"jacques" poems
My wish for you is that you have a neverending series of dreams and a furious desire to realize a few of them. My wish for you is that you love what must be loved and forget what must be forgotten. I wish you passions. I wish you silences. My wish for you is that you hear the songs of birds and the laughter of children at your awaking. My wish for you is that you resist the downtroddenness, the indifference, the negative virtues of our era.My wish for you especially is that you be YOU!(translated from the French by Dennis O'Connor)
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
The moon,
A hollow
Saint Jacques
Shell
Whose kernel
Lovers
And language figures
Had wasted through the flow
Of time,
Came
To this eerie pond
A dry vagabond -
Now a dweller
Of the surface deep.
(C) LazharBouazzi
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:04 PM UTC
When I first sold myself there were
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All the marks of war
All that searing heat
With all that pretty malice
Spilling Paris in the street
‘Twenty marks’ I called
‘Twenty marks’
That was 1943
And Piaf was doing well
Nurse, do you know what it is like:
To have a man inside of you
that you could never love?
There was, once upon a time, a pretty little ****
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
Lying on my floor
And Maman was starving, and my sister, too
Dignity wasn’t half the tax it seemed before
He gave me a baby, and a disease,
That was 1944:
Piaf was quite successful, then
Doctor, can you fathom:
Having sores all over you?
Yes, down there, and
all up and down your thighs, your body burns.
Can you feel that?
Then, the Germans left, and the Allies came, all
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All of that decor
Fleeing, running out
On the French horizon
Retreat
The Allies were the same
‘Three dollars’ I called
‘Three dollars’
That was 1945:
Piaf was languishing
Paris had died
Jacques, my dear:
Those were our times
smoky cabarets, sculptured croons, fine wines
your rifle on your back could wind my morning with worry
and with my scourges, you took me all the same
but what I remember is:
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
then:
nothing
“Monsieur Boursin - she has passed.”
He sobs,
it sounds like
war.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:25 AM UTC
Tears from dusky lowered lids
crystallize and scintillate in the
flames of the guttering candles.
(Walk away, love, walk away!
Kiss my cheek and turn.-
A shattered heart beats, ****** in your breast.)
We love, and yet we return to our 'others'.
We pray we never hurt them. Pray we never break.
I cannot stop this love! I do not regret it. There!
I only hope that we hide it well enough that it not disturb the innocents...
because, we were innocents too, when it came crashing into our lives.
Bien! Non Regrets Rien. Sing the song, and Edith will sing with us. ...
Or Aznavour will. Or Lara Fabian, or Jacques Brel...
Sing on le chanteur et les chanteurs,
then come and weep with me.
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 5:31 AM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.
Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.
I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.
It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.
But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.
Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).
To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.
Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.
That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.
I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.
I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.
And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.
#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true,
She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear.
She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour.
Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She stares into her vanity, vainly she catches my gaze,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour,
Her smile sings Frere Jacques, her lips wet with French kisses.
She leaves for work, I stretch for the package of Reds, our vice in my hand,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
Suddenly an invalid, blind, holding two cigarettes for just one lonesome man,
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:35 AM UTC
Today I write an ode to Joe’s
Procurator, seller, and trader
For my better half it is your coffees
For me, your store entire, for
Your bounty fills my refrigerator
Treasures spicy from India, Japan
Brought to us by your Trader San
From south of the border
Travel goodies galore-a
Compliments of Trader Jose
Then there’s Trader Giotto from Italy
Without a doubt, his yummies call me
There are Jo-Jo’s, curries, oh cho-co-late sweet
And did I mention lotions for feet
There is Pilgrim Joe’s and Trader Ming’s
Who bring to us the finer things
The wines, the drinks, the healthy oils
I dream at night of all your spoils
By way of mention, I cannot forget
Baker Josef who serves to us
Tasty bagels, delicious baguettes
Arabian Joe’s and Joseph Brau
Bring us falafels and rings in our beer
Oh, Trader Johann's and Trader Jacques'
For bodies clean and lips that are fresh
Your Joe's Kids keep mummy's happy
Trader Darwin's help us all stay healthy
Did I, could I, miss anyone?
Don’t want to leave out even one
Your marinated meats, your frozen treats
From Diner Joe’s there are lunches quick
For us working stiffs, his heat-n-eats
Oh, pumpkin scones and cereal O’s
I should not forget your sample bar
Where tastys await to test for my plate
And did I say how amazing you are?
