Philip Glass évoque Allen Ginsberg et Patti Smith

Qu'est-ce qui rend un artiste immortel?

Philip Glass évoque Allen Ginsberg et Patti Smith
envoyé par NuitsdeFourviere. - Regardez d'autres vidéos de musique.

Patti Smith chante Allen Ginsberg

Hier à Lyon, une reprise de "Hommage à Allen Ginsberg" de Philip Glass, lit ou "chanté" par Patti Smith. Voici un clip qui mélange l'interview et le concert.

Patti Smith évoque Allen Ginsberg
envoyé par NuitsdeFourviere. - Clip, interview et concert.

Du programme de "Nuits de Fourvière" à Lyon (www.nuitsdefourviere.com/)

Philip Glass présente son “Hommage à Allen Ginsberg” avec Patti Smith

Philip Glass est un invité récurrent des Nuits de Fourvière, et pour cause ! La fidélité aux artistes est un choix de programmation, elle nous permet d’accueillir des projets de plus en plus personnels.
Cette année c’est donc avec une soirée toute particulière que Philip Glass nous revient: “Hommage à Allen Ginsberg” avec Patti Smith.

Cette vidéo réalisée au Barbican Center de Londres, nous présente un très bel entretien avec Philip Glass évoquant sa relation avec le poète américain et avec Patti Smith. Il rend un hommage troublant au talent d’Allen Ginsberg, abordant à la fois la douleur d’avoir perdu un être cher, et la sensation de l’avoir toujours près de soi.

On attend avec impatience cette soirée tout à fait unique le Mardi 30 juin à l’Odéon.

Tribu

for my mother

i come from a tribe
a long line of
proud women with
long noses and proud chins
who held the world up with
wide skirts and chicken soup
who spoke their thoughts without
thinking too much and thus
created a universe unto themselves
where feelings were not
to be bandied about
but kept alive and open
like our tender hearts
even if they were blown apart by
cruelty or disgust or grief too deep
to rise above

when it thundered
adelaide and lydia broll
sprang for their closets
they spoke fluent yiddish but
never admitted to being jewish
and it remained an enigma for us
until we put together our heads
and thought about it hard
and why they kept it from
their children all those years

a familial revolution
breaking through
the alcoholic stupors
as the women rise up
drunk and cross eyed
and say, "enough!" to
an anxiety undenounced
in quickstep to
Reichian marches
an anxiety undiagnosed
passed along bloodlines and
sweat, closeted
yet made more conscious by
fermented potatoes and malt

unspoken anxiety of
who would be next
who raped, who gassed
who turned into lamps
in those desolate times
at the end of train rides
and forced marches to
no music but a madman's voice

and now we turn from
this horrific history
and bellow our feelings
into the infinite unknown
we're no longer numb
no longer drunk at the bar
we not only feel courage
but spread it around in
the retelling of our stories
we're reconciled to our tribe
to our mothers
and we forgive them
our loud but self-edited music

Chant de l'éternité

for Bonnie Tinker, a poem long in need of a gardener...

Que trouble le vent
Rien dans sa voie
De la mer douce à moi
Rien ne trouble le vent

Qui aide la jeune fleur
C'est son propre pouvoir
Ses graines existeront
Comme son commencement

Comment vit l'oiseau
Il n'a pas d'or
Mais rien ne le tiendra
Lié à la pierre

Qui me donnait ce rêve
Libre comme le vent
Je suis jardinière
et j'entends l'éternité


Chant of Eternity
from the French original

What troubles the wind
Nothing in its way
From the soft sea to me
Nothing troubles the wind

Who aids the young flower
She is her own power
Her seeds will exist
As her beginning

How does the bird live
It doesn't have gold
But nothing will keep it
Tied to the stone

Who has given me this dream
Free as the wind
I am a gardener
And I hear eternity

Bonnie Tinker in my memories

It is the eve of the memorial service for my friend Bonnie Tinker, one of the greatest activists I have ever known personally. Bonnie was killed by a truck while she was bicycling, far from home attending a Quaker conference, taking time out to train for a major ride for the environment. I learned about Bonnie's death while watching a weekly news program called "Gay USA". It was a shock to hear this: one doesn't think about old friends dying in this way. But I'm sitting here now, hours before the memorial, and my head is full of wonderful "Bonnie" memories...


