French Poet, Novelist, Playwright and Dramatist
French Poet, Novelist, Playwright and Dramatist
The beauty of the dark roll, golden apple in the labyrinth. I look for it in your voice and what comes to me seems a movement of grass in the wind. A presence without grip, response of sleep to sand. Event of a world at the hour of the night trembling on the city. ? that trembles on the Golden edge between the sleeping roofs and the specters of the night. A passer-by walks, is it me? And your voice said to me quietly: Yes, I'm not a woman for a poem.
Walking, do not stop walking to open doors, to lift stones, to look in the drawers of the shadow, to dig wells in the light. Search, do not stop looking, the traces of the bird in the air echo in the ravine, the fire in the snows of the almond tree. All the ignored, the hidden, the unknown, the lost. Search. You will find the word and color of your poem.
What is this sudden light who is made in the lining of the shadows and that would make the birds dizzy? This Light holds in a Hand of Man. And to be poured as a water of baptism to the front of the tortured. If some a nothing, whiteness olive trees in the hinterland of death.
When I say the white apples of pleasure, the round table of sleep and the broken gaze of the fountains. When I speak of the snow to the blue dogs or of the night that suffers from the vagabond who goes a candle of shadows in the hand. When I name verger the patience, raisin the taste of the lips and garden your face, I understand.
A poem is when you have the sky in your mouth. It is hot like fresh bread, when you eat it, a little is always left over. A poem is when you hear the heartbeat of a stone, when words beat their wings. It is a song sung in a cage. A poem is words turned upside down and suddenly! the world is new? A poem? grandpa says, tugging on his mustache and looking worried. A poem, well? it?s what poets make. ? Oh?? All right. ? Even if the poets do not know it themselves!
I like the very old people sitting at the window watching with a smile the cloudy sky and the light limping in the streets of winter. I love their faces with a thousand wrinkles which are the memory of a thousand lives that make a life of man. I love the very old hand caressing by trembling the child's forehead like the tree leaning against its branches the clarity of a river. I like in the old people their fragile and slow gesture that holds every moment of life like a cup of porcelain. As we should do at every moment with life.
I opened with two leaves. I was playing on the floor in the room with my dreams. As a child I was expecting everything from the light. The nothing of the air. That was enough for me. And suddenly the volley of the pebbles, the life the night of others, everyone had thrown his stone. I picked up these stones one by one and I watched them until evening without understanding.
If I say the ravens make the round above the silence, you tell me it's winter. If I say rivers get white when going down home. You tell me the spring. If I say the trees have pushed their millions of suns, you tell me it's summer. If I say fountains are redheads and deep paths, you will say to me in the autumn. But if I say happiness is to all and all are happy, what season will you say? What season of men?
I'm looking for a vast and warm word like a room. Sound like a harp, dancing like a dress clear as an April. A word that nothing erases Like an imprint in the bark a word that lies does not seduce. A word to say everything. Death, life, fear, silence and complaint The invisible and the sweet And the miracles of summer. I've been looking for so long But I trust you: it will be born from your lips.
Invent the sky, engage the stone as the Arab and the Inca did. As the African invented the fire the tree and the fruit in the silence of the old Chinese, understand the mute song of the flower. Learning from the sea what Ulysses learned from the sea, folding his desire like an arc. The wave and love fill yourselves with the world and at every moment, equal the day that gives birth to you.
Just a word to take the world into the trap of our dreams. Just a gesture to lift the branch to soothe the wind. Just a smile to sleep at night deliver our faces from their shadow mask. But a hundred billion poems would not suffice to say how good it is to love.
That's what they say: The anemone is more intelligent than the rose, the sand is more beautiful than the cat and the stone has always been superior to pumpkin. They blame the black to be blacker than white as one would reproach the fire to be warmer than snow and honey to be sweeter that the wave and if they are afraid of their shadow is that they suspect a little that hate the stranger is to be afraid of oneself.