"appel" poems
I looked to the stars to see what I could find,
and I sighed with exasperation at the wonders in sight.
For lo, behold, there were more than millions,
and poor old me, choosing one just wasn’t an option.
If you gaze at them all at once, you notice there is a sky,
but if you pick solely one, you find yourself willing to fly.
One of these twinkling wonders might be you someday,
for the world knows whom it should repay.
Focus on one tree, you lose sight of the forest.
But look at the forest, you lose sight of your tree.
Find your star, hunt it down, and you just might,
you just might, you just might,
absorb that glittering gold glimmer of light.
Then its all uphill from there,
as you shoot up,
and reach forward
and outward,
and suddenly,
you fall back down.
But this time, you have your star,
so climbing all the way up, it can’t be that far.
After hauling and hiking, you reach the top.
and as you gaze at the bottom, you start to wonder.
Wonder about what? I cannot say.
But you’re at the top, you have to stay.
Since it’s you who made it all the way.
L’appel du vide, you start to sway.
Then it hits you. It hits you hard.
Back you go! as you go down.
Down again, down on your knees!
But as you look in its eyes, your glittery golden glimmer lights it up,
and you can’t help but notice what wasn’t there before.
It cannot be, but surely, it is.
A trace of affection, gone as quickly as it appears.
As you get up, you swear it smiles,
and when it disappears with a gust of wind,
you bet on your life you heard it whisper,
I’ll see you at the top, you’ll get here quicker.
And you scramble up again, surefooted and strong,
as music surrounds you, life’s very own song.
Your ascent slows to a stop, and you look around.
Many are there, whom you never found.
And in the centre, who else could it be?
Your very good friend, whom you mistook for an enemy.
It glides towards you, and you don’t wince,
Because now you know, that which you’ve known long since.
Life pushes you down, not out of hate,
but so you learn, to open up the gate.
Now what did you learn? How can you explain?
What you’ve spent years on, things almost impossible to gain.
But you don’t give away the answer, it’s not yours to impart.
You must help out, pick up all who’ve lost heart.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
one strike of that blackened match
and a million chromatic threads unwound
leaving only an ashen husk,
my timeless vessel
Jan 24, 2023
Jan 24, 2023 at 10:49 AM UTC
Haar hoekkantoor
In elke straat
Elke gulsige kliënt
Ń vark, n vraat
Besig om haar naam te maak
Die vrou van dir nag
En haar eenmansaak
In die oggend skrop
Sy , staalwol
Skuur glad
Teen haar tenger
Figuur maar blou
Passie versier en
Versuur haar wese
Dis nie moord nie
Dis nie dood nie
Dis glad die reg nie
Dis sonde , ellende
Haar bedoelings
Was nooit sleg nie
Haar troos is min
Haar teespoed swaar
Haar siel verkoop sy
Vir ń appel en ń ui
Want wie kan ń prys
Op die liefde sit
Sy tel haar winste
In trane en seer
Die geld is ń bonus
Het sy beweer,
Want die vrou van
Die nag, kort ook ń soen
Sy werk vir liefde
En tot die oordeelsdag
Sal sy dit bly doen...
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
Daar was g'n tyd vir bybelversies nie
, want die brood van lewe was te duur
En wie wil nou regtig wag om ring
As die manne vir jou hoogliedere sing.
Aan die begin was daar niks nie
Maar hyt gepraat met sy hande
En toe was daar lig en oh die gode
Dit was goed! Dit was goed!
Maar hy was aleen in n wereld met als
En almal was sonder naam
, toe hy sy laaste een gee en ek
Deur bloed en been vir hom geskep is.
Dit was goed, dit was goed
En ek huil snot en trane van seer
Maar die appel proe soet
Of jy hom in die hemel of die hel hap...
Jy is die fontein van lewe,
Ek drink van jou en raak dors
Vir meer as net een aand van sterrevolg.
Mag ek dronk raak op jou wyn?
Of is jy my een reeds voor!?
En ek kan.nie kerk toe hol nie
En die Bybel vloek my skel
Want jou lyf voel soos die Hemel
Maar Hy se jy is die Hel.
Mag ek langs jou bed op kniee neersak
En jou hand in myne neem??
Kom ons raak besope...
Genoeg om liefdesliede
vir mekaar te kreun.