I don't know who I would be today had I not known Bonnie Tinker and her spouse and life partner Sara Graham. In 1977, I was 20 years old, pregnant, and on the run from an abusive husband. I was new to Portland, Oregon, had only been there a couple of weeks, when I found myself in a phone booth with a single dime to my name. The crisis center I called sent me to Bradley-Angle House, a shelter for battered women. Of course, I didn't know at the time that Bonnie was one of the main founders of BA House, named for two Portland women who had been brutally murdered.

Bonnie Tinker was BA House's director at the time and Sara Graham was the women's main counselor. From the moment I arrived, I felt an environment of love, acceptance and support. I was helped through my divorce, through the welfare system, given therapy. But most of all, I made a pack of friends that I will feel close to for the rest of my life, and this includes our dear friends and mentors, Bonnie and Sara; they grew us into lifelong activists and compassionate women, and set the supreme example by living what they believed and spoke about.

After I'd been at BA House for a couple of months, I developed a huge crush on Sara, and I decided I would break the news to her by inviting her to lunch; I was so nervous. When I told her, she looked at me with those big beagle eyes of hers brimming with love and acceptance, and said, "Oh, Laura, that is so beautiful, I'm flattered. But I must tell you, I'm in love with someone else: it's Bonnie! Just don't tell anyone because we haven't broken the news yet!" I remember I didn't feel deflated in any way; I was actually overjoyed! What a wonderful match! And indeed it proved to be: Bonnie and Sara were a couple for 32 years, raised three children, and shared every work, every joy and every sorrow two people could share. Bonnie was the mother of Connie and Sara was the mother of Josh. And then together, they became the mothers of Alex. They were and are an awesome family.

I lived at BA House for six months and wound up falling in love with a very dear friend I had made there, Melaina. She had two children, Monty, 4, and Victoria, 5, and, together over the next five years, we shared in the birth and care of my son Paul. I'll never forget the surprise baby shower that the BA House gang threw at Melaina's and my new home nor what Bonnie and Sara brought as a gift: the cutest one-piece Beatrix Potter Peter Rabbit pyjama, yellow on top and pastel blue on the bottom; it was the softest clothing Paul ever had as a baby. I remember I saved that little suit for years after Paul outgrew it! Funny how those things stick with you through the years, the memories of dear friends, of love and softness...

Melaina and I were always worrying about baby-proofing the house, but we couldn't control what went on in other people's homes. Once when Melaina and I were visiting Sara and Bonnie in their fantastic old, stained-wood house (like gingerbread!) in NE Portland, Paul, around 2 years old at the time, came toddling out of the back room carrying a two-foot ax in both hands; it was as big as he was! All four adults were mortified, of course, but I remember Sara saying, once we all calmed down, that there was no way to protect a child against everything he or she might encounter in the world. How true that turned out to be, and not only for children: We can't know the future, can we? All we can do is love each other right now, do our best for each other right now.

Well, Bonnie Tinker was a great example of that commitment and intention! Not only did she found BA House; years later she started another organization called "Love Makes a Family" which taught cross cultural dialogue in schools and throughout the community on the topic of what constitutes families and how to support them. She and her staff gave support to gay students, teachers and parents in a system that often wishes to exclude them, or else bullies them. Years ago at the beginning of Love Makes a Family, Bonnie and Sara's son Josh bravely went on the Ricky Lake show to talk about being a gay and mixed race family; they were so proud to be who they were and to have enough love to make it work, not only for themselves, but for everyone.

Bonnie and Sara weren't afraid to tackle the really big issues, even the biggest monster in the room: racism. I remember how the multi-racial staff at BA House struggled to be inclusive and took on the issue of racism, especially our own! I grew so much in these, at times, heated discussions that almost always ended with everybody's growth. Most people just want to pretend that race doesn't exist when, actually, they are running away from their own feelings and from each other. Bonnie and Sara were determined that we were going to try to understand each other and work together toward consensus, and though the going got rough at times, it pulled together such a diverse group of women, in terms of race, age, class, sexuality; it made us very close. That work has impacted my whole life, how I interact with other people, how I love them. I'm so grateful for the work we did on racism.

