a postmodern bard

2011-05-10T17:48:00.002+02:00

With only a month of lessons to go, the academic year is drawing to an end. You can smell the promise of summer in the air. It’s the season of skirts and sunburns, late night laughter and Martinis on the terraces. You can’t escape it.
Yet time seems to have come to a standstill. I’m stuck in the stifling concrete heat when all I want is to take the first train out of town and go gambol in the grass.
Sometimes the more you walk, the further the destination seems to be. Or is it just me?

http://justtheash.tumblr.com

2011-03-17T11:18:00.002+01:00

Simple words are worthy signs
Of inners worlds and outer planes
And may even hold some sway
Over smooth eyes and heavy sighs,
Or at least that's what they say.
But when you weep and weave and wail
When you live and grieve and love
When there's no wind in your your sail
Words will fail

2011-03-13T08:55:00.002+01:00

Morning. She gets up.
The shutters paint
Her face a zebra.
The curtains whisper:
It's a grey day, not a bad day,
So she sips her tea with a sigh,
A smile and a cigarette.

Songful, Soulful, Sorrowful Ireland

2011-03-13T08:54:00.000+01:00

Some new pictures on my Flickr feed: http://www.flickr.com/photos/groovyshamrock

2011-01-30T14:32:00.000+01:00

tonight the sky is blushing
I wonder who she loves
the sulking city below
always blue, never boring
or the maudlin mountains
their purple peaks ever in the clouds
perhaps the river and her silver circlets
falling over her knolls and groves
maybe she blushes from seeing you
shine with a brighter light

the stream

2011-01-26T22:37:00.000+01:00

Barefoot on the banks of a stream I once knew long ago, I stared at the water, dark and blue below. What I was looking for - my face, my faith - I do not know. All I found was a bucket, brown weeds and a bottle without a message, so I slowly dipped a toe into the dew, stirring the cool calmness into a song of circlets. The stream called for my whole body. 'Swallow me' I said and I slipped naked into her bed. 'Swallow me', but she would not. She proved to be shallow.

2011-01-22T14:09:00.003+01:00

There are those among us who do not exist externally, but live internally. We don’t do, we are. We live, we love, we burn. The past is at our heels but our eyes, like Argus, are fixed on the horizon. We are creatures of possibility. Our dreams are not our desires but our reality, perhaps our truth.

robyn

2011-01-13T11:38:00.000+01:00

the trees reach out for the silver blue
pleading with the winter sun
branches weak and scarred and stripped
bleeding snow from their fingertips

below a girl sings the blues
brown hair red cheeks, funny bird
thorn in heart, broken wings;
in spring all will be buried

by shamrock
photo by wendy bevan

w o r d s

2011-01-07T09:59:00.000+01:00

reading. reading till you forget who you are.
reading till your heart aches and and your eyes tear up.
reading till the pages weigh down your hand and push up your soul.
reading until you choke.
reading.

by shamrock

Resolutions 2011

2010-12-31T14:49:00.000+01:00

- 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

2010-12-18T11:45:00.001+01:00

inspiration #13

2010-11-07T12:28:00.003+01:00

Lucky from Christian Hansen on Vimeo.

interlude poétique #2 - Día de los Muertos

2010-11-01T09:48:00.001+01:00

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

2010-10-31T14:38:00.000+01:00

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

by shamrock

inspiration #12

2010-10-30T09:52:00.000+02:00

Music is love in search of a word.

Sidney Lanier

hotel cordovan

2010-10-25T10:15:00.000+02:00

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

2010-10-25T08:48:00.001+02:00

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

2010-10-19T23:13:00.001+02:00

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

2010-10-19T17:14:00.001+02:00

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

2010-10-16T22:19:00.003+02:00

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

2010-09-29T13:08:00.002+02:00

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

Samuel Beckett

cadavre exquis

2010-09-18T00:08:00.001+02:00

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

2010-08-26T14:48:00.004+02:00

The Diary of a Disappointed Book from Studiocanoe on Vimeo.

the source

2010-08-18T15:29:00.000+02:00

by shamrock

la plage

2010-08-09T11:56:00.000+02:00

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

2010-08-08T11:58:00.000+02:00

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

summer blues

2010-08-07T00:42:00.003+02:00

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

2010-07-28T10:34:00.003+02:00

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

2010-07-22T10:00:00.000+02:00

by shamrock

follow the light

2010-07-21T18:17:00.000+02:00

by shamrock

rothko blues

2010-07-14T12:53:00.000+02:00

by shamrock

l'été

2010-07-13T14:56:00.000+02:00

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

2010-06-28T13:32:00.003+02:00

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

2010-06-25T14:18:00.005+02:00

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

2010-06-23T21:27:00.002+02:00

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

2010-06-20T12:36:00.003+02:00

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

2010-06-14T14:21:00.000+02:00

by shamrock

one leaf left

2010-06-13T19:10:00.000+02:00

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

2010-06-12T14:36:00.001+02:00

"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

2010-06-09T18:21:00.007+02:00

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

2010-06-09T17:15:00.001+02:00

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

inspiration #3

2010-06-08T09:23:00.004+02:00

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

2010-06-05T09:39:00.004+02:00

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

2010-06-04T23:26:00.004+02:00

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

2010-06-01T22:52:00.000+02:00

words

2010-05-31T15:43:00.006+02:00

by shamrock

dix heures

2010-05-30T12:07:00.005+02:00

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

2010-05-23T12:39:00.001+02:00

Doux démon

2010-05-22T15:54:00.008+02:00

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

2010-05-21T23:30:00.005+02:00

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

2010-05-16T18:09:00.007+02:00

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.

2010-05-09T18:30:00.008+02:00

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.

.

2010-04-05T20:29:00.011+02:00

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

2010-04-02T18:48:00.005+02:00

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.

