#pays - Hello Poetry

Les frontières de mon corps Ne sont pas placées au bon endroit Elles sont dans un pays Où je n'accède pas Mes souvenirs sont à l'ouest Ma raison fait cap au sud Le vent n'a pas de prise Et lisse les aspérités de ma peau Mes doigts pointent sans direction Mes membres fractionnés Sur un terrain morcelé Des fissures sur une terre aride Où rien ne peut pousser Tel un roi apatride Parcelle par parcelle Bataille après bataille Je suis le souverain banni Qui tente de reconquérir son pays M'approprier ce qui me revient Enfin planter mon drapeau Devenir un habitant de ma peau.

0

Dec 2, 2025

Dec 2, 2025 at 5:53 PM UTC

Superblue3838

Pays

Les frontières de mon corps Ne sont pas placées au bon endroit Elles sont dans un pays Où je n'accède pas Mes souvenirs sont à l'ouest Ma raison fait cap au sud Le vent n'a pas de prise Et lisse les aspérités de ma peau Mes doigts pointent sans direction Mes membres fractionnés Sur un terrain morcelé Des fissures sur une terre aride Où rien ne peut pousser Tel un roi apatride Parcelle par parcelle Bataille après bataille Je suis le souverain banni Qui tente de reconquérir son pays M'approprier ce qui me revient Enfin planter mon drapeau Devenir un habitant de ma peau.

21

In the small-heart of a tired town, where shadows fold like linen at dusk, a young poet stacks his altar word by word, stone by shimmering stone. His lines rise like incense, thin and reckless, carried by winds he still believes he can tame. Beneath that altar, under the wooden ribs and trembling dreams, an old poet pays the rent. Silver in his beard, dust in his pockets, a lifetime inked on the inside of his palms. He watches with a soft, half-tired smile as youth builds temples he once built and worships gods he once knew by name. The young poet writes constellations as if the sky were his to arrange every stanza a new star, every metaphor a promise to outrun time. The old poet, quiet as a page turned slowly, pays in silence: with years, with aches, with the weight of things he learned too late. His rent is not in coins, but in the humility that comes when fire cools to ember. Yet together they keep the place alive the altar rising, the foundation holding. A duet of ages: vision and memory, flame and ash, a beginning standing on the shoulders of what endures. And in that narrow room of light and dust, the young poet dreams upward, the old poet holds the ground and the future, sly and smiling, rents space in both their hearts.

0

Nov 30, 2025

Nov 30, 2025 at 11:17 PM UTC

Marwan-Baytie

Young poet builds an altar, Old poet pays the rent beneath it.

In the small-heart of a tired town, where shadows fold like linen at dusk, a young poet stacks his altar word by word, stone by shimmering stone. His lines rise like incense, thin and reckless, carried by winds he still believes he can tame. Beneath that altar, under the wooden ribs and trembling dreams, an old poet pays the rent. Silver in his beard, dust in his pockets, a lifetime inked on the inside of his palms. He watches with a soft, half-tired smile as youth builds temples he once built and worships gods he once knew by name. The young poet writes constellations as if the sky were his to arrange every stanza a new star, every metaphor a promise to outrun time. The old poet, quiet as a page turned slowly, pays in silence: with years, with aches, with the weight of things he learned too late. His rent is not in coins, but in the humility that comes when fire cools to ember. Yet together they keep the place alive the altar rising, the foundation holding. A duet of ages: vision and memory, flame and ash, a beginning standing on the shoulders of what endures. And in that narrow room of light and dust, the young poet dreams upward, the old poet holds the ground and the future, sly and smiling, rents space in both their hearts.

32

Mon pays, c'est le beau soleil Mon pays n'est pas le dur hiver Mon pays est un Éden souvent vert Toujours alangui et tropical au réveil. C'est un pays, où les cantiques des coqs Revivifient tout le monde tous les matins C'est un pays meublé de gadoue et de rocs Où la nature est un vaste et misérable jardin. C'est un pays plein d'histoires Où les esclaves sont révoltés Contre les colons cupides et les sales boucaniers Là, existent que des macabres mémoires. Dans cette atmosphère lamentable Où je gouaille tout ce qui est négatif Je vais bâtir des monuments positifs Je vais rêver et réciter des fables. Mon pays, c'est le clair de lune Qui donne l'espoir et la force de lutter Contre les croquemitaines zombifiés Et masqués. Oh! Je n'ai aucune rancune. Mon pays, c'est l'imagination positive Pour l'instant, je ne veux dénoncer personne Or, je vais faire taire les cloches qui carillonnent Oh! C'est triste de voir mon peuple sur les rives Évacuatives. P.S. Je remercie Gilles Vigneault Et notre peuple. Copyright © Janvier 2023, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs recueils de poésie.