Finally, during the time after my partner Ron and I moved to Astoria and I lost contact with Bonnie and Sara (though I never stopped thinking about them), these two dynamite women dove headfirst into trying to stop the Iraq War, and they protested it continuously, even putting their own bodies on the line and getting arrested. They painted, with red washable paint, the number of dead soldiers on the Portland downtown recruitment center as part of a group called "The Seriously Pissed-Off Grannies". They marched in the Portland Pride Parade under this banner; Bonnie's slogan, "DO ask, DO tell, DON'T join!" I just love that!

And yet, if you knew Bonnie, as a woman, a friend, a spirit, and a lifelong Quaker, you would remember the gentleness of her ways, firm and passionate but without any hint of hatred or violence. This seemed to be such a core part of who she was, woven into her very genes. You could feel the history of the Tinker family within her, such a longstanding regard for nonviolence. I knew I could never be a Bonnie Tinker, but I think that working with her gentled my own spirit, even as knowing Sara expanded me intellectually and emotionally. I loved to be with both of them so much, separately and together.

So here I am, the night before Bonnie's memorial, and I'm thinking about Sara a lot as I have been for the last couple of weeks, knowing how hard this must be and wishing her well with all my heart. (I love you, Sara.)... and their children Connie, Josh, and Alex. Bonnie, may you rest in peace... and though it's a nice thing to say, it's pretty useless because, well, you always have. I love you and I thank you. ~lt xoxoxoxoxox

Rodin, Breaking through Stone

Rodin is my favorite artist. His Danaïde was the sculpture I was studying when I wrote this poem.

one bone at a time
one hand, one arm

chiseled from the inside out

the grand craggy foot of Rodin steps
to the floor tentatively, then firmly
a leg may follow, the other foot
he rests unsure until he sees them
those limbs in stone, in marble

a smooth-to-the-touch voluptuous
body lies at the summit
like a fallen angel
her thick strands of solid cheveux
still part of the block
flow down around him

her small milk-white breasts
and long-arching back
beckon, her thick solid thighs
and thin curled fingers
arrest the onlookers

while below, the hero
hammer in hand
turns his back and
carves another of his
own feet, a foot the
size of Jupiter, and he says
"je suis narcissiste"

Mes trois vies/ My Three Lives

one of my favorite french poems from the 80s, written in college... it translates so well.

Quand les poèmes étaient perdus
Je me trouvais sans cause
Je pleurais pendant des années
et puis... j'ai vecu encore

When the poems were lost
I found myself without cause
I cried for years
and then... I lived again

Quand tous mes amants sont allés à Rome
Et sont tombés à genoux devant le Pape
Je m'esquivais sur le point des pieds
et puis... j'ai vecu encore

When all my lovers went to Rome
and fell on their knees before the Pope
I snuck away on the tips of my toes
and then... I lived again

Quand les oiseux me sont revenus
Je ne pouvais plus les entendre
Il était triste, le printemps
et puis... j'ai vecu encore

When the birds returned
I could no longer hear them
It was sad, the springtime
and then... I lived again

la femme vulgaire enragée

(WARNING-EXPLICIT)

my head is splitting open and
you're in it, o gatekeeper soul
the slices of ripened cantalope
left on the kitchen counter
counterbalance my woes
as they drip-dry and curl while
drawing forth the vermin, flies up
my nose and their shit between my
toes––God knows why He invited
those guys to this barbecue––yet
something's got to gobble up all
the garbage left on counter tops,
in dumpy tubs, dried on dishes,
sitting under noonday suns in cans
and roadsides, not to mention all
the roadkill and abused salamanders
not to mention the dead girls

crap, i said it and now i'm sorry.
too late! held my tongue for
a long, long time but then
spilt my guts like clockwork, and
now i'm the queen of intestinal
fortitude, so what? i guess i
should like getting fucked in
the ass, should like being made
a fool of, why not? doesn't
everyone? especially we
stu-pideʻ ameri-cainsʻ with
our crossbred crotches growing
rot, sanctimonious underbelly
of hell itself: well!
welcome to my country
let me tell ya! welcome!

