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| conférence Young Houn amphi de la médiathèque le 23 mai à 19h |
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| vernissage de l'exposition de Isha (photo de Francette) |
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| photo de Francette, graphiste pour la médiathèque Have you ever walked alone on a grey day in some village And watch how the long evening soon become the past ? How the small and brief wind touches our shoulders Full of question marks. I make a hat out of these question marks Question marks without questions. You may wear it much later in the evening When there is no reason to use Body gestures and presumptions that can only take us till the river But why is it that I say black and you look at the black sheep ? Why is it that I say white and you think of purity ? What have you done to me two years ago ? What a strange disease you have passed it to me, Why am I allowed to love everything that breathes ? It is a morning’s work That the moon has started. It must be carried on Finished by the noon. Oh ! But my poor poor soul ! You and your colourful thoughts The thoughts in me like a rainbow in hell. We’d better float on the ocean Than to walk on the fragments. Then, here comes a shiny boy Mischiveous smiles and wild imaginations. I wanna play hide & seek with you. But he frowns at my smiles. Smiles of fragile minds Frowns of fragile minds How we read the same book But must live differently. Like the angry poem I wrote last night About the girl looking for me in a mountain of sunsets But what is a language if not a shadow? What is ‘I’ if not a benefit to ‘you’ ? Come out of the cave of the seriousness, For it will always be there no matter what. And do not let what I say to you be forgotten Like a broken leaf blowing helplessly in apocalyptic storms. Remember the times of conflicts and wasted sentiments. I know it hurts growing up: It hurts to let go of dead poets, It hurts to come out of the prison Of your mothers and fathers, It hurts to hug the one in front of you, It hurts to express your hatefulness, Your boredom, Your love, It hurts me when she throws at me The can full of yellow left-over paints. It hurts her when I throw some blues at her. Tomorrow she might bring me a camera to hear and a recorder to see And that’s better for all. Tomorrow I will be on a different train To find other brothers and sisters. = Sometime in this doggy dreams of snow In fields of blossomed flowers, A chamaleon in silence, glued, One of the roads must be taken One of the instruments must be played. The page of the book that cannot be turned. I am sorry. I am sorry. Now look how selfish are the lovers, Decide to love only one another Promise the stars Make a pact with the heaven. What is in between them? A /, a , or a ! ? Even the subtlest sand won’t able to go In between their souls, Firmer than a ‘self’ Firmer than the master with food Firmer than the old man’s tears from half-closed eyes. Perhaps they were born in a wrong place Perhaps they were to born in a different place Perhaps I was born in a wrong time. But the world is round, And so are the dimensions Juxtapositions. We try hard to make our thoughts square That are naturally round. For we are part of nature and nature is round. One can be in the same place but in different times Or, in the same time but different places. Out in the forest of paranoia and silence, Crying the tears of yesterday, Taking an ideal travel in memory, The telephone rings « Girl, you gotta paint some heavenly landscape of your own imagination ! » I am glad. Thank you partner in crime Thank you girl with a double bed Thank you teacher of plants and stars Thank you sculptor in rice fields Thank you child of rational mind Thank you painful acrobat Thank you jazz enthusiast Thank you endeavouring merchant Thank you idle thinker Thank you poetic dog Thank you book keeper Thank you sensitive lady of the house Thank you the forgottten souls A goodbye in future tense. Isha
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