While others sell just fluff and stuff
Of your yummy goodness
I cannot get enough
So if one day soon the Joe’s disappear
I’ll not fret, no i’ll not fear
On me for sure you can count the cause
Right down to your last breadcrumb
For shelves will be bursting in my garage
Where I'll be holding them all, without ransom
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
Jaques le fumeur aimait les rouler étroits
Et toujours en fumait deux a la fois
J'aime fumer disait il
Quelle excuse futile!
Le tabac et ce qu'il y ajoutait l'esclavagèrent
Depuis qu'il n'utilisait plus son briquet que pour les concerts
L'esclave jamais ne dort
Car même la nuit il en roulait encore
Dans sa chambre, à coté de la fenêtre
O marchand de sable, plongez moi dans le bien-être
repetait il quand il n'en pouvait plus
mais ce soir la quelque chose de nouveau l'avait déplu
la constatation d'un changement l'avait dégoûté
L'eau de la bouteille avait noircit et maintenant sentait
la bouteille qu'il prenait pour cendrier car il n'en avait pas un
Fixe sur la bouteille il était terrifie de ce que lui réservait son destin
Il tendit la main vers la bouteille pour alléger sa cigarette
Hélas il y fit tomber sa possession la plus précieuse
Il devait affronter son dégoût et chercher entre les cigarettes
sinon son existence ne serait plus jamais délicieuse
il coupa la bouteille en deux
il chercha, chercha et chercha encore
main dans le goudron
mains sur le nez
Maintenant Jacques pleure
Aucune trace de son espoir
hier, aujourd'hui et demain pour lui ont la même couleur
il mourut 60 ans avant ses dernières mémoires
car quand il ne pouvait plus espérer
il cessa de vivre
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Jacques and Emile's veins
pounded in their skulls
as they scrambled down the ladder
and through the labyrinth of sewers
to rejoin their fellow assassins
beneath the Parisian thoroughfares.
They'd tracked the **** Captain's moves
for past a week and knew precisely
what he drank and where he ******
They were ready when he
Stumbled down the brothel stairs.
When Jacques stepped left for a clearer shot
he found a bucket with his foot.
The German wheeled and spotted them -
raising his whistle to his mouth,
but before he had a chance to blow,
A silent report from Emile's rifle
crashed into his trachea
And he crumpled like a rag.
Back in the tunnels
Jacques bragged like a circus barker,
"You should have seen the look on
Gerry's face before we brought him down."
Emile had seen his face alright,
but thought only of the whistle
that would have doomed them all.
What do you when the world goes mad
and **** tanks roll into the Champs Élysées?
Who do you **** and why and how?
Jacques was sound asleep
and deaf to his comrades' whispers -
pondering what to do and when.
The decision came quickly and a
different sort of mission was planned
and Emile selected to execute it.
What do you do when the world goes mad?
August, 2013
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
bobbing up and down in the azure blue sky
brightly colored air filled spheres
big or small their sizes maybe
bringing much enjoyment to the viewer's eye
baskets attached have people standing in them
breezing above tranquil lakes and verdant glens
brothers Joseph and Jacques Montgolfier invented them
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
When Jacques Derrida's Mother
Embraced the concept
Of 'wholly other'
She loosed her hold on life
In the past tense
And gave herself up to
The 'Metaphysics of Presence'.
How I love this new-found euphoria
Now there is no more aporia.
If only the world would grasp
The concept of deconstruction.
So she put down her knitting
Logged onto the internet
And signed up for a course on
Basic Moxibustion.
Such a great invention
This internet
But life is even better
Without unresolved tension.
Oh for a mother
To understand her son.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
do people write each other letters anymore,
and if so, do they send them?
when was the last time you visited a post office?
when was the last time you licked a stamp?
when was the last time an envelope with your name hastily
hand-scribbled in cursive make your anxious heart
beat uncontrollably?
has it ever?
have you ever?
do people dedicate songs to each other anymore?
do they wait twenty-nine minutes on call
to declare a love in their heart for you on the radio?
do people listen to the radio anymore?
do they call at 6 25 AM
to leave a 3 minute and 53 second voicemail
with Jacques Brel desperately crooning "ne me quitte pas" ?
do people still like other people?
do people still like themselves?
do people know that they are people?
are people even people anymore?
I deem not your response
but my own rearranging complacency of mind
I am aware that I am still human
and although I am not fond of myself all the time
which only makes me that much more human
I am utterly and entirely fond of you
every peeking minute of the day, every fleeting hour of the night
you fill my mind with worded imagery
so I write you a letter
with no other intention than for you to know
your essence is in all of my favourite songs
all of my favourite songs lead me to you
oh, love
love is so human
my love is so human for you, my love
and I'll try anything to hold on to
these sensations a while longer
these physical notions
carry my emotional train of thought
these physical notions
are temporary gestures of my everlasting love
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
One look at her and I begin
to wonder
what is hiding there?