Alive

2009-05-03T20:11:00.006+02:00

She stood barefoot, her back against the old oak tree. She shut her eyes. She dug her toes into the rich, welcoming earth which lay between the oak tree’s gnarly roots. They were warm in the primeval dust which had swallowed them up. She almost felt them grow, reach down deeper, further, closer to the timeless, abyssal mysteries. She slowly raised her arms above her head. She could hear the suave whispering of the leaves above her. The wind, evanescent lover, stroked her hair, caressed her soul. Her face glowed in the sun. She could feel its fingertips on her cheeks. She smiled. She knew at that moment that she was alone, utterly, fatally alone. But she was alive. And that was enough.

Moon Hill

2008-09-18T10:36:00.010+02:00

On an ancient hill in Yorefolkshire
Encircled by the whispering oaks,
Who sway in the wind’s gentle stir,
Unremittingly striving to coax
The Moon out of her silver dress,
I lie, enthralled by her quiet caress.

The Moon gives in to the oaks’ plea
And slips out of the cloud she wore,
Casting her smile on all, with glee.
I look up and with my eyes explore
The expanse unveiled by her light,
Enchanted by the pastoral sight.

A brook nearby laughs with a star,
Its image caught in her nacre lips;
The blue meadows that stretch afar
Into the night, speckled with cowslips,
Form a tranquil ocean of shapely waves,
Which my melancholic soul enslaves.

Wet with dew and on the hill supine,
For a more innocent age I long,
For a forlorn communion I pine.
We once belonged to the same Song,
The trees, the stars, the brook and I;
A symphony from beyond the Sky.

18 September 2008

Monolith

2008-09-18T10:36:00.004+02:00

Flamboyant they came,
Hapless they went;
Lovers, suitors, hopefuls and friends
They fled.

Her body was open,
Hers arms Christ-like
But her heart -
Och! - her heart…

How many young ships,
Eager to dock,
Breached their hulls
In her murky waters?

I knew such a man;
His heart went for a dander
And never came back.
His mind is gone.

But the murderess
Was herself
More ensanguined
Than her ghosts;

For cruel, she was not.
Nicht wirlkich.
Naïveté
Was her bane.

The stone slab
That her ribs housed
Was never engraved
By anyone. Ever.

This, one supposes,
Is her epitaph,
By one detached enough
To care.

August 2008

The Forester

2008-06-17T00:01:00.010+02:00

I met you in the woods on a dark autumn day
When a fair young fawn, fleeting, Ied me astray
Through the deep green clouds, into the clearing
Where you held court with the oak and yew trees.
A red flannel shirt and denim slacks were your robes;
An empty packet of cigarettes, your sceptre.
Your beard was an ancient thicket, sage and regal,
And your long sylvan hair was your silver circlet.
Your eyes were black and deep, bottomless wells
Wisened by the water of life you always
Carried in the pocket of your duffle coat.
I was a lost child, under a moonless canopy,
Seeking a star that might, perchance, light my way.
You never said a word, but slowly raised your eyes,
And with your arms outstretched, you parted the emerald sea.
We never said a word, but I went, and you wept,
Your smile stinging my back with my own shame.
When I turned around for a last glimpse of you,
I saw you swinging your axe, bringing it down,
Felling timber for your own funeral pyre.

Tim, 17 June 2008

Adele

2008-06-16T17:36:00.006+02:00

Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell. - Emily Dickinson

You walked away at night
So the sun couldn't comb
Your raven locks
With its weary fingers.
Winter was waiting for you,
So you went sailing
Through his white cloak
And into the marshes.

Wee will o' the wisp,
I hope you found your way
To where the loughs are crisp
With the ringlets of laughter.

You walked away the night
When Lughnasadh began.
Lily body,
Reaped by raucous fingers;
You never knew who you were,
So you went smoothly,
Without a care,
Into the gloomy moors.

Wee will o' the wisp,
I hope you found your way
To where the nights are lit
With the serenades of stars.

You walked away that night,
Ere I could say goodbye.
Your crimson lips
Never uttered a word.
I was left pining
In the blue mist,
On the banks of the Styx.

Wee will o' the wisp
Is it an ignis fatuus
To hope that you will tread
On the sands of Elysion
With us?

Wee will o' the wisp,
We're still dancing round the fire,
Backwards, backwards.
We're still there where you left us,
But closer, closer.
Closer, Adele.

Tim, 16 June 2008

Extract from "Pot Pourri" #2

2008-04-12T08:44:00.004+02:00

Mummy have big tummy. Daddy have big smile. We go to see the man who put jelly on mummy's tummy. There is a TV but no Bugs Bunny, no Winnie the Pooh. The TV is black and white and it look like clouds moving. Clouds moving slow. Daddy say it's sister. That mean another one of me, but like Mummy, not like Daddy. The man with the jelly have no big smile. He does not like the TV. He say something. Mummy and Daddy have no big smile now. The clouds is not happy in the TV.
Back home. Playing in my room with clown and Bunbury bear. Daddy say sister sick. But not sick like when my nose sticky. Very more sick than that. Mummy cry. Daddy cry. Me cry.

Mummy have big, big, big tummy. Daddy have smile. We in Ireland. Me stay with Granny and Grampa. Mummy and Daddy go to get sister. She in Mummy's tummy. Big, big, big. Me play Lego on floor. Floor blue like sea, with black shapes like clouds. Nice black clouds.

Mummy and Daddy come back but not sister. She not in Mummy's tummy. She come out but not come home. She go to Jesus. I play with Lego. White bricks and red bricks. I make Lego house. Lego house on black cloud on floor. Why she go to Jesus? She go to play with Jesus? I want to play with sister. I want to play with Jesus. But Jesus never come to play Lego.

Daddy angry at clouds. He not look up at clouds. He not speak to clouds.

