Resolutions 2011

- Pick up the guitar & harmonica again
- Write more
- Spend less time online (bad start)
- Get back into the habit of cooking good meals
- Believe in myself
- And just generally kick ass

inspiration #14

inspiration #13

Lucky from Christian Hansen on Vimeo.

interlude poétique #2 - Día de los Muertos

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me – 
The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring – 
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

Emily Dickinson

Let's leave all our cares behind and dance on the rooftops.

by shamrock

inspiration #12

 

Music is love in search of a word.

Sidney Lanier

hotel cordovan

Doisneau in my room
(number fifty something)
hiding behind the curtains
(he is quaint)
a fire within
ice without
(a revolution)
marbles lost by the sky
or pearls thrown to swine
(i do not know)
but how surreal

bruges-la-morte

if only
these stones were older
than my heart
and my feet not heavier
than the horses - poor sods - hooves
who haul the tourists
clueless as ever

and the bricks redder
than my knees
the road grittier than my palms
from begging for it all to stop
this people this masque this orb
fruitless as ever

over my horizon
your eyes blink
i pick up
the pieces of my cross

by shamrock

La Comptine d'Inès

Jadis Inès scintillait
– Brûler ? Ça, jamais –
Mais au moins avait-elle
Entretenu une étincelle.

Aujourd'hui à la fenêtre, elle regarde vivre les passants.
Elle rêve parfois d'un amant
Qui l'emmènerait faire du rodéo à Dallas
Ou rouler des dés à Las Vegas
Mais elle refoule cette pensée puérile
D'un froncement de ses jeunes sourcils.

Inès retourne plier les draps
Et mettre la table pour François,
Qui revient du bureau à sept heures trente-trois.
Après manger il lui fait l'amour (c'est vendredi),
Il se retourne et ronfle (il est dix heures et demi)
Alors elle se dit, toute fière, qu'elle vit.
"Une vie calme est une vie réussie"
Se répète Inès, qui scintillait jadis.

by shamrock

interlude poétique #1

Allez, un peu de poésie par de "vrais" écrivains... Un en anglais pour commencer, par un auteur américain de la Beat generation, Frank O'Hara. (Ponctuation respectée).

"Song"


I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab
which is typical
and not just of modern life

mud chambers up the trellis of my nerves
must lovers of Eros end up with Venus
muss es sein? es muss nicht sein, I tell you

how I hate disease, it’s like worrying
that comes true
and it simply must not be able to happen

in a world where you are possible
my love
nothing can go wrong for us, tell me

Frank O'Hara, 1960

nos étoiles - inspiration #11

La nuit s’écoule doucement
Je vais enfin dormir tranquille
Tes yeux qui veillent ton amant
Sont-ce pas ma belle indocile
Nos étoiles au firmament 

Guillaume Apollinaire

inspiration #10

 

Dance first.  Think later.  It's the natural order.

Samuel Beckett

cadavre exquis

Je t'ai cherché au fond d'un verre.
Tu n'y étais point.

Je t'ai adressé mille prières.
En vain.

Et cette valse dans le jardin d'éther ?
Un adieu divin.

Mais je te dédie ces quelques vers
Car moi, je ne t'oublie pas,
Je n'oublie rien.

by shamrock

inspiration #9

The Diary of a Disappointed Book from Studiocanoe on Vimeo.

the source

by shamrock

la plage

Homme, regarde-moi

Femme, souris-moi

Ou je ne serais plus.

Accorde moi une audience,

Dévoile-moi tes yeux

(Qu'ils sont beaux!)

Et partageons pendant un instant

Notre humanité,

Si frêle, ces jours-ci.

Rions un temps ensemble

Avant que le monde nous oublie.

Mais tu ne t'attardes point

(Le temps presse, il presse)

Et moi, je reste,

Seul sur une plage grise

Face à un océan informe et vide

Où mon cri se confond 

Avec celui des mouettes.

by shamrock

inspiration #8

APRICOT — A Short Film by Ben Briand from Moonwalk Films on Vimeo.

summer blues

The city is aroused, today.

It can barely contain its excitement

As the boys kiss the girls

And the sky shows its skin.

