poetry books undergoing

I’m working on two different poetry books. One translation of my French poems and one about most of my late poems. I’m surprised how the first one is moving slowly. I thought it would be done by itself but I face a lot of translation frustrations slowing down the process. So the first one ready may be my late poetry. The process for this one is more about rediscover great poems (at least some appear to me as so) than wondering how I will translate a poem without killing it. I’m willing to deliver both as soon as possible. Might be a matter of weeks for the first one but months for the other one…

the one – translation

Beautiful

Like the moon

Enlightening

The shadows

Remain

Under my sight

Remain

O my beautiful.

Constantly reaching

breaking points

Crumbling

Falling

but still

Myself

Carrying

all the ruins I

become.

dead poets society – translation

Walking

breathlessly

The head is up

but

heavy

Being

the exsanguine man

dry

 

Desertness

 

Then the word

Then the friend

River !

Then conversation

 

Defibrillator

Blood in the mouth

Smiling.

I want to blow Hiroshima through your ear

through your soul

through your heart

through your lungs

so I can hear you breath.

Her wide dark green eyes

scratch

like asphalt

 

the furtive

echo

of my steps

 

rushing like a cat

like a thief

like a thin waterfall

 

hiding

in the warm shadow

of her sight.

on doing it or not

 

These days, I’m thinking a lot about (un)happiness and what I (dis)like about my life. Yesterday, as I were watching a few episodes of a 24 DVD, I received a piece of advice of a dying character.

Believe it or not, I used to want to be a teacher. A long time ago. You know why I didn’t? DoD offered me more money. That’s how I made my decision. So I made myself miserable. And I made everybody else around me miserable. For an extra five thousand dollars a year. That was my price. You know, Michelle, I’m not a big advice giver, but under the circumstances… Don’t wait around for your life to happen to you. Find something that makes you happy, and do it. Because everything else is all just background noise.

Honesty, that’s probably the healthiest thing I can receive.

the gardener

I’d like to plant her dark

fragile hair

in all the ground I know

to see want the world would become.

breaches into darkness

Sometimes she

undresses her eyes

like two suns

enlightening

her face

and the world

around

Sometimes she

takes out all the thoughts

falling over our heads

and becomes

the river

where the life begins.

identity crisis

I think I’m facing an identity crisis. Since I moved out, since my own roots moved, I’m into the same questions Tony Soprano asked as he woke up after his coma:

Who am I? Where am I going?

I’d like to find answers but I’m not sure I found the proper questions yet. Well, if anyone has some book suggestions that could be useful, be my guest.

february again – translation

Some you

Some you          there

From the edge of the fingers

This piece of air

 

Astronomy

To play the air

Catching

You

 

Hit         In your absence

It’s cold outside

Eat the spider

Dance

Be

Eat your terrible eyes

Eat the dead

 

We have to find

a purpose to

painting.