Words

2008-04-11T17:13:00.008+02:00

I love writing. There's just something about words that helps bring peace to my mind. Lately I haven't had as much time to write as I used to ; but when I take an effort and put the quill to the parchment, or rather my fingers to the keyboard, I am never disappointed. I am always rewarded in some way. Sometimes it's the cathartic release of bottled-up emotions or nostalgic memories that words provide me ; often it's the feeling that I have accomplished, manufactured or created something with my own hands, however humble that thing might be.
Usually I write poetry, mostly because I find it easier to concentrate on writing a small text, in rhyme, rather than page after page of prose. But I've always wanted to write a short story of some kind — I've just never had the patience to finish what I'd started. Recently I've tried working on a new idea, Clouds. We'll see how that goes. In my last post I included an extract of it. It's not great writing, and it doesn't make much sense on its own, but it's a draft of something I hope to build upon in the future. We'll see!

Extract from "Pot Pourri" #1

2008-04-05T23:33:00.008+02:00

The cold sunshine failed to bring any warmth into Seamus's numb knuckles. The turfing iron seemed to be an extension of his own arm, as he bent over, putting pressure on the lug with his feet to break into the unyielding frozen earth. But the ground would not give in. His boot slipped on the lug, and the shaft of his instrument drove into his chest. Seamus fell to the ground, on his back. His tired body ached, but his eyes turned towards the lapis lazuli sky streaked with sheeplike clouds. Each cloud seemed to have a face of its own. They were all flocking westward to some unknown destination. Seamus felt left out from their ethereal exodus. He wondered what it would be like to walk upon them, jumping from cloud to cloud as if they were woolen stepping stones. He wondered if, from up there, he would see all of Hibernia. Her hills, her fields, her woods and her brooks. He would undoubtedly be able to have a clear view of Karsell Manor and its beautiful English garden. He would be able to watch Blanche as she sat in front of the pond, reading her beloved books. He thought he heard her soft luminous voice. A spring of fresh words, shining in the light of her lips, flowing, swimming towards his heart, winning it over, over and over again. Shining, flowing, swimming. Winning. Words. Clouds.
The earth shook under Seamus's head. He heard a clumping. He opened his eyes. Cruel hooves were beating the frozen ground. The stewart. Seamus tried to sit up, but his body would not move. Panic took hold of him. Only his head responded. He turned it to the right. The hooves were just a few inches from his face. He twisted his neck to look up at the black horse, which blew vapour out of its gaping nostrils into the cold air. Upon it was mounted a thin, pale man. His head was bare and his mouse-like nose gave way to a thin red moustache. "Get up off your ass, fenian", the stewart shouted, in a high-pitched voice and with a strong English accent. Seamus tried to move his arms and legs, but they would not respond. He looked up at the clouds, helplessly. "I said get up off your filthy fenian ass!"
"I can't, sir!"
"What's this?"
"I can't move, sir. I fell to the ground, and I think the cold has got to me."
"Humbug! You are just a lazy white nigger, like all the rest of you bloody Irish fools. Get up right away, or I will give you a taste of this crop."
Seamus could not move. The horse crop came down on his chest like a lightning bolt, again and again. He clenched his teeth. The stewart sneered, whipped his horse, and rode away. Seamus continued to stare at the clouds, wheezing. Each breath he drew left his chest in excruciating pain. He felt darkness closing in on him. God help me... God help me.

It was the smell of freshly baked soda bread that brought Seamus back to his senses. He opened his eyes. He was lying in a small bed. A quilt was pulled up to his chin. A peat fire diffused a warm but shy reddish light in the otherwise dark room. He could see the curvaceous silhouette of a young woman in the far side of the room, busying itself around what seemed to be a stove. He opened his mouth to call out her name, but instead was seized by a coughing fit. The girl immediatly ran up to his bedside.
"Seamus! Are ya all right?", she cried.
"Aye, Maire, I'm grand", Seamus managed to say between fits of coughing.
"Ya don't look grand to me, Seamus. That cough doesn't sound good. And you're as pale as death." Maire's voice sounded alarmed.
"Och don't you worry about me, Maire. I've been through far worse than this."
"Not worry? Did you see the bruises and wounds on your chest? The stewart gave you a beating again, didn't he?"
"Yes, he did. But..."
"I knew it." Maire's voice was angry now. "I knew it. I told you to keep out of trouble. You've been with that English girl again, haven't you? That's why Lady Karshell sent the stewart after you, isn't it? You reap what you sow, Seamus. That bastard is going to kill you someday. And you'll deserve it." Seamus coughed again, and tears started running down from Maire's pretty brown eyes. "I don't mean what I've just said, Seamus. You know I don't. It's just... It's just that I don't know why you go gallivanding after that girl. I don't know what you see in her. What does Blanche have that us Irish girls don't have?" Seamus shrugged his shoulders under the bedcovers. "Seriously, Seamus. I want to know."
"I honestly can't tell you. I just don't. But I know that I can't help it." By it, he meant the intense, passionate, debilitating love he felt for Blanche. Maire tried, in vain, to wipe her tears off her cheeks with strands of her long auburn hair. Seamus lifted his hand to her cheeks to help her. "Don't cry, Maire", he said softly. "You know we were never meant to be. We are too much alike, you and I. Or too different, I don't know which. I'm sure you'll find yourself a husband someday."
"Necer mind", Maire smiled. "I've been working on the land all day. And then taking care of you. I think I'm just tired."
"Not too tired to jig, I hope? Dan's cousin is staying with his family at the moment, and he's a damn good fiddler. He was supposed to play at the Cross Keys tonight."

Élégie (nouvelle composition)

2008-03-03T23:14:00.004+01:00

In Memoriam H.H.

Fille noble, tu n'a jamais vu danser les étoiles;
Le soleil a omis d'embrasser ton visage;
Le vent n'a pas pu jouer avec tes bouclettes.
Les rivages du Styx ont été ton seul voyage,
La Nature cruelle te jeta aux oubliettes.
Fille noble, tu n'a jamais vu danser les étoiles.

Ton épitaphe brumeuse est gravée dans ma chair
Et les sables du Temps ne combleront jamais
Les rainures creusées par les larmes de tant d'années,
Tant ton cher spectre tapi en mon âme se plaît
A m'arracher chaque nuit des cris de damné.
Ton épitaphe brumeuse est gravée dans ma chair!