Even the cathedral spires quiver

In the summer ardour

And the buses - eager sowers - 

Scatter tourists into the streets.

Waitresses' skirts fan behind them

As they flutter from one table to another,

All smiles and all legs.

And yet my glass remains empty.

by shamrock

inspiration #7

It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it. 

Oscar Wilde

 Hi folks, I probably won't be posting as much as I have been in the past few months. I'm busy catching up with reading, with old friends, with life, and always downing a last glass of red wine (och, well, maybe I'll have another one after that). But stick around, have a seat, and I'll be back soon.

lost in the woods

by shamrock

follow the light

by shamrock

rothko blues

by shamrock

l'été

C'est l'été
Et la ville est vide.

Je reste cloîtré
Derrière les rideaux rouges.
A quoi bon parcourir
Les rues désertes
Ou humer un vin tiède
Face aux sphinx inertes ?

C'est l'été
Et tes bas sont vides;

Serpentins,
Ils languissent sur mon lit
Comme une mue répudiée.
Archéologue fidèle,
J'exhume les morceaux de toi
Avec mes doigts frêles.

C'est l'été.
En automne, peut-être,
Tu reviendras.

by shamrock

 

 

Inspiré de "Early Sunday Morning" de Edward Hopper et "Summer in the City" de Regina Spektor

inspiration #6

Cathy was beautiful like Brigitte Bardot. Cathy always was there, but outside … Then, some years ago, she put a shotgun in her mouth and blew her head off.

N.B. Photo by Bruce Davidson.
Two "inspiration" posts in a row? Dear, dear.
Life is a bit hectic at the moment. But when things calm down, I'll try to start posting my own stuff again, I promise.

inspiration #5

The Tallest Man On Earth - A Field Of Birds from Yellow Bird Project on Vimeo.

This isn't only another song/stopmotion video posted in the "inspiration" series (ie things that inspire me!), it's also the theme song of the Yellow Bird Project, a Montreal-based nonprofit organisation which sells t-shirts designed by bands and singer-songwriters (Bon Iver, Bloc Party, The National, Little Boots, Metric, and many, many more). The money raised is then sent to charities directly chosen by the designer of the t-shirt. (The t-shirts are really cool by the way, I've got a couple and am really happy with them!).

Be indie with a conscience! ;]

girl with balloon

by shamrock

This is my first drawing of a human figure in years, so things are a bit out of proportion. I need to brush up.
Any criticism/advice is welcome!

vêpres

Cheveux d'or et brins d'herbe
Tachetés d'ambre vespéral, 

Tamisés par les branches pavoisées
De feuilles vertes et fluettes

Toi et moi, nous,

Se pâmant sous le chêne antique

Comme si demain n'était plus.

by shamrock

dream

by shamrock

one leaf left

photo by shamrock

Hark, Nick Drake sings...

Time has told me
You’re a rare, rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
For someday our Ocean
Will find it’s shore

So I’ll leave the ways of making me be
What I really don’t want to be
Leave the ways that are making me love
What I really don’t want to love

Time has told me
You came with the dawn
A soul with no footprint
A rose with no thorn
Your tears they tell me
There’s really no way
Of ending your troubles
With things you can say

And time will tell you
To stay by my side
To keep on trying
‘til theres no more to hide
So leave the ways that are making you be
What you really don’t want to be
Leave the ways that are making you love
What you really don’t want to love

Time has told me
You’re a rare, rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
For someday our ocean
Will find its shore
                             ~ Nick Drake

à une âme inconnue

"thou art not thy lane" ~ Robert Burns

Respire, expire
Chaque souffle me rappelle
Qu'il est une âme
Je ne sais où
Qui tressaille

Respire, expire
Une âme inconnue
Oubliée ou étouffée
Mais toujours seule
Et frémissante

Respire, expire,
Sœur mystérieuse
Ne t'éteins point
Mais essuie tes larmes
Avec ces doigts tremblants

Respire, aspire
Lève ce grave menton
Car nous nous aimons
Sans nous connaître
Ensemble, trépidons.