More bid ons om vergifnis
En vergeet wat sonde is
Tot die vlees te veel begeer
En die lewenslig so bietjie blus.
Dit is *** die liefde werk,
Dis my lewe dié
Die struikelblok wat my versmoor
Van n vel religie.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
THE VERY THING IT WAS REQUIRED TO BE SHOWN
( for J.L )
"I like birds
more than books."
a young Edward
Thomas thinks
scribbling it
in bad Latin
on the fly leaf of
an algebra book.
A chaffinch chuckles.
"Vink...vink...vink!" it urges
in a regional accent.
"Fringilla Coelebs!"
Edward addresses it.
"Sheld-appel...spink..blue cap!"
the bird disowns its names
content with being
itself and itself
only.
It looks as if it has
just stepped out of the 15th century
illuminated maunuscript
The Shelbourne Missal.
"A caterpillar skeletonising a leaf
mmm...breakfast mefinks!"
The year 1895
madly in love with its own
sunlight
never such sunlight
as this
the window holds the scene
as if it were
a living painting.
The bird behind the glass
poetry in just being.
The torture of
an algebra class
"Quod erat demonstrandum."
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
Haar hoekkantoor
In elke straat
Elke gulsige kliënt
Ń vark, n vraat
Besig om haar naam te maak
Die vrou van dir nag
En haar eenmansaak
In die oggend skrop
Sy , staalwol
Skuur glad
Teen haar tenger
Figuur maar blou
Passie versier en
Versuur haar wese
Dis nie moord nie
Dis nie dood nie
Dis glad die reg nie
Dis sonde , ellende
Haar bedoelings
Was nooit sleg nie
Haar troos is min
Haar teespoed swaar
Haar siel verkoop sy
Vir ń appel en ń ui
Want wie kan ń prys
Op die liefde sit
Sy tel haar winste
In trane en seer
Die geld is ń bonus
Het sy beweer,
Want die vrou van
Die nag, kort ook ń soen
Sy werk vir liefde
En tot die oordeelsdag
Sal sy dit bly doen...
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
Light fails and shadows race,
Murmurs echo in night's embrace.
The precipice beckons, l'appel du vide sway,
Untethered, falling in disarray.
Enveloping tendrils, dreams entwined,
Despair's ballet, absence find.
Silvermail submerged descent,
Silent witnesses, heart's lament.
Jun 18, 2023
Jun 18, 2023 at 4:24 AM UTC
L’appel du vide
The call of the void
Is a deadly call indeed
Scary and sudden
It can lead to temptation
Like the forbidden fruit
Giving fruition to feelings
Twisted to most
But alluring to some
What if you...?
No, you shouldn't.
Fear the the dark call
For it comes unexpectedly
At the most inopportune time
A gaping chasm
Swallowing all other thoughts
Instantaneous and all-consuming
L’appel du vide
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
Je ne sais plus quel jour nous sommes
J'ai peur du temps qui passe, qu'il s'en aille et me laisse, toute seule et toute bleue, la corde au cou, pendue au cerisier, du gravier plein la bouche
Ce n'est pas moi la folle mais bien toi et juste toi
Écoute mon cri
Compare-le à ton silence, à tes mensonges
C’est bon, tellement bon, d’écrire sur ta musique
J’ai peur de perdre la tête
JE VAIS PERDRE LA TETE
Il y a Kerouac, ses mots, tes mots et encore Kerouac
Il y a l’espoir, aussi
L’espoir sur ta musique
J’écris à en perdre la tête
JE VAIS PERDRE LA TETE
Mais cela ne m’appartient plus, tu ne m’appartiens plus et je voudrais tant m’endormir dans tes bras sur mon sofa rouge
M’endormir avec toi, m’endormir dans tes bras et juste, s’il te plaît, que ton prochain appel soit celui qui m’avertira de ta mort.
Personne ne peut comprendre
Qu’il ne comprend rien
Je ne me sens pas très bien ce soir
J’écris, mais je n’ai pas la tête suffisamment hors de mon corps
Je n’attends plus rien
Ne m’attends plus à rien
Je voudrais que ça s’arrête
Çà va s’arrêter
Je ne savais pas
Je n’avais pas compris
Je vais me faire cuire du riz
Je voudrais disparaître maintenant
Fais-moi disparaître
Car tout à jamais t’appartiendra
Y compris mon cadavre dans le fossé.