Ce petit berceau vide hante mes jours et mes nuits,
Ton cadavre que je n'ai jamais serré me pèse
Tel le globe sur les épaules d'un Atlas vieilli.
Sanglante épiphanie, funeste catéchèse!
Ton charmant sourire devait éclairer nos vies...
Ce petit berceau vide hante mes jours et mes nuits!

M'accorderas-tu cette danse, ô Disparue?
Nous déchirerons les ailes de l'ange de lumière
Et puis, main dans la main, nous nous élèverons,
Nous abandonnerons les futilités d'Hier,
Tous deux nous nous envolerons comme des hérons.
M'accorderas-tu cette danse, ô Disparue?

Until we meet again.
Tim, 3 mars 2008

Sunshine (new poem)

2008-03-03T22:13:00.003+01:00

There is no new thing under the sun;
Only enterprises half begun,
Aborted endeavours to do good;
For only harlots try to be prude
And only junkies try to stay clean,
So we are all blind fools trying to glean
Pieces of our selves in the gutter,
And the parts of our souls which clutter
The drab dustbins of Humanity.
All is absurd — all is vanity.

There is no new thing under the sun;
So we all get drunk and have some fun,
Yes we get naked and we get high
But we don’t feel free and we don’t know why.
We work to get rich and then we die
Before the gloss on our lips is dry.
We try to delay the ferryman,
So we sacrifice our soul to Pan.
We are shadows of Humanity.
We are absurd — we are Vanity.

There is no new thing under the sun ;
Our existence is a grey thread spun
By the cruel hands of Destiny,
Which is what we call the villainy
Provoked by our own absurd mistakes.
We eat our ludicrous tales like snakes,
Hide ourselves behind a rotten bark
And fumble in circles in the dark
Cadaver of our Humanity.
All is absurd — all is vanity.

Tim, October 2007

Les Fleuves de Babylone (nouvelle composition)

2007-09-23T18:27:00.000+02:00

Un poème que je viens juste de composer...

Babylone la belle, Babylone l’infâme,
Toi qui te fait passer pour une dame,
Toi qui m'enchaîne aux bords de tes fleuves
Dont, forcé par ta main, je m'abreuve ;

Toi, ô Babylone, déesse de la guerre,
Qui me contraint à boire tes eaux amères,
Ton sourire est une grimace effrontée
Mais malheur à toi ! Tes jours sont comptés.

Hélas je suis complice de tes caprices ;
Je t’ai aimé et j’ai aimé tes vices.
Longtemps tu m’as dirigé par tes fils,
Captivé par ta beauté mercantile.

Jadis tu fus belle, jadis tu fus reine,
Tu reçus une couronne en guise d’étrenne,
Mais, ingrate, tu la foulas à tes pieds
Et tu fis de l’injustice ton trépied.

Mais les cris des innocents que tu foules
Dans tes grandes cités d’or, où se déroulent
Les pires infamies contre l’orphelin
Et la veuve ne sont pas poussés en vain.

Tu marches sur le dos des misérables,
Dont le sang rend tes terres arables
Mais méfie-toi, ô reine des damnés
Tu moissonneras ce que tu as semé.

Car il y a du changement dans l’air ;
Tes fiers parfums ne masquent guère
L'odeur nauséabonde de ton cadavre;
Bientôt la tombe sera ton seul havre.

Tes petits ne seront jamais sevrés
De ton lait infanticide, suranné ;
Ton sein, jadis fécond, se flétrit déjà ;
Voilà que de ton règne l’on sonne le glas.

Tes disciples se pâment devant tes restes,
Pâlissent et flétrissent à cause de la peste
Qui émane de ton sombre mausolée ;
Jamais plus ne seront-ils cajolés.

Babylone la disparue ; qui l’eût cru ?
La fierté de l’Occident n’est plus.
Rouge coulent les fleuves de Babylone;
Écarlate sont les fleuves de Babylone!

Tim, septembre 2007

Snow

2007-09-23T15:42:00.000+02:00

I remember writing this four years ago, on a cold and dark winter evening, with my candlestick heating my fingers and a steaming mug of tea warming my soul.

Her toes sink into the scarlet carpet;
From the dungeons to the highest turret
Torches twinkle dreamily in the halls
Candle wax forms scented waves as it falls.

Mulled wine and warm ale tickle her nostrils;
Out the windows she sees the snowy hills
Each flake falls from the sky like a falling star;
They powder the night like white feathers on tar.

Ermines and does softly run along the white;
The robin sleeps ; not a fear or a fight,
No shield no blade no horse's saddle
All is calm as a new born's craddle.

Yet icy tears freckle her burning cheeks
Bitter mourning has injured her for weeks
But her pain doesn't crumple her beauty,
Dark long hair and blue eyes : she stays pretty

She stares at the hills waiting for her love
She implores pity and help from Above
She dreams of his return, wakes up in tears
She can't get rid of her darkest fears

He'd sworn he'd return, his oath was sincere
So why isn't he back, why isn't he here?
Has the battlefield swallowed up her Knight?
Ghosts of his face haunt her throughout the night.

She wakes up at dawn, kissed by the sunlight
She looks out at the hills, so high so bright
She suddenly feels like a rainbow cloud
Her love is riding home, she shouts out loud

He looks up, halts in front of her window
Behind him, the crimson trail in the snow
Doesn't stop him from giving one last smile
He waves at her, says "See you in a while"

He falls off his horse, unto the soft ground
She wants to scream, her lips won't make a sound
Something under her chest violently dies
Silently but fatefully her soul cries

She feels her heart quiver, she feels so old
Her blood still flows but her body is cold
Without a sound she falls from the window
She's dead already when she hits the snow

The dead lovers sink into the white
The maroon pool is sucked by the sunlight
Two red doves slowly crawl out of the snow
Flap their wings and fly towards a rainbow

Tim, December 2003

Aux Oubliés

2007-09-23T14:16:00.001+02:00

Ô Coeur, morose oublié de notre jeunesse,
Foulé par le pied ranci d'affreux vieillards
Tu pleures, dépouillé de ton antique noblesse,
Vainement consolé par des louanges rares!
Le Coeur morose est oublié de la jeunesse.