Is it the colours in her skin
the curls in her hair
the look in her eye
as she glances far and wide
Beyond the scope of
this old camera lens
no amount of effort
is taken to account
pinks, blues and blacks
all have the same impact
Her stare infectious
Her eyes so telling
Her smile whispers stories
of all those saints and sinners
Golds reflect and clash
with the studios bright lights
her eyes are those same sunbeams
her body burning them to the ground
Look her in the eye
studying her face
perfection is muted
another word needed
to replace a name
I wish to give her
Muse
Lacan brought to us
the concept of the gaze
for how shall she see herself?
Like a child's first glance?
Alice's long stare?
or is she simply oblivious
to the beauty she exudes.
© Sia Jane
----
*The narration, in fact, doubles the drama
with a commentary without which no mise en scene would be possible.*
Jacques Lacan
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
The moon, a hollow
Saint Jacques shell,
whose kernel
lovers
and language figures
had wasted through the flow
of time,
came
to this eerie pond
a dry vagabond -
now a dweller
of the surface deep.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, September 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
Stitches ov pain and ......lines to hell
1.
(Come, Yves...please, let's go....he's a megalo )
(Don't worry, it's ok...soon)
Jacques pulls us another line
Makes criss-cross stitches on Lisa's eye
While she screams atop her lungs
Yet invites us to share ......that line.
Yves eyes it while I dress
Jacques tries to stop me, I ignore
I put on this, I put on that
While he stares, moody and Yves is ******
(Yves, PLEASE let's go, I don't feel right)
(Relax, man....we will go soon...we got us a line...)
2.
Poor Lisa tries to sneak out, but trips and falls
Not escaping Jacques' eye
He glints and rises, while Yves apprises
We see not her fate but hear her screams.
I think I've had more than enough
What'll happen when he returns?
Jacques is demented, our moves'll be cemented
If we accept this one line...to hell!
(Yves, please....something's not right....)
(Heeeey...?? Come sssit, mannnn.....aaahhhh...)
I care not for that line.....
[slipping in and out, in and out.....so many passages here, like a maze in a forest.....a headless run, this mare.......to seek me out, seek me out......try to hide behind the shadows in the walls and climb into the ghosts of battered souls....find little respite ......]
3.
:(After raids, Yves' body is found.....in a closet next day....and......
A gruesome ending for.....a line):
Stitches ov pain and lines...to hell.
(Pourquoi t'as pas ecoute, mon cher......)
4.
You stayed behind, while I fled on blind eye
Why couldn't you just resist that one last line?
The one that caused us all so much pain
That one, ****** line....straight to hell!
S T, 07 April 2013
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
For fifty cents
we bought ten eggs
For fifty cents
we bought a kilo of oranges
For fifty cents
we drunk espresso
in a coffee
across the street
For fifty cents,
at the flea market,
they were selling
at the car hub,
Jacque Prevert’s
- Charmes des Londres…
We bought that too
………………………………………………………………...
*Jacques Prevert wrote “Charmes des Londres” in 1952.
**Grocery list for the market 15.02.2003.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 6:56 AM UTC
If he could find a dealer
To sell him the love
He needs to fill the void he tries
To avoid with drugs
He wouldn't be seen as an addict
Feelin axiety panic and rage
But the type of free spirits he loves
He knows, can't be his in a cage
Cuz a cage can't hold those free as a bird
Or the same attraction he finds
Is tainted, so he's faced with knowing
"She can never be mine"
Pained by the absence, their
Presence brings, when felt; is love
So like most, he's left with its ghost
Hoping to silence the pain with drugs
Leaving unfulfilled emptiness subdued
From a temporary substitute
But the dependancies supremacy
Blinds any chance for solving the root
Problem so like many lost
From the cost of being high as youths
Become the old and bitter as they wither,
never to reconsider the truth
Which is letting go and moving on
Sometimes means leaving haunted
Ghosts of those lost behind, but first
Letting go must be wanted
But sometimes embracing the pain
Of what's gone, will always remain
When the love held for it is too great
To recognize the power of a gain
That may come if only he could run
From the memories they hold
That are valued higher than what could be,
refusing to trade it for gold
Within the next treasure he is told
Maybe worth Just as much
But when he tries he can't deny
What's too real for him to touch
And almost feels, that moving on
Will only disrespect the way
He felt, as if yearning was the pay
Owed from the love that became
So when the misery is his company
And those around him judge
He doesn't bother explain,this pains kept,
to remind him he was loved
And that is more than any happiness can Bring,
knowing love can't stay
Not the type held by a free spirit who
Isn't the same if it's put in a cage.