by shamrock

shipwrecked

He looked into his glass, and watched the shadow of his head swim in the ruby below. Hadn’t he always cast himself as a martyr, as an outcast? Perhaps it was nothing more than that – a role he had been playing. Perhaps he was no different than anyone else. He shook his head. No – no. It couldn’t be. He had been an outcast. Hell, he’d even had stones thrown at him for being a foreigner. He hadn’t made it all up. But it was true that he had latched unto his otherness, he had worn it as a badge of pride. Over the years he had instilled his life with a rich tragic motif. His otherness had been – still was – a crutch he could lean on in times of crisis. But it wasn’t his real identity. It wasn’t his true self. It had begun by being the persona he slipped on when he hurt. Now it had become much more, it was the thing around which he was building his whole identity. And that couldn’t be healthy.
He remembered something he had heard a preacher say about finding one’s identity in God. He remembered coming across something Emerson and Steinbeck had written about an “Oversoul”. Yes, people were connected with something wider than themselves, yes, they were connected with one another somehow, and perhaps in a deeper sense that they thought. But that didn’t help resolve the question of his identity. It just made things more complicated.
He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and lifted the glass to his lips.

by shamrock

inspiration #4

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to dance.
It's about learning to dance in the rain.

inspiration #3

by Robert Frank

I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

epiphany

photo by shamrock

Its soul, its whatness, leaps to us from the vestment of its appearance. The soul of the commonest object, the structure of which is so adjusted, seems to us radiant. The object achieves its epiphany.

                               James Joyce

crosswords

Tom walked into the usual café, sat at the usual seat and ordered the usual cup of coffee. He mechanically swung open his laptop and placed his fingers on the keyboard. He kept them there for what seemed to him like ages, but he didn't type anything. He caught his reflection in the screen. A pair of sad eyes stared back at him. Come on Tom, they seemed to be urging, get a grip of yourself. Write something. Anything. But nothing would come. Not even one word. Tom swore under his breath and slammed the computer shut. He scratched the back of his head. For the first time in months he looked round the café. The morning sun was coyly casting its light through the dusty windows. A lot of chairs were still stacked up on the tables. The place was empty, save for an old man filling in crosswords on yesterday's paper and a girl reading in the opposite corner of the café. She was wearing a purple dress, and Tom couldn't help looking at her long folded legs. She turned her head towards him, and he quickly looked down. He thought he would pretend to work at his computer, but he realized that he had closed it. He felt his ears burning. He raised his head again and pretended to stare out the window. From the corner of his eye he sensed that the girl was looking at him. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. He looked outside and focussed on a pigeon that was rummaging for food in front of the baker's across the street. After a while, he slowly turned his head back towards the girl. She was reading again, holding the book with one hand and playing with her hair with the other. God, she was so cute. How could girls be so cute without even realizing it, he thought. He wondered what she was reading. It looked like a novel. Was she a Hemingway girl, a fan of jazz and of postcard Paris? Or was she the Austen type, a lost soul, a romantic dreamer? Or was she both? He squinted, and tried to make out some of the words, but she was sitting too far away. He suddenly realized that she was looking at him. She smiled, and waved at him. He smiled back awkwardly. She raised the book and pointed at the title on the cover: The Brothers Karamazov. Tom raised his eyebrows and mouthed the word "impressive". They looked at each other for a while. Then they turned away and blushed. When they looked back at each other, they burst out laughing. The girl opened her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted:
"Hey, maybe you youngsters could help me out," said the old man without lifting his eyes from his newspaper. "Ten-letter word, Newton's laws. What could it be?"
 Tom and the girl looked at the old man, then at each other. They burst out laughing again. Tom turned to the old man. "I think the answer is attraction," he said. He looked back at the girl. She was looking down at the floor, and her face was bright red.
"Hm... attraction," muttered the old man. "I think you're right, kiddo. Can you help me with another one?"
But no answer came. The boy and the girl were standing in the middle of the room, lips locked.