i'll jerk you off while
i grocery shop you like a one-
armed bandit, in supermarkets
big enough to hold your wick
by the quickety-quick, your
corps de delicatesse all prim
and proper with freshmade
croissants, enough to gag yah
now flick it, get off all
the rotting juices of past
screwballs and the industrialists
of tomorrow, chinese liars, not
to mention 'dem ruskies...
we americans, we do have long,
long memories, we can hold spite
until it sucks all the brains
out of us, then smile in your
face because we're always
afraid you won't like us, so
just fuck us, fuck us good!

i'm the queen of spewling
shit, i'm the ashcan for all
your unwanted misfits, here
give it, give it, give it good
then read into my mind what
i'm feeling. wow, now you're a
braille reader and i'm a neon
sign for the faithless to
follow, got to get d-o-w-own
down with it, clean it up,
grab a deep water sponge to
mop it up 'cause i'm
mad as a hatter and saltier
than a cracker and i'm
comin' aftah yah, did you
ever doubt it would
happen just like that?

push it, push it good, take
a load off, grunt and groan!
let a toad off, sugar, just
shit on my ugly-american face,
goddamn you, yes! now i
stink just like you! wow,
i'm down with it, yes, i'm
really down, so lowdown
on sammy's farm, it's
funky cabbage, yes, i'm
ready to eat, hungry, ready for
more of your crap to
come straight at me, so give it
give it to me quick, 'cause my
mouth is readymade and there's
no backing outta this now

you've got a banshee on
your tail, baby, you've
got a hallowed, hollowed-out
j-princess on your balls and
she's digging in where the
sun don't shine. yeah,
rage today, gone tomorrow
that's my daily motto
but if i keep it in my
head yet one more day i'll
be prepared for more shit-
eating dog days of the
summer shit-eating machine
and i can't pull out as
long as it's coming, as
long as you're asking,
do you really love me, baby?
show me, show me now!

i'll prove it, i'm a shit-
eating test case, give me
an envelop and i'll save it
in little packets, freeze it
like undeveloped film and
we can delight together when
your ford mustang gets dirty:
we'll wash it with our tongues
then, we'll bring out the
rushes of our history
and show them on the
bathroom walls, we'll sit
by the toilet just in case
your gut discharges and
we need to catch it: who do
you think i am, effin' baby ruth?
i have the weakest arm in
the whole fucking west!
ask mom: she's the broad who
taught me to hold it, and
hold it, and hold it, 'til
i could hold it no more...

a shit-can full of dollars
won't buy me nothing, i
can't eat my way through
this cesspool of your love,
just give it, give it, this
ass-kisser can't get enough
and when you're done, i'll
say, "sorry, darling,
my fault exactly," and you'll
pat my pretty shit-eating
j-princess head and put me to
bed so tonorrow i'll be
fresh and can begin again
right where your anus ends.

Soundclick: Introducing the music of Ron Walker

Petit Moineau is very pleased to announce the inclusion of several of her partner Ron Walker's instrumental songs on their Soundclick page. Every night forever, up in the attic of our little four story house in Astoria, Oregon, Ron slaves away at his instruments and computers. Voilà the magic he produces!

Ron wrote music for film and video for 14 years; you can really hear that influence in his songs. He currently plays solo in clubs and restaurants around the region and teaches piano and flute at Clatsop Community College. If you like his music, please be sure to leave him a comment. He's felt pretty isolated with his composition for a long long time. xoxoxoxox

Sadness reigns supreme: Benjamin Biolay

avec cette musique, ça c'est exactement comme je me sens ce soir. une ancienne amie est morte et je n'en peux plus... / with this music, this is exactly how i feel tonight. an old friend has died and i can't do a thing...

Benjamin Biolay - Qu'est-ce que ça peut faire ?
envoyé par noriko75. - Regardez plus de clips, en HD !

Benjamin Biolay - Laisse Aboyer les Chiens
envoyé par music-videos. - Clip, interview et concert.

The REAL goods on Venus...

I may have been waxing poetic on Venus lately, but here is a terrific report from Euronews from May, 2009, with all the latest research. (en français)

http://fr.euronews.net/2009/05/14/venus-un-paradis-inhospitalier/

Eh-very Dog: The Song!