Ô Âme, tu es la clef d'une vie d'arc-en-ciel,
Tu es le sel des viandes dures et amères,
Tu es notre vin, notre Muse, notre miel,
Tu es de l'ennui, de la douleur mon Cerbère!
Ô Âme, tu es la clef d'une vie d'arc-en-ciel!

Ô Art, inutile rideau, beau comme les flammes,
Plus riches que les monarques, plus beau que Narcisse,
Tu es l'humble Serviteur du Coeur et de l'Âme
Et tu embaumes le Corps, que le front tu déplisses.
Ô Art, inutile rideau, brûle comme les flammes!

Ô Rire, toi qui subjugues le sang même de Bacchus,
Tu brilles là où le Soleil a perdu espoir,
Et peut transformer tout cadavre en Aengus;
Tu confortes les yeux encore plus que le Noir.
Ô Rire, tu subjugues le sang même de Bacchus!

Ô Corps, divin cocon si souvent maltraité,
Tu es la victime de l'hypocrite dévot,
Tu es la tombe du voleur jamais arrêté;
Peu connaissent ton prix, peu savent ce que tu vaux,
Cher Corps, divin cocon si souvent maltraité!

Ô toi Yawheh, à Tes doux pieds je m'incline,
Tremblant comme une feuille, transparent comme un nuage;
Toi auquel toute mon essence je destine,
Que pleuve sur ta couronne une armée d'hommages!
Ô toi Yahweh, à Tes saints pieds je m'incline!

Tim, 2004 (?)

Impatience

2007-09-23T14:15:00.001+02:00

Je nage dans un océan brumeux,
M'asphyxiant avec docile extase,
Flottant sur les nuages sinueux,
Papillonant vers toi comme Pégase;

Mes ailes battent mais elles sont alourdies
Par les lourds filets laissés par le Temps;
Mon esprit rêvasse mais est engourdi
Comme la première jonquille du Printemps.

Mais mon coeur est plus vivant que jamais,
Et si sans cesse je ne te clamais
Des doux "Je t'aime, ma petite Princesse",

Alors sans aucun doute il crèverait,
Et donc jamais plus je ne rêverais:
Toute ma vie ne serait que détresse.

Tim, 10/07/04

Still Water

2007-09-23T14:14:00.001+02:00

Does the cry of the songbird leave you unmoved?
Do things have to be seen for them to be proved?
Does the rising sun bring nothing but dread
Of yet one more day you will count for dead?

Are dreams but a faded childish game?
Is your heart like a lion you cannot tame,
Wildly fighting ev'ry scent and colour
Dumbly ignoring ev'ry shade and odour?

Is your life an elegy without a melody,
An unfortunate sacrifice without a body?
Are you a faustian tragedy,
Have you swapped your Soul for easy money?

Drip by drip, the hourglass spits
All will be over in a blitz
And what will you have left down here,
But disappointment, tears and fear?

***

Set sail before your ship sinks
Take wing before comes the storm.

Tim, 19/01/06

Requiem #1

2007-09-23T14:12:00.000+02:00

The lack of words that come to my mind is appalling
As if my brain was a huge furnace burning
Burning, melting, melding concepts, ideas and thoughts
Into a cast-iron skeleton of emptiness
A void as cold, as winter gale on naked skin
Reaching, stretching deep and far within
Yet what I have I have, what I've got I've got
Far behind is the barkless tree's loneliness

My Soul is rocked to life's bitter-sweet lullaby
Up and down, to and fro, wet and dry
It is seemingly inexorable to slip off the deck
And sink into the dark blue ocean of gloom
I never get a firm enough grip around the mast
Nor do the clear blue heavens seem to last
Yet when I think I am destined to shipwreck
A Hand always saves me from eternal doom

The Giver of Life has showered me with gold
More than I deserve, more than I can hold
Yet my ungrateful discontented human nature
Leaves me high and dry, wretched and naked
And sucks me down a whirlpool of ego
Wave after wave; and then away I go
Rejoicing in my own selfish rapture
Taking all and everything for granted

Tonight teach me your favourite dance
Let me skip in a demented trance
Around your totem and around the clock
Pray accept the incense that you are due
For I've seen you dance the dance of love
And I've heard you sing sounds from Above
That ensnare and caress and embrace and shock
Forever, Supreme Lover, keep me close to you

Tim, 07/12/04 - (recovered, continued and finished 19/01/06)

Missive

2007-09-23T14:03:00.000+02:00

Sometimes a soft blushing breeze strokes my face
It flies through a window and lands with grace
Or knocks at the door, wakes me with a start;
Whispers, echoes in the depths of my heart.
As a dream crafted in the Elven realm,
It summons me to let go of the helm
For sailing is a noble art of Old;
A storm of gail, and the mast will fold.
It whirls and twirls, wrenches like silver smoke
And invokes one of the De Danann Folk.
Dark hair, chaning features and sunset eyes,
Her inaudible words and warm and wise.
Far from being a deceitful banshee,
Her Soul is crystal ; innocent is she.
Her breath is at once cheerful and morose,
Like morning dew on a petal of rose.
I am hers, she is mine, we are De Danann;
We will meet in true form when it is dawn.
But now she fades ; the World is beckoning.
The Wind murmurs : i must start preparing
My blade and shield ; many battles await
Until we are brought together by Fate.
I fasten my breastplate, ready to cope,
Thank the Heavens for this missive of hope.

Tim, 2004 (?)

Irin

2007-09-23T13:55:00.000+02:00

Life may be a torrent through which I wade
Spice may lose its taste and colours may fade
Fellow man has, oh, so much hate to trade
Yet hope survives ; see it glimmer like jade

See it shine through the warm smile of a friend;
A joke and a prayer are enough to mend
A shivering soul and a weary heart;
Turn to her smile if you need a new start.