by shamrock

inspiration #2

words

by shamrock

dix heures

L'égouttement du robinet, le tac-tac-tac de l'horloge, bruits du quotidien qui hier la rassuraient, lui semblaient ce soir oppressants.  Elle retourna son oreiller brûlant pour la sixième fois et en profita pour regarder le réveil. Dix heures. Elle poussa un soupir. La nuit n'était toujours pas tombée. Elle pouvait encore clairement distinguer le blanc stérile du plafond et voir les cartes postales encadrées disposées sur les murs de manière parfaitement parallèle. Ce plafond et ces murs semblaient chaque jour se rapprocher. Un jour, je pourrais les érafler avec le bout des doigts, se dit-elle. Un jour, je pourrais les effleurer avec mon nez. Même le matelas semblait plus dur que la veille. Elle se retourna, tentant en vain de trouver une position plus confortable. Elle regarda son compagnon de lit. Il ronflait déjà. Il travaillait le lendemain. Le lendemain, elle se lèverait pour lui préparer le café, qu'il boirait à sept heure pile. Elle le regarderait manger trois tartines beurrées, puis il partirait au travail après lui avoir déposé un bisou sec sur les lèvres. A son retour, elle lui servirait le le dîner à sept heures, ils regarderaient tous les deux la télé jusqu'à dix heures moins dix, puis ils se coucheraient. Et les murs se seraient rapprochés davantage. Oh, de très peu, de quelques millimètres peut-être, mais ils se seraient rapprochés. Lui ne se serait aperçu de rien. Mais elle ne lui en voulait pas. Après tout, il lui avait apporté un appartement propre, de la stabilité, et de la compagnie. Mieux valait être accompagnée que seule, non? Et puis la vie avec lui était sûre, sans surprises, sans rebondissements, en un mot, calme. C'est pour cela qu'elle avait choisi de sortir avec lui. Elle l'avait trouvé mignon, et même si elle ne l'aimait pas, elle l'aimait bien. Elle avait même pris plaisir à adopter les rituels de l'amour, les « mon chéri », les « mon trésor » et le weekend annuel en couple dans un hôtel de province. Elle aimait jouer à l'hôtesse et inviter des couples d'amis, qu'elle regardait manger, avec ses mains sur les hanches et un sourire satisfait. Elle s'était même habituée à la cérémonie du vendredi soir; elle regardait le plafond blanc pendant qu'il lui faisait l'amour, et elle se félicitait d'avoir une vie sexuelle, comme tout le monde. Elle menait sa vie comme il le fallait, elle menait une vie calme.
Alors pourquoi les murs se rapprochaient-ils chaque jour?

by shamrock

inspiration #1

Doux démon

Parmi les milles démons qui m'accablent

Il en est un au visage voilé.

Certains se lassent, mais lui reste, implacable,

Insondable, tel un ciel étoilé.

La présence de l'être ancien me tourmente

Et son regard muet me cause effroi.

Ou que j'aille, ou que je soie, il me hante.

Maudit soit-il! Je le chasse loin de moi.

Lorsque exorcisé, mes nuits sont sans lune;

Mes jour se consument des feux de l'enfer;

Mes pensées sont d'indéchiffrables runes;

Mon pain est insipide, mon vin amer.

Doux démon, approche, dévoile ton visage.

Laisse moi boire à tes lèvres l'élixir

Qui s'échappe de tes douces plaies d'âge en âge,

Ô Démiurge, Muse, Amant, mon seul désir.

Crossroads #1

Ça fait un p'tit moment que je n'ai rien posté sur mon autre blog. A vrai dire je n'ai plus tellement le temps de gérer deux blogs, d'écrire des "chroniques" de films, d'albums ou de bouquins, ou de faire des recherches sur des sujets qui m'intéressent. Pourtant l'envie d'écrire ne s'est pas dissipée: je me concentrerai donc sur ce blog-ci à partir de maintenant.

D'ailleurs c'est la première fois que j'écris une entrée de blog à proprement parler en français. Je suis plus ou moins passé au français sur Twitter et sur Facebook, et j'ai même écrit un nouveau texte en français sur ce blog-ci, chose que je n'avais pas faite depuis 2008. Me suis-je finalement réconcilié avec la langue de Molière ? Peut-être bien. Peut-être que c'est la fin d'une ère. Je n'ai plus besoin de m'opposer à la culture de ce pays pour tenter de définir mon identité. C'est une petite victoire! :)

Celle-ci arrive au moment même où j'apprends que mes parents ont décidé de rentrer en Irlande pour de bon - alors qu'ils avaient toujours dit qu'ils voudraient finir leurs jours en France. Avec mon petit frère déjà installé là-bas, je serais donc le seul à rester ici. Ce qui me fait un peu bizarre. Oh well! Life goes on.