Remember the recent poem "eh-very dog has his day" which I said could be sung to the tune of "eh-very dog has his day"? Well, that's because it really was a song; I sang it a capella and extemporaneously directly into my mp3 recorder. When Ron heard it, he said, "I hear a tuba," and I heard an accordeon.

Last night, we worked out the complexity of chords and here it is with tuba AND accordion, "Eh-very Dog Has His Day". If anyone knows the origin of this perfect photograph, will you please let me know? I have the feeling it might be an album cover (gulp). Merci beaucoup! Woof!

Eh-very Dog Has His Day

how much can i take things for granted
how much can i piddle away
how often i say i am blessèd
before eh-very dog eh-very dog
eh-very dog has his day

i move in molecular motion
i'm going around and around
i'm singing à table for my supper
just like eh-very dog eh-very dog
eh-very dog on the ground

tiny toes tiny bones
tiny splinters in tiny souls
tiny eyes tiny tails
waking the master with slaughter

my tongue is so rigid
it finds all the crevasses
i wake in the water
i sing to the slaughter
i am just a dog, a poor lonely dog
i wander the world with my tail
'tween my legs and i rest
'til i can sing again

and i wake in the water
i dance on the moon
i sing for my supper
i don't take no orders
from any-one

i'm a dog for you
and a dog for me
i've got fleas and
lots of gangrene
i'm just a mangy old mutt on the line
singing for pieces of salty brine and
i know that i can't take it with me again
but i know that i might and i try anyway

how much can i take things for granted
how much can i piddle away
how often i say i am blessèd
before eh-very dog, eh-very dog,
eh-very dog has his day... yesss
eh-very dog has his day... yesss

every doggie every hound
every mealy mouthed chihuaha in town
and the poodles do beg
on their little hind legs
and i say it's a tiny
a tiny world again

tiny toes tiny bones
tiny splinters in tiny souls
tiny eyes tiny tails
i'm waking the master with slaughter

i move in molecular motion... ho ho
i'm going around and aroun... dah
i'm singing à table for my supper
i'm like eh-very dog, eh-very dog
eh-very dog on the groun... dah

The Dream

Moineau, age 3

The dream had me by the tongue
starting just after memory
and by the balls when I
turned 4 and I turned it
off for good, whatever use it was
I don't know and
should really care less
but it haunts me to this
day: the anima-animus

It started oddly enough
just after the light was turned off
and I turned it back on in that
bedroom landscape of scorn
where Captain Kangeroo was vampire
and Casper was not a friendly
ghost at all, not to little girls
and both of them performed
operations and tore out hearts
through rib cages

So, light on, I swung my
little legs from the sheets and
blankets toward the floor
slipped out of bed and
headed for the bathroom
I only had to wash my hands
but being very small, I
needed a stool, a little red
three-planked step with the
trademark still on it, in order
to reach the handle and faucet
and I did this several times
a day without incident
but in my night-time world
I was scared and skinny cold
and in a whole lot of trouble

I'd step up, staring at my hands
and reach for the soap, then
slowly looking up, knowing
she'd be there in that
silver-throated mirror
I'd force myself to
look at my reflection, knowing
full well I would not be there, but
she would be instead
the black-faced girl, my
animus-ghost, with matted
hair and giant mouth, and we
both would scream, big
and round, a chorus of
echoes that woke me up loudly:
and scared out of my wits
for many breathless minutes
I'd remember that i dreamed
this every night, just when the
light was turned off, and it went
on for month after month
until I outgrew it

Yet, every time I stand at the
sink in bathrooms, I always
expect to be shocked
always know the hard knock
of animus on the heart
and just hope I'll wake up
wake up to my adult life
as one

brief complaint

écœurée, i wake up to light and to pain
la nausée, i look down at the floor:

light is coming from above but
pain is in my body and i can't ignore it

how much can i endure of hunger
pain and loneliness?