Ce n'est pas moi la folle mais toi et juste toi
Désolée d'avoir dû te couper la tête.
Maintenant que le trou s'est refermé
Que le vide s'est rempli
Je me tais pour toujours.
Je ne me sens vraiment pas bien
J’écris sans exister, à me tapoter le thymus dans un vide noirâtre et purulent
Mais ça va aller
Bien sûr que ça va aller
Je suis bien plus forte que le néant.
Laisse- moi disparaître.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
the call of the void.
I may not speak French,
but I seek the same:
existential freedom,
endless darkness,
eternal peace.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 2:17 AM UTC
- let me take photos of him. he doesn't have to like it.
- have beautiful taste in music
- speak English as a second language
- love the sky
- love the ocean
- love the woods
- bike for hours with me
- cook with and for me
- be great with kids
- love traveling and adventure
- have carefully-thought-out philosophies on life, love, and everything in between
- make me laugh for days
- balance my intensity out with being chill
- call me beautiful in the morning
- read in cafes and on trains
- not care about material things so much as experiences
- know when to give me space
- write me letters
- go on picnics with me
- eat copious amounts of cheese with me
- love The Beatles
- love the feeling of high places and l'appel du vide
- become friends with my friends, but have his own
- drink tea or coffee
- sing in the shower
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
Do I make sense?
I’m speaking but
Can you hear me?
It seems like I’m speaking silence
I suppose I am since, wait--
Do I make sense?
My words are easily misinterpreted
Even now, you’re listening but
Can you hear me?
Tangled tangents taken
From the context of my mind
Do I make sense?
I don’t. Of course the sound waves are reaching you
Still, I have to ask again to be sure
Can you hear me?
L’appel du vide is all I hear
I want to know you’re not the same
Do I make sense?
Can you hear me?
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 10:44 PM UTC
let me intensify the outside for you
to nullify the agony in your head
drink up, shoot up, snort it all
and i'll watch eagerly as your
pupils contract, veins constrict
as it sets in, and then
the concentration, oversaturation
of color and sensation, the distortion
of time and of your entire reality-
isn't this better than dreaming?
on stimulants, everything is wonderful
the bricks are beautiful until you hit them
the bruises are gorgeous until you remember the pain
and even then,
they're just colors blooming upon your skin
pause for a moment of clarity
retreat from waking reverie and rediscover
the mess you're in- an instant
almost-sober and everything rushes
back like a bullet train and
you just want to take that last-
stop
don't think like that
ignore the impulse
enjoy this while it lasts
squeeze every drop of euphoria from this
you'll be back down soon enough
you don't need to jump
sniffle a little now
didn't realize your nose was leaking
substance trying to escape
your voracious appetite
inhale violently, hope there's something left
-stop grinding your teeth
-you didn't even notice you were doing it,
did you
you weren't conscious of your surroundings
until you were knee-deep in this
i've created an addict of you now
as he did to me with that single monday,
that one high- he stopped, but i
couldn't
i was hooked and i don't blame him
he didn't know my history, my tendency
to find escape mechanisms and explore them
until it and i are both desecrated and desolate-
i just want to stop feeling for a while-
for as long as possible-
the future is irrelevant when you're out of your head
it was depressing in there anyways
responsibility doesn't exist when you're up in the clouds
it's only there when you come down,
so why come down at all?
my natural state
was lower than this grave.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
You lifted my heart up and straightened its creases
Then you dropped it and it shattered into a million pieces
My mind keeps telling me to give it all up
But my heart says otherwise; it doesn't tell me to stop
I'm tired of wishing, I'm tired of waiting
But when I turn the radio on, a love song's playing
When I open my eyes, all I see is you
Why is giving up so hard to do?
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
Stilgebore in afwagting op
'n môreson uit die legendes.
Die hoopswyg net voor aanvarding
, wanneer selfs vader tyd verboureerd bly staan.
Die onvoldoende doods-uur
Tussen die hap van n gifgoue appel
En die val van onskuld en skoonheid.
Die tingel in die vingers
van die Engel in swart,
nóg genoeg om te gryp
-Nóg genoeg om te los
, net genoeg om in die huiwer te dros
Dus dood wat geduldig
die venster bewasem.