Silver shining eyes and a heart of gold
A royal Soul that will never grow old
Are the gifts given from Above,
That she returns to her kindred with love.

Crystal shores, rainbow cities, elven dreams
Light up her skyward heart, see how she beams
For the Maker, the High King of all kings
Behold her love, see how her Soul sings.

Never will i be able to repay
What you brought me, yesterday and today
Although I know one who can, at my place.
May God bless you always, fill you with grace.

I thank Him for having sent you, sister
You can help keep on fire the dying cinder
So may He acknowledge the way you serve
May He bring you the Prince you so deserve.

Haha. Who would have ever guessed that that would be me.
Tim, 25 april 2004

Home Sweet Home

2007-09-23T13:43:00.001+02:00

Une composition sur le thème de l'espérance.

Paupières lourdes, ton coeur l'est davantage
Tu es jeune, mais ton coeur n'a plus d'âge
Comme un oiseau qui perd son plumage
Ton espoir fond, meurt et accouche de rage

Mais tu rentreras bientôt chez toi
Le Printemps approche, chassera le froid
Les temps changent, tu n'est plus la proie
Du sang royal coule dans tes veines grâce à ta foi

Les anges t'entraînent derrière les chutes argentées
Vers un monde d'arcs-en-ciel et de fées
Lynx et cerfs parcourent ensemble les prés
Loups et agneaux dorment sous le même cerisier

Deux colombent nichent dans une tour d'émeraude
Autour duquel des dryades chantent une ode
Et d'un pas léger dansent, dansent les satyres
Autour de la Muse riante aux yeux de saphir

Dans le palais des montagnes, sur la plus haute terrasse
En observant la Lune, les nymphes se prélassent
Et sur le dos de blanches licornes domptées
S'envolent à travers les étoiles nacrées

Tu atteindras un jour les rivages d'ivoire
Tu seras accueillie et habillée de moire
Par les princes et les princesses qui t'attendent
Pour t'amener au chateau des guirlandes

Dans les jardins où les milliers d'arbres
Chatouillent les pieds des citadelles de marbre
Sur la colline de jade de la Cité de Cristal
A côté de laquelle même le Soleil semble pâle

Alors ouvre tes yeux et sèche tes larmes
Retrouve ton sourire, c'est ta meilleure arme
Tu es déjà adoubée, bientôt tu seras sacrée
Alors navigue et garde le cap sur le Pays Doré

Tim, 25 janvier 2004

Le Syndrome Phénix

2007-09-23T13:34:00.001+02:00

J'ai écrit celui-ci quand je me suis apperçu que je tombais amoureux de ma Muse... La version anglaise apparentée est Boomerang Syndrome.

Cette odeur qui me vient m'est familière;
Un frisson de froid, une odeur de guerre
La couleur connue de mon propre sang.
Victime innocente, sacrifice d'enfant.

L'Ennemi, sous un nouvel avatar
Me surprend sans armure : il est trop tard.
Rapidement il avance, sort sa morphine,
D'un coup plante son aiguille dans mon échine.

Paralysé, il arrache vite mon coeur;
Mes larmes coulent : je ne sens aucune douleur
Mais je suis dans un trou claustrophobique;
Je me noie mais sans aucune panique.

Je me hisse de ce bain de sang, de larmes,
Je regarde. Je tremble. Je crie d'alarme.
Devant moi se dresse un dédale de bains
Tous, en tous points, identiques au mien.

Mais je sais qu'il y a un échappatoire,
La Sainte drogue non-hallucinatoire.
Même quand je souffre elle me permet de voir.
J'ai soif, mais je n'ai plus besoin de boire.

Je sens sur mon visage le vent qui change
De direction. Vent frais et chaud. Étrange.
Mon corps rejette le coeur bionique,
Celui que toujours en vain je fabrique.

Mon coeur renaît, plus gros, plus beau, plus grand.
Il chauffe, il chauffe un fer chauffé à blanc;
Des poulies le hissent très vite vers le ciel
Il commence à pleuvoir : des larmes de miel.

Les rideaux s'écartent. La brume se dissipe;
Le moule s'effrite, tout doucement se fripe.
Une nouvelle étoile me regarde en face
Son masque disparaît sans aucune trace.

Un sourire, un sourire de pouzzolane
Apparaît, au soleil, comme de la manne.
Je ne suis plus las d'être là, ici-bas.
Les chaînes tomberont à grand fracas...

Tim, décembre 2006

Boomerang Syndrome

2007-09-23T13:20:00.001+02:00

One I wrote when I realized that I was falling in love with the one who was soon to become my Muse...

I recognise that smell...
Like a caved-in well
Like a red hot door knob
It makes your heart throb

It's a blood-thirsty boomerang
Back to steal back to hang
The accursed treasure chest
Leaves you no rest

I stare in front of me with dread
A cage is falling upon my head
Look, it's back again to wreck,
To suck the blood from my neck

Once, twice or thrice
These Three Blind Mice
Space, Love and Freak
Combine their forces to make me weak

Where is the door, where is that door?
The water's rising and I can breathe no more
I'm on my knees, biting the dust
Like a stopped watch left to rust

The Holy drug I hold in contemplation
Cannot grant me any psychedelic illusion
Because lucidity I have to keep in this strife
To measure the depths of this trivial life

I wish things would smoothly rhyme
I know it's just a matter of Time
But Time is the offspring of Space
And Space shows me no grace...

Tim, Autumn 2003

Ineffable

2007-09-23T13:18:00.000+02:00

This is one's not about a person, but about a concept... easy to work out.