0

Nov 12, 2024

Nov 12, 2024 at 11:39 AM UTC

60Etncelles60

Mon Pays, C'Est Le Beau Soleil

Mon pays, c'est le beau soleil Mon pays n'est pas le dur hiver Mon pays est un Éden souvent vert Toujours alangui et tropical au réveil. C'est un pays, où les cantiques des coqs Revivifient tout le monde tous les matins C'est un pays meublé de gadoue et de rocs Où la nature est un vaste et misérable jardin. C'est un pays plein d'histoires Où les esclaves sont révoltés Contre les colons cupides et les sales boucaniers Là, existent que des macabres mémoires. Dans cette atmosphère lamentable Où je gouaille tout ce qui est négatif Je vais bâtir des monuments positifs Je vais rêver et réciter des fables. Mon pays, c'est le clair de lune Qui donne l'espoir et la force de lutter Contre les croquemitaines zombifiés Et masqués. Oh! Je n'ai aucune rancune. Mon pays, c'est l'imagination positive Pour l'instant, je ne veux dénoncer personne Or, je vais faire taire les cloches qui carillonnent Oh! C'est triste de voir mon peuple sur les rives Évacuatives. P.S. Je remercie Gilles Vigneault Et notre peuple. Copyright © Janvier 2023, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs recueils de poésie.

29

And still those voices are calling from far away, Wake me up in the middle of the night, Just to hear them say, "You can't do it throughout your life — yeah!" But I've done it, Yes, I've done it in time, Life gave me lime, I made a brine. Now I'll add my favourite flavours, Serve a lemonade to my critics, I'll smile as they'll only admire me, I'll stick to my roots and credit my parents. But I'll not let success get onto my nerves, My responses I'll keep terse, Lengthier will be the poems, Elaborate my every verse. Some people get jealous, A few people feel, Others feel, Positive.

0

May 29, 2024

May 29, 2024 at 12:50 PM UTC

Atul

Since 2010

And still those voices are calling from far away, Wake me up in the middle of the night, Just to hear them say, "You can't do it throughout your life — yeah!" But I've done it, Yes, I've done it in time, Life gave me lime, I made a brine. Now I'll add my favourite flavours, Serve a lemonade to my critics, I'll smile as they'll only admire me, I'll stick to my roots and credit my parents. But I'll not let success get onto my nerves, My responses I'll keep terse, Lengthier will be the poems, Elaborate my every verse. Some people get jealous, A few people feel, Others feel, Positive.

20

of a million strands of kite string - forming tornadoes through a heartbeat: you release like a whisper - thin; but intentional. you are a call to listen. you are a prayer to red blood cells; a promise of sounder sleep. a comfortable thunder. so send up your kites (no matter the weather). erupt. and rest among the whispers.

0

Jan 4, 2019

Jan 4, 2019 at 5:52 AM UTC

luvdaily

breath (a love poem)

of a million strands of kite string - forming tornadoes through a heartbeat: you release like a whisper - thin; but intentional. you are a call to listen. you are a prayer to red blood cells; a promise of sounder sleep. a comfortable thunder. so send up your kites (no matter the weather). erupt. and rest among the whispers.

9

advertising pays very well if you've an excellent product to sell you won't believe the turn over you'll obtain when posting an ad on your pages plain advertising is where its at on letting the public know about a bowler hat Marks and Spencer have the latest range on their London stores display mat were it not for free to air television and billboards on the street we'd be unaware of an Aspire brand of cotton sheet advertising reaches potential customers looking for wares who'll be wanting to purchase a variety of hares

0

Mar 20, 2018

Mar 20, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC

ElizabethSquires

Advertising

advertising pays very well if you've an excellent product to sell you won't believe the turn over you'll obtain when posting an ad on your pages plain advertising is where its at on letting the public know about a bowler hat Marks and Spencer have the latest range on their London stores display mat were it not for free to air television and billboards on the street we'd be unaware of an Aspire brand of cotton sheet advertising reaches potential customers looking for wares who'll be wanting to purchase a variety of hares

25

I invested in love. Then I kindled it, With faithfulness. I sowed the seed, Then I watered it, With so much care. I am so well-versed with life, Then I know a thing about it, With patience, it only ripens. I want it to grow, Then I must care, With high patience. I planted the tree, Then I must wait, With selflessness.

0

Dec 17, 2016

Dec 17, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC

Atul

What I Invested In Life

I invested in love. Then I kindled it, With faithfulness. I sowed the seed, Then I watered it, With so much care. I am so well-versed with life, Then I know a thing about it, With patience, it only ripens. I want it to grow, Then I must care, With high patience. I planted the tree, Then I must wait, With selflessness.

15

Yesterday was sour, so today will be sweet. Today was bitter, so tomorrow will be neat. I just have to hold on tight. Slide down 1,2,1,2. And I know I'll be alright, but fixing this is something I can't do. I've been cursed a gruesome pain. I must spend odd days feeling insane. But even, my smile will be on the other days. Still is it worth the tragedy it pays? If I could run from fate, I wouldn't wait. I'd go so far away. I wouldn't look back any day.

0

Apr 30, 2014

Apr 30, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC

deanna

Repeating cursed days

Yesterday was sour, so today will be sweet. Today was bitter, so tomorrow will be neat. I just have to hold on tight. Slide down 1,2,1,2. And I know I'll be alright, but fixing this is something I can't do. I've been cursed a gruesome pain. I must spend odd days feeling insane. But even, my smile will be on the other days. Still is it worth the tragedy it pays? If I could run from fate, I wouldn't wait. I'd go so far away. I wouldn't look back any day.

7