Trek drogbeelde uit skadu's
Soos n laaste asem...
Dis nog hier, nog daar-
Nog vals, nog waar
En ons almal is n kat in n doos
- wandelend in beide lewe en dood
, want die verskeie dimensies
Is maar eintlik grensloos.
Die paradoks van einste bestaan
Word gekonsentreer in n tydstip
Van alles verstaan.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
First things first,
you’ll have to remove your hat and
the plank strapped to your limbs.
Your body will be used to thumb-wrestle with
gravity.
Please remove the staples from your chest.
Find your new set of lungs.
There is space to breathe here.
Take this new heart.
You’ll beat slower, suspended.
Circadian rhythms will not help you.
Your body will become a willow in a storm,
never breaking.
There are no mistakes here.
You’ll learn to drink silence for sustenance,
washed down with madness and tepid water.
You’ll learn to compensate for lacking conversation, hold secret meetings
in the basement of your mind.
You’ll learn how to disappear in a room.
No matter how hard you pound against walls
they remain padded,
concealed behind billowing drapery.
No one will hear you.
But, you’ll fit in fine.
You’ll stretch your skin as a tattooed leotard.
You won’t grow up,
You’ll grow inward
fortifying your lungs with weeds.
L’appel du vide, your distinctive urge to jump down from
high places will be quelled
by the grace in lifting.
Take respite,
There is nothing left to destroy here.
There are no checkpoints to neglect.
There is no need to be a hero.
Still,
you’re not convinced this is so much better.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
"Come on. It's not that bad."
A hand reaches out of the darkness.
The urgency in his voice encourages me to grasp it.
Panoramic city view hits at full force.
Our eyes meet.
His pupils are so dilated I can no longer see the clear, calming blue.
Another wave comes on as I turn around.
The roof pulses.
The stars swirl.
A look back hungers for a connection that is not met.
He is absorbed by his own mind.
Foot over foot.
Step over step.
Curiosity over fear.
Six stories down, the path continues on.
Impulses form, gather, consume--
The Call of the Void.
His screams are the last beautiful noises to fill my ears.
Or maybe they're my own.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
The appeal of plunging from a great height
is the scenery on the way down:
a thrill with consequences that destroy a man,
whether or not he leaps.
The symbolism is blindingly lucid:
Life apprehends the void,
and fills it with itself.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
The river is so hard to see
Rushing by below
The fog is thick, so none will be
Affected when I go
The water seems so close, so far
Reaching out a hand
To hold me near when life is hard
A grave of shining sand
The bridge, the wind, are hard and cruel
Silent to my pain
The world that takes me for a fool
Here taunting me again
The leap, the rush, the silent death
Dancing through my mind
Slow sinking as I take a breath
The suicide is kind
But then she takes me by the arm
Looks into my eyes
We turn and walk back to the car
I do not want to die
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
De l'embarquement à la traversée sur le cargo «Le Girolata»
Le plus dur, quand vous allez en Corse, n'est pas la traversée qui relève d'un enchantement, c'est le cérémonial de l'embarquement qui nécessite patience et comme ce coup de dernier collier avant d'être saisi par un univers de liberté et de vacances,
En effet, dès que vous avez franchi le seuil de votre première jeunesse, ou le confort, apanage des êtres fatigués par les coups du sort de la vie, compte bien moins que les découvertes, des amis et des femmes; heureuse période des êtres ou un sac a dos, un fauteuil de pont et surtout un ami et plus **** une amoureuse suffisent a votre ardent goût de vivre que la mer exhale et les étendues marines lavent du fatras des soucis aussi intempestifs que vains.
La traversée rompt avec la monotonie de la quotidienneté suscitant ses magies propres et vous désamarrant des chaînes de l'habitude
Il y a dans cette traversée comme une forme de croisière bien plus libre et moins convenue.
La traversée est reine de la mer alors que l'embarquement se rattache encore aux obligations des terres, a ses empiètements constants sur vos libertés.
Il faut donc franchir et laisser dernière soi, l'embarquement comme un vêtement désormais inutile pour être admis a jouir de cette autre dimension qui n'est plus terrienne mais exclusivement marine ou océanique.
C'est un autre tempo que celui de la mer ou des océans se substituant a l'ordre contraignant des terres et de leurs frontières.