As the sun strokes her gentle face
She looks up at me with a smile full of grace
Her eyes contain all the treasures of nature
Her smile guarantees that there is a future

As the full moon pierces the shadows
As a lantern among dark trees glows
Her demeanor and her gaze have cast upon me a charm
A mysterious beckoning that I can't fight without harm

This supernatural struggle is one I will not quit
I am a gladiator, my arena is a sea-deep pit
A frown on her brow or a ceasing of a smile
And I will condemn myself to errancy or exile

As the north wind is engulfed in the sail of a ship
The eruption within me acts like a burning whip
The more it licks my back the stronger I become
My heart may gently bleed but my body is numb

This is not a shrill cry of heartbreaking grief
I am not wasting away like the fallen leaf
I cherish my life and embrace its fragrance
But I have merely found my own quintessence

He or she who has once tasted this condition
Will understand that this is just a human description
Of what can make a creature crawl or shine
The Thing that Gwydion himself could not define

This uncanny feeling should have remained nameless
Simply because it is one of the components of Bliss
And no human tongue truly has the power or right
To try to turn into one bare word something so bright

This Thing which is stronger even than Life
Which cannot be destroyed by fire or by knife
Will for ever be immune to any kind of abortion
Because it is unquestionably of divine creation

One day this nameless Mystery will bind
Every single sister and brother of our Kind
And the clutches of Darkness and Blood and Hate
Will be annihilated by something even more great

Tim, 2003 (?)

Far is Close

2007-09-23T12:58:00.000+02:00

Not a great one, but I thought I'd post it anyway... I have no idea who it was for - if it was in fact intended for anyone in particular.

Lying on the grass, staring at the stars
Dreaming and smiling, staying there for hours
Wondering if for you the sun has set
If the weather's bright, or if it is wet

Thinking of your face, thinking of your smile
Grinning to myself, every little while
Thinking of your laugh, thinking of your eyes
"Out of sigh out of mind"? A heap of lies!

Though my smiles are never wry
I have been left high and dry
Not by you, it's not your crime
But by distance, space and time

Ignoring the future, forgetting the past
Quickly goes the Present, minutes don't last
Do you know where you're going with this life
Gold may be shiny, but so is a knife.

How will it end? Has it even started?
From you I can not ever be parted
Maybe the distance between us is wide
But don't worry, you'll always be inside

I miss you, do you miss me?
One day, my friend, we will be
Alongside many others
We're all sisters and brothers...

Tim, 2003 (I think)

Déclaration

2007-09-23T12:57:00.000+02:00

Un poème que j'ai écrit à l'époque où je courrais toujours après des avatars de ma Muse... et avant que je ne la trouve pour de vrai. C'est curieux de retomber sur des vieux textes écrits il y a des années, et de constater la différence entre le moi d'antan et le moi présent.
Par contre, le dernier couplet est un peu moyen...

Comme un navire bercé par l'océan,
Je glisse à travers les royaumes du temps.
Le soleil levant envahit le noir;
Le rossignol entonne un hymne d'espoir;
La rose cache ses épines avec une fleur;
Des cendres renaît le phénix qui jamais ne meurt.
Le poète sait transformer son chagrin
En soliloque, en euphémisme divin.

Si aucun mot ne contient l'essence
Qui exprimerait cette incandescence,
Alors l'art n'est qu'une excuse de l'humanité
Pour masquer son éternelle nudité.
Cela ne signifie pas qu'elle est lâche;
En effet, chère amie, il faut que tu saches
Que depuis toujours les artistes emploient
Leurs armes pour défendre ce en quoi ils croient.

Alors, ma chère, est-ce que tu comprendras
Que sonder mon ardeur, je ne peux pas?
Que la décrire en mots m'est impossible?
Que faire face à tout, seul, m'est si pénible?
Mes lèvres sont les messagers de mon coeur.
Ce rôle est très difficile, j'en ai bien peur,
Mais peut-être que tu me pardonneras
De les laisser te parler comme cela.

Mais mon coeur a été pris en otage,
Et enfin j'ai pu trouver le courage
De faire face à ce tendre geôlier
Qui le tient si fermement prisonnier.
Si l'amour était une brillante étoile
Je t'offrirais toute la céleste voile,
Je ferais des astres un immense bouquet
Que sur la voie lactée je te dédierais.

Non, bien sûr, je ne te mérite pas,
Mais daigne au moins te pencher sur mon cas.
Un geste de tes beaux et augustes doigts
Et le gladiateur mourra pour toi;
Un sourire de tes lèvres de princesse
Et je serai pout toujours fou d'ivresse;
Un froncement de tes royaux sourcils
Et je me condamnerai à l'exil.

Tu vois, mon sort est entre tes mains.
Mais ce n'est pas pour ça que je m'en plains!
Maintenant frappe ou caresse ou dénonce,
Mais je t'en prie, donne moi une réponse!
Car vivre sans connaître le futur
De mon coeur est quelque chose de si dur.
Alors, je dis en mots simples quand même :
De tout mon être, de tout mon coeur, je t'aime.

Tim, avril 2003

Corbeaux

2007-09-23T12:44:00.000+02:00

Je vois une longue spirale de corbeaux
S'élevant au-dessus de berceaux
Portés par des cigognes avec des crocs,
Qui volent vers les endroits chauds.

Parfois j'entends au loin de terrible cris...
Je reconnais quelquefois la voix d'un ami
Ou de tourmentés qui sombreront dans l'oubli
Dès que je ne serai plus ici.

Des baigneurs nagent dans du sang...
Celui de leurs propres enfants!
En sont-ils seulement conscients?
Ils sont à jamais prisonniers du Temps...

Cyclones de douleur
Nuages de doute
Océans de peur
Tu t'es trompé de route

Ils ont refermé la cage derrière eux;
Ils sont face à face à tout ce que
Ils ont toujours su faire le mieux
Et ce n'est plus de l'eau qui pleut.

Ça ne sert à rien de se plaindre
Pourquoi perdre son temps à geindre?
Pourquoi essayer de feindre
Que vous n'aviez rien à craindre?

La pitié c'est trop me demander
Vous me l'avez toujours refusé
Maintenant c'est vous qui souffrez
Et je suis trop loin pour vous aider

Tornades de souffrance
Cumulus de larmes
Trous noirs en croissance
Tu as succombé au mauvais charme

Tim, novembre 2003

Kaléidoscope

2007-09-23T12:37:00.000+02:00

Sans aucune trace, Chronos assomme et masse;
Il casse ce qu'on amasse, passe et tracasse
Et on reste assoupli et affaibli
Par le seul butin qui n'a pas de prix.

