gateaux de mariage à belleville

by Annie Griolet 

Cliquez pour enlargir! xoxoox

to annie-claire for my birthday (translation)

and to all my sister souls

a rose-orange daisy a mix-up an infinity a symphony in c# minor
a busy life the prey of absence a seance another covenant for you and me
a path towards spring gainsbourg et simone play for our hearts blue butterflies both of us
joy without end a tenderness that offends that nourishes that embraces that inflames our spirits
then the march of women come their legs their arms hand in hand they never finish
we are friends sweetness we are lovers (fem) of lovers (fem) cream and sugar
beauty voluptuousness whips and wings somber eyes deepest night blue of sky a veil of skin
to touch to flirt to triumph on the hill behind the fields i find my lover awaiting me
and me without age without plot without scars rebirths my body and gives all glory to thee

Flowers from last year's garden by Barbary Chaapel

à annie-claire pour mon anniversaire

et pour toutes mes âmes-sœurs

une marguérite rose-orange un mélange un infini une symphonie en do dièse mineur
une vie toute prise la proie de l'absence une voie une autre loi pour
toi et moi
un chemin vers le printemps gainsbourg et simone tous les jours les papillons bleus nous deux
la joie sans cesse la tendresse qui blesse qui nourit qui embrasse qui enflamme nos âmes
puis la marche des femmes viennent ses jambes ses bras et la main dans la main elles ne finissent pas
nous sommes amies douceur nous sommes amantes des amantes crème et sucre
beauté volupté fouets et ailes yeux sombres brun foncé bleu clair et une voile de chair
toucher flirter triompher sur la colline derrière les champs je trouve mon amante qui m'attend
et moi sans âge sans complot sans plaies renait mon corps et te donne la gloire

fleur: shasta daisy by Andrea Grenadier

Repudiation Song

Do you think this body has anything to do with me at all,
this heart that throbs its seventy beats per minute,
this blood thick and coarse, these uneven rhythms like ocean,
this veined arm full of scars raised over my head for effluence,
these rubber ribbons wrapped 'round it and pumped up large with
green vinyl and frail wires, then gauged and recorded like
every nickel-and-dime thought in the daily diary I try to keep?

This heart is not an organ at all, no, not a thing beating for a season
but an idea that sings with every breaking dawn and blazing sunset
I've seen, as I sit on the rocks west of all my travelled highways and
brokered mountains, somewhere at the edge of a world where
time itself stands still, a second bleeding into hours,
colors bent wider with light, and the mind quiet as twilight
in blind anticipation that hearts will again pump blood and
tides will be drawn in and out, as we give ourselves over to
our great mother and trust her to fulfill her gravitational pull.

Nothing but nothing is what it seems, for each thing stands as
a representatative idea. So what do i have to do with this body,
this hot blood, this muscular heart, the elastin of my arms,
when i am in love with the silver moon and her symbolic works?
And I tell you, nothing, except this heart so full it hurts.
And what do i have to do with pain at all but love?
And what do i have to do with death or birth when i'm a bird
with an endless ocean to cross and a song for every season?

i need a poem

i need something
anything perhaps i'm bored and flat
i'm getting fat and flabby
waiting around for
another idea to take me
into a stratosphere of sound
i'm too silently wound
tight as a drum and dull
my arms hurt like hell asi work the keyboard
my eyes catch a glimpse of film
sex with sound, wow!
and i think with a laugh
perhaps what i need isa good fuck like that!
but then sigh out loud
'cause that's no cure at all
for what pains me
it's too temporary
too corporeal and
it's violent as hell

no, i need a poem
that fits me better than
any sexy trick in the book
it assuages my sense
of worthlessness
it gets me out into
public life and sends
waves of being into this
otherwise tepid nothingness
needs needs needs hound me
day and night and keep me
fighting, seeking, hoping for
something fresh, something true
to wake me up out of
this lousy nightmare
but a good poem like
a good cigar takes off the edge
sucks out the foam from
my diminishing brain
and lets it breathe again

a good poem
i need a good poem
could be yours but
ought to be mine
i can't live my life without writing
i don't want to live if
i can't think to put words to it
to that which has no wordsi love my children
my friends
i love my man for what he is
but a good poem is like
being able to breathe
after suffocating
like food after a rescue
from seven days in the desert
with no umbrella no water
a good poem doesn't
come after prayer
it comes on the backs
of all the bad ones that
i've writ in despair
it comes when you say
enough of this crap
this laziness and pain!
i'm gonna write one today
and to hell with this brain!
ok i can't think,
i admit it!
can barely feel to think
ok i'm caught like
a stupid seal
in a tuna net and
no one to rescue it
so what?
i'll act as if i am able
try a line or two
break out of myself
and force a tune
even if it's dissonant
as hell and obtuse

a good poem
this is not a good poem
but it's a poem on which i'll build
one of the weak ones that
lead to success
that bring me to myself
in this dark place
there will never be another life
in which to do it
never another moment
like this one, seize it!
and what comes of it will be
a testament to my will:
and for that
a nod toward heaven
and a nod toward hell
just for the thrill
just to know i'm alive that i write!
just to know something anything!i will try my hand
i will pry open my
corroded, aging brainand a poem will be had
good or bad
pas de grave!
it's how i know what i know
i write it and it simply is
my body broken for thee
take of it and eat
and remember me


Moineau, Writing. Watercolor by Ron Walker.