Dès que vous atteignez les ponts votre esprit est en état d'éveil et de réceptivité. accru de cet appel du large qui s'ouvre sur les infinis virtualités et libertés des horizons non clos.
Paul Arrighi
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 5:38 AM UTC
Go on, do it.
Do the deed.
Spread your seed.
The children tell stories of when you bleed.
Mon cherie, c'est l'appel du vide.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
Calmer thoughts, replaced by wars
Resentment only summons more,
Shock that thunders with a crack,
Now, there's no more turning back,
Pebbles scraped, tumble and dive,
Smashing shallow ground from high,
A tragic fate that calls to all,
A pushed, prodded, and triggered fall,
Doom crystalized, serrated and bladed,
A glass knife thrown, from impact, aided,
Adrenaline amplified, enticed mind,
Alas, the influence, an unnatural tide,
Explosive ideations, undesired,
Optimism and life mired,
Pysche turned to marionette,
Taken by subconscious threat,
The gnashing teeth of the spirit,
A silent figure, you already fear it,
Collapse of the soul, defenses beat,
He who pulls the strings, is he who you'll meet.
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 6:46 PM UTC
When I'm on a cliff, I have the l'appel du vide; the unexplainable strong desire to jump off that certain cliff.
However, you, you would rather jump into conclusions and push me off the cliff.
I'm trying to give you an optimistic view, when you give me your pessimistic thoughts.
It's said that hate and love are felt in the same region of the brain – and I get the feeling that my love towards you is the fountainhead of the hate you have towards me.
I try to keep you alive, but you betray me with your paramour; death.
I realized that we are like Yin and Yang. I'm the light to keep your darkness alive and your the darkness that keeps my light shining. It might be hard sometimes, but our differences are our similarities.
We are a paradox, soulmates connected with a twisted string of fate, which is stained red by the blood from my heart and the blood from your wrists.
I'm your life, your love and – maybe even your paramour death.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
C'est plutôt le sabbat du second Faust que l'autre.
Un rhythmique sabbat, rhythmique, extrêmement
Rhythmique. - Imaginez un jardin de Lenôtre,
Correct, ridicule et charmant.
Des ronds-points ; au milieu, des jets d'eau ; des allées
Toutes droites ; sylvains de marbre ; dieux marins
De bronze ; çà et là, des Vénus étalées ;
Des quinconces, des boulingrins ;
Des châtaigniers ; des plants de fleurs formant la dune ;
Ici, des rosiers nains qu'un goût docte effila ;
Plus **** des ifs taillés en triangles. La lune
D'un soir d'été sur tout cela.
Minuit sonne, et réveille au fond du parc aulique
Un air mélancolique, un sourd, lent et doux air
De chasse : tel, doux, lent, sourd et mélancolique,
L'air de chasse de Tannhauser.
Des chants voilés de cors lointains où la tendresse
Des sens étreint l'effroi de l'âme en des accords
Harmonieusement dissonnants dans l'ivresse ;
Et voici qu'à l'appel des cors
S'entrelacent soudain des formes toutes blanches,
Diaphanes, et que le clair de lune fait
Opalines parmi l'ombre verte des branches,
- Un Watteau rêvé par Raffet ! -
S'entrelacent parmi l'ombre verte des arbres
D'un geste alangui, plein d'un désespoir profond ;
Puis, autour des massifs, des bronzes et des marbres
Très lentement dansent en rond.
- Ces spectres agités, sont-ce donc la pensée
Du poète ivre, ou son regret, ou son remords,
Ces spectres agités en tourbe cadencée,
Ou bien tout simplement des morts ?
Sont-ce donc ton remords, ô rêvasseur qu'invite
L'horreur, ou ton regret, ou ta pensée, - hein ? - tous
Ces spectres qu'un vertige irrésistible agite,
Ou bien des morts qui seraient fous ? -
N'importe ! ils vont toujours, les fébriles fantômes,
Menant leur ronde vaste et morne et tressautant
Comme dans un rayon de soleil des atomes,
Et s'évaporent à l'instant
Humide et blême où l'aube éteint l'un après l'autre
Les cors, en sorte qu'il ne reste absolument
Plus rien - absolument - qu'un jardin de Lenôtre,
Correct, ridicule et charmant.
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