i just don't know because i go on
waiting for a cure, waiting for

a new drug to calm this nervous
rush, this somatic abstraction

that weakens my immune system
and leaves me lying on my bed

awake and not dead, awake and
waiting for life to begin

how much longer when light
and pain intersect at zero and

whoosh over me like a chill breeze?
i stand at the door and i breathe

and i think, i could be deathly ill in
iraq, i could be grieving the

death of a parent, i might find myself
lost on a desert floor in february

and i think, i'm glad it is july and
that lilacs were blooming in june

that light and pain are two sides of
the same coin like love and hate

i take another lesson, sit up in
my bed, write a brief complaint

and continue on my quest for
reconciliation of my daily questions


watercolor: hommage à la peine (laura tattoo)

for michael jackson

le plus beau

beautiful michael, i rocked with you
in my most innocent hour to the
light fantastic of the disco ball
bumping and rocking with so
many souls on those unisex dance
floors sizzling and ecstatic, drenched in
sweet human sweat, thrown into
the arms of loving friends and friendly
strangers, laughing, grinding, throwing
our arms into the air in a grand cheer
of victoire, in celebration of who we were
young, gay and proud, and living outloud

i have thrilled with you in the
unusual, i have chilled to you with
smoke and vodka and i too have
shocked and costumed, to be who i
am without constraints or rules
to moonwalk on that golden moon
where the morning star shares its
throne with you now, i'm sure
father and best friend of the music we
love, the music you dreamed of

when i hear them prevaricate about drugs
and then think about the pain
we've shared, the pain of plain
human living, the pain of disappointment
of dancing too hard, of reaching too high
of sometimes falling to the earth again
flung down to this planet l'enfant sauvage
i say, they have no idea what kind of pain
you were in, your daily bread, and
they have no right to try to divine it

but now your pain is done as well as
that most greatly expressed joy
that thrilled us to the very bone
and lit up our hearts and our hope
but your music lives on, on our tongues
and we take up the glove, friend,
raise our voices for tolerance and dignity
cher michael, well done, well driven
well danced and well sung

and now, as the evening star moves on
i'll put "thriller" on the wire and
push "send all" and everyone will know
whether they admit it or not, that you
were genius and spirit and a great great
soul who taught us so much about love
and left us so much work to be done
we take up the glove, dear michael
we take up the light and spread it
over this vaste human family of yours
chéri, frère, le plus beau de tous
adieu... et merci beaucoup

om namo narayana

a new mp3 file recorded for your pleasure, a dreamy new mix of traditional indian mantras and french reverie to celebrate the universal lover///
un nouveau fichier mp3 enregistré pour votre plaisir, un mix rêveur des mantras d'inde traditionels et un petit peu de français pour célébrer l'amant universel

OM NAMO NARAYANA/ HARI OM
les mots en français étaient improvisé dans le moment...

om....

om namo narayanaya
om namo narayanaya
om namo narayanaya
om......

om namah sivaya
om namah sivaya
om namah sivaya
om......

quelque part dans mon coeur
j'attends les anciens
je sais qu'il(s) fait(font) une partie
de mon histoire... humain

(somewhere in my heart
i await the ancients
i know that it is a part
of my history... human)

om namo bhagavate vasudevaya
om namo bhagavate vasudevaya
om namo bhagavate vasudevaya
om.....

n'importe où dans mon âme
la troisième rang
le niveau dans le soleil
qui brille... saison

(no matter where in my soul
the third row
the level in the sun
that shines... season)

om namo bhagavate vasudevaya
om namo bhagavate vasudevaya
om namah sivaya
om namah sivaya
om namo narayanaya
om namo narayanaya
om..... hari om

La Vénus de Bashung

voici un poème auquel vous devez vraiment écouter, à propos de la belle étoile du matin... recité par alain bashung sur son dernier disque "bleu pétrole". cette interpretation animée par un grand fan de bashung à beziers, armand, qui s'appelle hopi47 sur youtube. voyez tous ses vidéos éblouissants! bashung est mort 14 mars 2009. Il nous manque tellement.



