds you, skimming your sides
Like the poet’s quill, your white bird.

What did he see in his prophetic century
Hurt by a soft and painful romanticism?
Holding you in his arm, his altar, in love with
Your richness, your serenity that the poet
Afflicted by time couldn’t feel
Save for his apostrophe, his eternal sigh
To you then, oh lake, the whisper of a scripture
That is known only by you, enigma in literature
Story with the man with words and scars
You contain in your dome, his most beautiful enamels.


Translated on August, 24 2015

To my Mom,




Folded amid the pleat of your pleading phalanx
The polished stones perspire against the liquid
Metal. Pleasing among ladies the most placid
Alas the precious possessing them does not mix,

With the muzzled and mild-mannered muted muses
Or with mischievous ones pummeling the world’s walls
Grumbling in their baleful and poisonous houses
Masters of the sapphire which in their hands falls.

And binding the blessed garland along the long line
Of your blinding blazing gorgeous blond golden hair
I thus hope it is to you a fine and a fair,

Sign of a love whose ripeness has just bloomed like wine
This gift could be detailed the echo of a dart
That is, in this sole spring repeated by my heart.

Lyon, May 23, 2014

To my grandma,



Dressed with your antique gold decorations
And your oneiric sets
In a swinging gait, bucolic
You come into view, tall, fabulous

In your museum, my amused
Unveiling the stylized veils
Around marbles, spread
In colors, irised hues

You’re dancing, evolving, fragile
Between Vélázquez and Vergil.
Of the Graces, of Guernica, deft
You know it all, aurora, sybil.

Of your opportune inspiration
I tasted all the delights
Between your eyes and smooth fingers
I’ve seen the masters’ evil spells

But also a pale beauty
We have together moored
On the ocean of eternity
Beside the Arts, carved out of love.

Still reading in your golden voice
Those expert accents of yours out of
Time, your moves back then
A work today, still glistening



To you then this libertine fire
Your impish fingers detain…


September 8, 2015, Lyon
Translated on October 18, 2015

For Cathy and Marc,



The orchid wakes up to the rising Sun
And the aster shines on her his purest lights
She asks, with her blinding smile
“Say, am I the prettiest among flowers?”

And she opens up to him with her light veil
Whose diamond-like reflections are seen on this nuptial cloth
On her wet petals, the dew still falls down
Their hearts are linked, fusional like gold…

The Sun’s enflamed sight desires her
Singing a sweet lullaby to her ears
His honey-like chant reaches her
Empowered, she intensely charms him…

And the beloved dear feels a burning stream
Burning her like a radiating ray
The Earth witnesses in a new gleam of a morning
Two creatures of passion, in the wind, kissing…

To please them, a party is organized
To their wedding, everyone must be around them
They made sure to look sharp taking part
Happy witnesses, so in Love they can depart!

To you, listeners of this ode to life
Did you get the meaning of my rime?
The Flower incarnates the beautiful bride
And the Sun, her groom, his pride!

Translated on August 24 2015
1st place, Arthur Rimbaud prize, “Jeux Floraux du Béarn” (French poetry contest), 2009