Esprit sinistrement anorexique,
Coeur grelottant comme le trépas d'une bique,
Conscience du Présent au regard perdu,
Roue du Temps ralentie par le vent cru.

Papilles tues conservant quelques couleurs,
Muscles étirés sans aucune douleur,
Vision glacée déviant sur l'océan,
Mousson sans fin ou éternel Printemps?

Scarifications sous prises de morphine,
Coups de fouets sur le fossile d'une échine,
Excès d'attente et toujours overdose,
Objet lointain ne peut entendre prose.

Nuages roses que la réalité broute,
Carnage potentiel que l'on redoute,
Lieues cruelles, vous êtes la seule barrière,
Tombez à mes pieds, c'est plus qu'une prière.

Kaléidoscope de tout sentiment,
Ingurgite et avale acidement
La résonance de ton propre glas
La chute des chaînes liant mes bras las.

Tim, Juin 2003

Mind Kaleidoscope

2007-08-03T09:55:00.000+02:00

Another one from my high school years. I've loads from that era : haven't written much recent ones, to be honest.

The breadth of Time is running through my hair,
Guiding as so often an inward stare
To the feet of a floating ice image
Carved in the memories' latest vintage.

This contemplation on the Sea of Doubt
Often distillates all that lingers out,
Out, and into a colourless liquid,
Corroding all lesser things like acid.

The taste of rose petals in distant lands,
The strangely familiar touch of those hands
Fade away with the stars when comes the day
But feed the Dreamer to make him the prey.

The taste of rose petals in distant lands,
The strangely familiar touch of those hands
Fade away with the stars when comes the prey
But feed tthe Dreamer to make him the prey.

This longing for the rest alongside her eyes,
This craving for this heart-strangling's demise,
Is amplified to torture by distance,
The only real disrupting insistence.

Just like a spider are false notes spinning
And each one of my fibres is ringing.
Lost in her, set in me, like a brick wall,
I'm swimming up a reversed waterfall.

Grey cannot define this peculiar state ;
The colours are there, but they alienate ;
A kaleidoscope of dancing feelings
They breed then die and at last sprout wings.

Turning to the West I manage to smile,
'Cause I'll be cruising East in a short while;
Hopefully when we leave from Babylon,
Princess will be with me singing along

And then will sound the true rythm of Time;
Feelings as actors will speak and not mime;
Meanwhile drink a refreshing sip of Hope,
Homogenize the Mind Kaleidoscope.

Tim, June 2003

Aux Romantiques

2007-08-03T09:30:00.000+02:00

Entre deux nuages roses, auprès du crépuscule,
A l'intérieur d'une multicolore bulle,
Repose une terre vierge, verte et féconde
Elevée dans le sein du rêveur de ce monde
Bercée par de nobles fantasmes, de tendres songes
Animé par les soupirs, les larmes qu'elle éponge.

Ses montagnes bleues, encerclées d'arbres dansants
Ses vallons d'émeraude, ses ruisseaux flamboyants
Ses mers orageuses, allaitant les brunes falaises
Ses forêts vivantes, crépitantes comme de la braise
Ressemblent aux doux berceaux des antiques dieux;
Or seul l'âme romantique porte la clef des lieux.

Au centre de l'île trône un château-fort
Bastion de la plume, protégeant des remords
Citadelle de l'honneur, de l'amour et du rêve
Marquant avec la douleur une juste trêve
Tel le lait pur d'une maternelle brebis
Enivre le poète, qui oublie ses soucis.

Autour des tables garnies de viandes et d'hydromel
Les romantiques rient, s'embrassent, discutent des choses belles
Se prélassent dans les vastes et chaudes salles tapissées
Et perdent leurs craintes, leurs soupirs, leurs front plissés
Et dansent, dansent sous l'enchantement de la lyre
Et tournent, tournent, le cœur entraîné par le rire

Dehors, la neige endimanche les pins, ces druides
Grands prêtres de la nature, puissants et fluides
Accueillant solennellement les âmes festives
Qui chantonnent autour des flammes d'une voix fraîche et vive
Les corps chauffés par les fourrures, vins aux épices,
Et les étreintes fraternelles qui les cœurs adoucissent.

Quand viendra dame Renouveau, belle comme Aphrodite,
Vêtue de narcisses, de roses, enfantées des mythes,
Les ruisseaux susurreront à l'oreille docile
Du rossignol qui tirera d'une nuit fertile
Les rêveurs enchantés de son mélodique rire;
Les dryades des bois et leur parfum de myrrhe.

Oyez! Voici que viennent Danu et Déméter
Leurs paniers plein de fruits, pieds féconds foulant terre!
L'astre brûlant caresse les jeunes promeneurs
A l'ombre de leurs soupirs, à l'ombre de leurs peurs
Ils se revêtent des lacs, de la mer bleues et dorées
Echauffés par les baisers passionnés du beau Ré.

Mais Ré s'assoupit, de sa propre gloire se lasse;
Dionysos, hardi et riant, prend sa place
Pour arroser les versants du doux sang des vignes
Dont s'abreuvent les racines des arbres, qui, indignes
Perdent leur pudeur, et se parent comme des rois
D'or, d'argent, d'airain et d'autres métaux précieux
Ravissant, sans pitié, les romantiques yeux.

Puis les arbres redeviennent chastes pèlerins
Jettent leur or, et se revêtent d'humble lin.
Cette danse éternelle de milles émotions
Ce repas rituel de tendres passions
Rassasie le poète qui a perdu la Muse
Désaltère le rêveur déchu s'il n'en abuse.

Que cette contrée vous porte toujours bonheur
Vous, ô mes chers poètes, romantiques et rêveurs
Que ses vertus vous soient source d'inspiration
Ses chutes d'eau, ses forêts exaltations
Et sachez donc que la clef de cette demeure
Repose entre vos mains, en votre noble cœur.

Tim, June/juin 2004.