VENUS
Artiste: Alain Bashung
Musique: Gérard Manset
Paroles: Arman Méliès

Là un dard venimeux
Là un socle trompeur
Plus loin
Une souche à demi-trempée
Dans un liquide saumâtre
Plein de décoctions
D’acide…
Qui vous rongerait les os et puis
L’inévitable
Clairière amie
Vaste, accueillante
Les fruits à portée de main
Et les délices divers
Dissimulés dans les entrailles d’une canopée
Plus haut que les nues…
Elle est née des caprices
Elle est née des caprices
Pommes d’or, pêches de diamant
Pommes d’or, pêches de diamant
Des cerises qui rosissaient ou grossissaient
Lorsque deux doigts s’en emparaient
La pluie et la rosée
La pluie et la rosée
Toutes ces choses avec lesquelles
Il était bon d’aller
Guidé par une étoile
Peut-être celle-là
Première à éclairer la nuit
Première à éclairer la nuit
Première à éclairer la nuit
Vénus
Vénus
Vénus

Là un dard venimeux
Là un socle trompeur
Plus loin
Une souche à demi-trempée
Dans un liquide saumâtre
Et d’acide…
Probablement qui vous rongerait les os
Et puis
Les fruits à portée de main
Et les délices divers
Dissimulés dans les entrailles d’une canopée
Elle est née des caprices
Elle est née des caprices
Pommes d’or, pêches de diamant
Pommes d’or, pêches de diamant
Et ces cerises qui grossissaient lorsque
La pluie et la rosée
Toutes ces choses
Guidées par une étoile
Guidées par une étoile
Première à éclairer la nuit
Vénus
Vénus
Vénus
Vénus

Elle est née des caprices
Elle est née des caprices
Pommes d’or, pêches de diamant
Pommes d’or, pêches de diamant
Et ces cerises qui grossissaient lorsque
La pluie et la rosée
Toutes ces choses
Guidées par une étoile
Guidées par une étoile
Première à éclairer la nuit
Vénus
Vénus
Vénus
Vénus

Vénus l'étoile

for months now, the morning star has greeted me before dawn, large as a street lamp in the southern sky. i've learned that the planet venus rotates around the sun faster than the earth and that, since february, she has been overtaking us in rotation and has now surpassed us. she is low in the sky just before sunrise and still as bright as a bulb. today i remembered one of my very early french poems, "Vénus, l'étoile", written 5 may 1988, and decided to break my rules again regarding the posting of old poems in honor of her most beautiful recent gifts.


Vénus l'étoile,
Ton éclairage choque la nuit
Perce le cœur de sa pésanteur
Prend toute présence dans l'oeil

Je souffre comme un soldat en marche
Mais ta langue fait froide
Ton langage liquide mercure
Je brûle sous ton regard

Comme tu sais tout,
L'étoile de mon amour, de mon cœur!
Je te suis dans cet air
Pas innocente aux forces aveugles

Et le noir reste le noir
Et le soir n'en est pas moins soir
Moi enveloppée de patience
A cause de toi, île de raison

Compagne, dure camarade
Presque lune, presque diamant
Mon fol bel été en retard
Sœur silence, mère à moi

deuil rampant

this whole damn thing
has me on my belly
be it worm, snail or rattler
too much the tattler, that last one
scare them off with
a watering can or hose
stomp your foot and yell
"fuck off"

one does not normally hear
morning glory subtly trail
wrapping wiry legs around
other leaves frail or
trunks of hearty trees
But tonight, my love
morning glory is loud enough
to pick my brain apart

a roly-poly jolly babe
makes her way from room
to room, cute little buglet
four-kneed and giggling like crazy
she rolls over on her back in
uncontrolled cackles (w/ tears!)
and moms and dads join in
shut the door on
that ricochet of laughter
it's not what I'm after

zombies break through
crusty earth forms
breaking brittle bones
creaking and rotting
beneath rocky soil
too much sound from
the long-gone tonight in
this, my empty head
they can eat me when i'm dead
tell them to shut up until then

is that a sound I hear in
my bloodless veins? not
bloodless enough i guess but
hot purple and sluggish
break off the arteries like
brittle twigs in winter
cut off the capillaries
and cast them off for the
noiseless wolves, and if
a wolf barks, shoot him

green stripe cavorts with
with flowing orange swatch in
rock-and-roll nightmares
steam crawls from whistling
kettles, comforting catch phrases
sent home by singing telegrams
rows of dead windows
black and heavy, beaten
by hurricane-force gales

no more exacting rhymes
no bells, no telephones
no calling cards no big bonjours
no gorgeous blond muses
no grunting muscle men
no new verses of poetry tonight
no elegy or romantic jaunt:

you're dying
and the thought of it
screams in my ears
too much sound in
in my crawling tears