Femme

Tu t'assieds. Tu soupires, tu te mordilles les doigts. Tu te relèves. Tu n'arrives pas à formuler tes pensées. Ta tête est lourde. Tu passes tes doigts dans les cheveux, en espérant que la douleur va bientôt passer. Tu vas et viens dans la chambre, comme un tigre en cage. Pendant une de tes rondes, tu aperçois ton visage, par hasard, dans le miroir. Le regard qui a croisé le tien pendant cette fraction de seconde ne te semble pas familier.  Tu retournes devant le miroir pour contempler ton image. Les yeux que tu vois paraissent bien trop vides, bien trop vifs pour être les tiens. Tu parcours avec les doigts le contour de tes yeux. Quelques rides y sont déjà gravées, vestiges d'une époque plus joyeuse. Mais tu n'est pas d'humeur à rire aujourd'hui. Tu songes à toutes ces catins des affiches à la peau pixelisée mais parfaite, à ces putains publicitaires qui te promettent une sexualité épanouie, un avenir glorieux, le Shangri-La même, à condition que tu achètes les yaourts, les crèmes de nuit, les voitures de leurs proxénètes. Toi, tout ce que tu recherches, c'est quelque chose d'authentique. De vrai. Tu te consoles d'être assez intelligente pour ne pas tomber dans leur piège, mais tu n'en sors pas indemne. Tu te sens trop maigre, trop ronde. Tes cheveux sont trop secs, trop gras. Tu ne te trouves jolie qu'en photo ou dans la pénombre. Tu as presque honte de ne pas écarter les jambes pour tous ceux qui te le demandent, même si tu as la conviction qu'une femme mérite plus que d'être une simple poupée. Les yeux qui te regardent curieusement dans le miroir sont devenus humides. Est-ce parce qu'ils ont trop vu? Ou n'ont ils pas vu assez? Tu n'en sais rien. Tes rêves de fillette ne se sont jamais réalisés; la princesse a pour robe une uniforme de supermarché, pour trône un siège pivotant. Ta demoiselle d'honneur est une caisse enregistreuse qui te nargue inlassablement. Les courtisans qui viennent solliciter tes bonnes grâces sont des clients, et donc des rois et des despotes. Le corps qui se tient devant toi est un corps de femme, mais les yeux qui regardent droit dans les tiens sont ceux d'une fillette. Tu les couvres de tes doigts et tu t'effondres dans ton lit, les joues ruisselantes de larmes.

She felt an urge to run. To run for the fields. To run for the trees. To feel under her feet something which wasn’t dead, which wasn’t tarmac, something which was organic, something real. Whatever that meant. She let her hair down. She stuck her hands in her pockets and pulled out her phone, her keys, her wallet. She gave a cry of alarm and threw them violently on the floor, as if they had burned her fingers. She walked out the door, leaving it unlocked and open. She started walking, fast, fast, her hair flying behind her like a black flag. Her eyes didn’t take in anything around her. Her ears were ringing. Her thoughts were mingling, intertwining voices, broken and desperate, convoluted and conspiring. She realized that she was in front of the train station. She walked past the ticket booth, ignored the protesting voice which told her to pay, to pay Miss, to pay. She stepped into the train just before the doors shut with a hiss and a sigh, found an empty seat, sat down and closed her eyes.


.

Billows of smoke rose lazily from a scarlet pout. The cigarette slipped to the right of the lips as they unfolded into a broad smile. The smoke vanished into the air, and two blue orbs appeared. The intruder stepped forward, a blonde in boots, with a purple dress and matching beret.

A Much Needed Update

Man, I haven't posted to this blog in almost a year. That's a long time, even for me. This has been the busiest year of my life so far, but I have been writing. But not poems. I'm still working on that novel - the characters have come to life; the plot, which will still be evolving a lot in my mind, is clearer than it ever was. I even still have the motivation. I might even post an extract online sometime. We'll see.