.................
So when the misery is his company
And those around him judge
He doesn't bother explain,this pains kept,
to remind him he was loved.....
"God loved the birds
and invented trees.
Man loved the birds
and invented cages."
--- Jacques Deval
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 5:42 PM UTC
the boarded up windows of the hospital
they were making renovations
et moi, et moi, et moi
wanting to see the sky
the night before
a police officer with kind eyes
asking if everything was alright
in the back of an ambulance
having just swallowed the charcoal
et moi, et moi, et moi
nodding a yes
wanting to see the sky
it would be a year till I saw it
sitting in the passenger seat of your car,
Jacques Dutronc playing
et moi, et moi, et moi
wildly singing
only by chance
when the song changed
looking up to see
a yellow sun setting
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
Draw The Lumberjack
His toque screamed French Canadian,
Jacques perhaps, prominent nose
broken in a brawl over a woman named Suzette or
a close brush with a widow maker,
****** Niagara soaking his flannel shirt,
dripping from the delta of lines describing
a beard reeking of cigarettes and bug dope
trimmed, if he trimmed at all,
with a sliver of band saw blade
stuck fast in a lump of tree gum,
whiskers, after all, affording
a degree of protection from clouds of black flies,
one twinkling eye nesting in a profile
crinkled by wood smoke and ribald
bunkhouse jokes, widening in mock surprise
at a sour note from a squeezebox broken
on a drunken Saturday night,
fanciful elements I avoided drawing
in a slow, steady hand, embellishment
sure to queer my chances with the juror
poised to swing a bottle of champagne
against the stern of my boat
load of God-given talent, a launch
I await patiently after all these years
taking a break from the two man
cross cut saw, smoking
in the shade of all these doomed trees.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
I walk home from the train station,
with a concoction of his cologne and cigarette smoke coated breath surrounding me.
Even the strong floral scent of Pleasures Intense doesn’t drown it,
or the haunting feeling of satisfaction and shame.
I can feel his rugged hands grasping my waist,
and his raspy breath around me.
The black cashmere scarf sticks to my sweaty neck.
I move my hands through my tangled hair and enter the house.
I hope Jacques doesn’t notice my missing hair tie.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 11:15 AM UTC
*Oh, Viola
Your missteps are our haven
Dropping, and dripping
Sorbet on the sidewalk
To melt on summer mornings
Oh, Viola
Save the best for first ensemble
Scoffing, and skipping
To the tune of Frère Jacques
A beacon for seaborn warnings
Oh, Viola
A dainty marvel shadow
Flenching, and flaking
Til' Hale Street gleams in purple hues
To banter with the orchids
Oh, Viola
Overhead and underfoot
Whistling, and wincing
From the piercing of a brother
At the pulpits of the sordid*
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
My name, his pupil screamed across the room.
The coarse pages of a New York novel stitched into the binding of my grip.
I am a waning willow under grey skies. The unnerving stillness of chest shatters amongst prose-dripped conversations. Am I ready to? We race to a cab.
We arrive, and in a nearsighted exhaust collapse into plastic-skinned chairs. A hacking congestion echoes between the walls. He stands and as he speaks, I feel his words wrap over my shoulder and then around my waist. Our embrace is an Orchid. As he exits I long for our next season.
We are unabridged lovers seeking vengeance against the moments which separate us. I escape to the tutelage of Jacques Peuchet. I learn the weight of a love born sword, and yearn for the ink to write us away from this moment.
I step out to pavement with Summer's gentle breath igniting the hairs of my neck. I follow Orchid ink veins to a break in the sidewalk. Coddled in the concrete, a pen. I am reminded of the discarded decorations of the blinded adorning our space. I see our future, in beautiful color: The vibrant friction which pours ink to page - dreams stained into their threads.
I return to you my forever, so we can watch our love spill across an enternity of pages longing for a pen.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 1:54 AM UTC
The wind fills the sails
of an old galleon
in the bay, that is
set on course for the
far away land of
Saracen and Turks,
while the farmer, “Jacques,”
follows the horse and
plow, that is gently
creeping, so as to
not disturb the seed.
The cavern island
is the boy shepherd’s
reverie; his dream
to leave this flock that
he loyally tends,
and explore the world
like Sir Lafayette.
Fading
is the art of the world
as the distance
becomes distance
and the sails
faintly
decay.
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC