Quelques poèmes...

Vous êtes libres de poster ici vos favoris, compositions personnelles...

Catulle (Premier Siècle avant JC)

Mon amante me dit que jamais ne voudrait
Si fut-il Jupiter, à un autre s'unir

Mais ce que femme dit à qui l'aime d'amour
Ecrit le sur le vent, et sur l'onde courante

Saint-Pol-Roux (15 janvier 1861 - 18 octobre 1940)

POUR DIRE AUX FUNERAILLES DES POETES

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Allez bien doucement, car le cercueil n'est pas comme les autres où se trouve un bloc d'argile enlinceulé de langes, celui-ci recèle entre ses planches un trésor que recouvrent deux ailes très blanches comme il s'en ouvre aux épaules fragiles des anges.

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Allez bien doucement, car ce coffre, il est plein d'une harmonie faite de choses variées à l'infini : cigales, parfums, guirlandes, abeilles, nids, raisins, cœurs, épis, fruits, épines, griffes, serres, bêlements, chimères, sphinx, dés, miroirs, coupes, bagues, amphores, trilles, thyrse, arpèges, marotte, paon, carillon, diadème, gouvernail, houlette, joug, besace, férule, glaive, chaînes, flèches, croix, colliers, serpents, deuil, éclairs, boucliers, buccin, trophées, urne, sourires, larmes, rayons, baisers, or, tout cela sous un geste trop prompt pourrait s'évanouir ou se briser.

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Allez bien doucement, car si petit qu'il soit de la taille d'un homme, ce meuble de silence renferme une foule sans nombre et rassemble en son centre plus de personnages et d'images qu'un cirque, un temple, un palais, un forum ; ne bousculez pas ces symboles divers pour ne pas déranger la paix d'un univers.

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Allez bien doucement, car cet apôtre de lumière, il fut le chevalier de la beauté qu'il servit galamment à travers le sarcasme des uns et le crachat des autres, et vous feriez dans le mystère sangloter la première des femmes si vous couchiez trop durement son amant dans la terre.

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Allez bien doucement, car s'il eut toutes nos vertus, mes frères, il eut aussi tous nos péchés ; allez bien doucement car vous portez en lui toute l'humanité.

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Allez bien doucement, car il était un dieu peut-être, ce poète, un dieu qu'on a frôlé sans deviner son sceptre, un dieu qui nous offrait la perle et l'hysope du ciel alors qu'on lui jetait le fiel et les écailles de sa table, un dieu dont le départ nous plongera sans doute en la ténèbre redoutable ; et c'est pourquoi vont-ils, vos outils de sommeil, produire tout à l'heure un coucher de soleil.

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Mais non. Ce que vous faites là n'est qu'un pur simulacre, n'est-ce pas ? C'est un monceau de roses que l'on a suivi sous l'hypothèse d'un cadavre et que dans cette fosse vous allez descendre, ô trésoriers de cendres, et ces obsèques ne seraient alors qu'une ample apothéose et nous nous trouverions en face d'un miracle. Oh ! dites, ce héros n'a pas cessé de vivre, fossoyeurs, ce héros n'est point mort puisque son âme encore vibre dans ses livres et qu'elle enchantera longtemps le cœur du monde, en dépit des siècles et des tombes !

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Humble, il voulut se soumettre à la règle commune des êtres, rendre le dernier soupir et mourir comme nous, pour ensuite, orgueilleux de ce que l'homme avait le front d'un dieu, ressusciter devant les multitudes à genoux. En vérité, je vous le dis, il va céans renaître notre Maître d'entre ces morts que gardent le cyprès avec le sycomore, et sachez qu'en sortant de cet enclos du Temps, nous allons aujourd'hui le retrouver debout dans toutes les mémoires, comme demain, sur les socles épars érigés par la gloire, on le retrouvera sculpté dans la piété robustes des humains.

Allez bien doucement messieurs les fossoyeurs.

Excellent, je ne le connaissais pas... J'adore...
Voici un de mes textes, écrit il y a plus de 7 ans, lorsque j'étais sur Toulouse:
Elle

L’ombre avançait sur l’ombre.
Noire.
Perle de suie souple et féline, vibrante et silencieuse.
Elle chasse .
Elle erre sur les toits de mes rêves, insomnie profonde dans la ville qui gronde et s’endort.

Elle.

Animale et sauvage, douce et cruelle.
Fleur de la nuit, elle ne craint personne.
Elle se déplace avec grâce sur le ciel qui l’enlace et la prend dans ses bras.
Elle se balance puis s’élance dans les vapeurs d’essence.
Instant magique, unique, que cette stance silencieuse, fébrile et immense.
Silhouette sombre et sensuelle, sculptée d’encens et d’ombre.
Son saut s’éternise dans un souffle de Zéphyr .
Puis elle se pose, agile, sur une corniche et déniche les pigeons endormis.

Elle.

Elle s’assoit, souveraine et surveille son domaine assoupis.
Nulle lueur n’accroche son corps hypnotique.
Nulle sueur ne perle ce corps nu.
Royale, elle se tourne et m’observe.
Ses abysses m’emprisonnent et mon cœur ralentit.
Il s’essouffle.
Le silence s’impose en ce moment étrange.
Pourtant, un bruit résonne dans ma poitrine.
L’ébène s’enfuit.

Dans la nuit de mes songes, un trait d’ombre a ouvert sur mon cœur un abîme de folie : elle...

Très joli

Merci... J'en ai un plus conventionnel, genre exercice de style classique... Sauf que d'habitude on fait ça sur un sonnet, ben je l'ai fait sur un Pantoum... La forme la plus stricte que tu peux trouver en poésie classique... Ce sont des quatrains comme strophes et en fait, le premier vers doit être le dernier. les vers sont en alexandrins, en rimes croisées, et les vers 2 et 4 d'une strophe doivent être les 1 et 3 de la strophe suivante... De plus, les deux premiers vers d'une strophe doivent raconter une histoire alors que les deux autres en racontent une autre... tu vois le bordel ?
Ben je pense m'en être pas trop mal sorti... Voilà ce que cela donne. Il date d'il y a 8 ou 9 ans...

SOUVENIR (Pantoum)

Danse désordonnée des blancs flocons de neige
chassés par le zéphyr qui souffle sourdement.
Je vous revois, vêtue de vôtre manteau beige,
assise sur un banc, attendant patiemment.

Chassés par le zéphyr qui souffle sourdement,
le brouillard se lève sur la blême colline.
Assise sur un banc, attendant patiemment,
vous étiez si belle dans l'aube cristalline!

Le brouillard se lève sur la blême colline.
On aperçoit au loin la flèche d'un clocher.
Vous étiez si belle dans l'aube cristalline,
guettant de vos beaux yeux diligence et cocher.

On aperçoit au loin la flèche d'un clocher,
et l'ombre d'un corbeau qui vole à tire-d'aile.
Guettant de vos beaux yeux diligence et cocher,
vous craigniez qu'il n'amène mauvaise nouvelle.

Et l'ombre d'un corbeau qui vole à tire-d'aile,
planant sur les toits noirs du village flamand.
Vous craigniez qu'il n'amène mauvaise nouvelle
de la guerre au nord, où se battait votre amant.

Planant sur les toits noirs du village flamand,
des nuages gris, se reflètent aux fenêtres.
De la guerre au nord où se battait votre amant,
un jour de décembre, vous reçûtes une lettre.

Des nuages gris, se reflètent aux fenêtres,
en caressant les murs des maisons endormies.
Un jour de décembre, vous reçûtes une lettre:
votre ami était mort, d'une balle ennemie.

En caressant les murs des maisons endormies
sous les lueurs du soleil qui vient d'apparaître.
Votre ami était mort, d'une balle ennemie.
Le lendemain, je ne vous ai point vu paraître.

Sous les lueurs du soleil qui vient d'apparaître,
le sol boit la neige jusqu'à être ivre mort.
Le lendemain, je ne vous ai point vu paraître:
le rejoignant, vous vous étiez donné la mort.

Le sol boit la neige jusqu'à être ivre mort
et les arbres perdent leurs pauvres feuilles beiges.
Le rejoignant, vous vous étiez donné la mort.
Danse désordonnée des blancs flocons de neige!

Perso, j'aime beaucoup le poème de Saint-pol-roux ...
Mais, ça doit être mon côté gothique qui ressort, ça Razz

.
Pour ma part, j'ai envie de citer une oeuvre de Lofofora, un groupe français que j'adore Mr. Green

.
Ces mecs sont des poètes, maniant les mots avec un doigté exceptionnel.
Donc, pour vous, messieurs, mais surtout mesdames et mesdemoiselles, voici les paroles de la chanson "Viscéral" :

Dans la peau, j'ai le vice,
Et, comme la belle est complice,
Surgit aux commissures un appétit de luxure,
Comme une montée subite nous incite, nous invite,
A des gestes explicites.
Elle ondule, se dévisse, je capitule et me glisse,
A l'instant propice, tel un serpent entre ses cuisses.
Prosterné devant le talisman de la matrice, je ne résiste pas,
Que mon destin s'accomplisse.
Puisque dans la peau, j'ai le vice, dans la peau, j'ai le vice.
Je lui ôte le haut, elle me ôte le bas,
Hot est l'atmosphère à la vue de ses deux sphères,
Mon esprit se divise, se dissipe, se disperse,
Et les pensées matérialistes m'indiffèrent.
D'un mouvement de hanche, elle me happe le manche,
Et la voilà qui chante, comme un oiseau sur sa branche,
Non, ça n'est vraiment pas le moment que je flanche,
Restons étanches avant que la tempête se déclenche.
Dans la peau, j'ai le vice, dans la peau, j'ai le vice.
Je lui lisse le poil, lui montre les étoiles,
L'envoie dans un monde fractal, fait de volutes roses,
Qu'elle évoque, sans que cela me choque,
Dans une longue prose,
Et, comme ma langue change de pose,
Je lui donne l'occase de me rendre la pareille (l'appareil) génital,
Du bout jusqu'à la base.
Heureuse, nargueuse, m'engloutit la muqueuse,
La tige nerveuse, l'attitude est vertigineuse.
Dans la peau, j'ai le vice, dans la peau, j'ai le vice
Sensiblement, je m'enlise, dans le long glissement de tes reins.
Elle est tellement chaude, que l'on s'agite,
Aux limites de l'obscène, trop humides pour être conscients,
Ni lucides de la scène …
Mangeons le fruit jusqu'au défendu.

Et, comme je suis très gentil, voici la chanson livrée en bonus :
http://frenchmetalmusik1.free.fr/Lofofora_Visceral.mp3
Ecoutez moi ça, vous verrez ... c'est planant ... Wink

Excellent Alex Smile

Les paroles de Lofofora sont un peu moins basiques que le reste, ouais Laughing

Très belle émulation des sens et de l'acte d'amour... mdr... mais j'aime bien lofo... bon groupe, bon rythme...

Perso Alex j'aime bien Peur du noir et Atlantide le fils de l'eau !!
Pourrais tu les poster ici car je ne les ai plus !!
Par contre j'ai toujours Belle Marquise que j'adore !!!

Et j'adore LOFO aussi !! Vive Reuno !! A la guerre comme a la guerre !!
Ou encore les gens !! Bref c'est très bon je trouve !!

Mais rien ne vaut une vrai chanson d'amour :

C'est toi que je t'aime !!! ti tutu tou tututu .... VACHEMENT BEAUCOUP !!!

Seigneur, mon rodeur a bu Confused

Bon, ben à la demande de mon frangin, voici les deux textes qu'il n'a plus: Peur du noir: un texte pour une chanson qui n'a jamais aboutie après plusieurs essais de zik mise dessus:
Peur du noir

Une ombre s’avance dans ta chambre,
Ombre parmi les ombres de la nuit ;
Un capuchon noir cache ses yeux d’ambre,
Elle avance tel un voleur : sans bruit.
Aucun craquement du plancher sous ses pas,
Aucun souffle ne sort de son buste.
Spectre de brume annonçant le trépas,
Juge punissant les fautes injustes.

Pourquoi as-tu peur ?
Quel crime as-tu commis ?
Pourquoi es-tu en sueur ?
Qu’as-tu fait dans ta vie ?
Comment se fait-il que certains soirs
Tu aies encore peur, encore peur du noir ?

Une ombre s’avance dans ta chambre,
Ombre parmi les ombres de la nuit ;
Un capuchon noir cache ses yeux d’ambre,
Elle avance tel un tueur : sans bruit.
C’est le voleur d’âmes au drapeau noir,
Tenant une faux dont la lame luit,
Vision de la mort portant son hachoir,
Où que tu ailles, elle te poursuit .

Pourquoi as-tu peur ?
Quel crime as-tu commis ?
Pourquoi es-tu en sueur ?
Qu’as tu fait dans ta vie ?
Comment se fait-il que certains soirs,
Tu aies encore peur, encore peur du noir ?

Une ombre s’avance dans ta chambre,
Ombre parmi les ombres de la nuit ;
Un capuchon noir cache ses yeux d’ambre,
Elle avance tel un voleur : c’est fini.
Tu t’es réveillé, assis sur ton lit,
La faux a disparu, la mort s’est enfuie ;
L’heure de ton châtiment n’était pas aujourd’hui,
Alors profites bien de ton sursis.

Pourquoi as-tu peur ?
Quel crime as-tu commis ?
Pourquoi es-tu en sueur ?
Qu’as-tu fait dans ta vie ?
Comment se fait-il que certains soirs,
Tu aies encore peur, encore peur du noir ?

La mort est partie mais elle reviendra,
Pour te châtier quand tu t’endormiras.
Qui que tu soit, où que tu soit,
Dis-toi bien qu’elle te retrouvera.

et Atlantide, de forme fixe à une époque où j'écrivais plutot de sombres textes, c'est un essai plus coloré...

ATLANTIDE

J'étais comme un navire, échoué sur la grève,
étendu sur le sol, je gardais les yeux clos.
J'ai plongé dans la mer profonde de mes rêves.

Poussé par le courant, emporté par les flots,
je me suis retrouvé dans un monde insolite:
des rochers colorés formaient comme un enclos

et au milieu, debout, trônait un monolithe,
étrange colonne, sculptée par les courants
sur laquelle veillait, tel un guetteur hoplite,

un Atlante. Il se tenait en conquérant,
portant un bouclier, un glaive et une lance
et protégeait son peuple des monstres errants.

J'abandonnai le guerrier à sa vigilance
pour emprunter une piste de sable blanc
bordée d'algues qui dansaient avec nonchalance.

Plus loin, sur les rochers, on pouvait voir, troublant
spectacle, le palais du seigneur de ces terres.
Creusé dans le récif de corail, ressemblant

à du cristal, l'édifice, lieu de mystère,
avait ses murailles couronnées de jardins.
Les poissons venaient s'abriter dans ces parterres.

Dans les vergers, se promenaient les baladins.
On pouvait voir nager entre les laminaires
des otaries qui jouaient avec les Ondins.

Dans la cité où patrouillaient des légionnaires
montée sur des dauphins ou des raies mantas,
les rougets valsaient en une extraordinaire

féerie aquatique aux reflets magenta.
D'autres poissons vinrent y mêler leur plumage,
myriade de couleur tournant autour de moi;

sans pouvoir, à ce lieu, rendre un ultime hommage,
je fus noyé dans ce grand vortex de mana.
M'éveillant, je me vis dégrisant sur la plage.

Pierre a écrit:: Seigneur, mon rodeur a bu

Non Pierre, il est comme cela à la normale... c'est mon frère, et c'est de famille...
Le saint graal est à aaaaaarrrgh...

"et là, je crois qu'il est mort...
- mais non, cela pourrait être argh comme dans camargh ?"

*Remercie le ciel d'être assis*

Mdr
à mon frère: bruits de respiration à la nicolas hulot... JC, je suis ton frère...

Bon, heureusement, je ne dis ou écris pas que des couenneries hein, mes textes le prouvent...

Mais je dois dire que parfois, mon frangin et moi rassemblé, plus certains de ses amis, ou même nos cousins (Rémi et son frère), ca donne de bons délires et fou rires...

Mais bon, on peut aussi parler de plein de chose d'autre... lol. Perso, j'ai un faible pour la musique des années 70-80, les séries TV des 80 et 90, le cinéma en général, la littérature fantastique, victor hugo, les films débiles, l'art en général, les figurines, jeux de rôles, la photo, les guitaristes de légende, la zik en général, le rugby (allé le stade!!!), flipper le dauphin, star wars, LOTR, la cuisine, la poésie, le sexe (oups, ça m'a échappé), et plein d'autres trucs, je peux même parler politique, économie mondiale, physique quantique, mécanique, disserter sur la trajectoire d'une balle de golf et expliquer pourquoi elles ont cette forme, etc...

Oscar Wilde (15 octobre 1856 - 30 novembre 1900)

Ballad of Reading Gaol

I.

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellows got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.
___
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
___
He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.

II.

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
In a suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its raveled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay.
___
For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That in the spring-time shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer's collar take
His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock's dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
In God's sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
Two outcast men were we:
The world had thrust us from its heart,
And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had caught us in its snare.

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called
And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
The hangman's hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher's doom
Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
Pent up in Murderers' Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fool's Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devil's Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
Went shuffling through the gloom
And each man trembled as he crept
Into his numbered tomb.
____
That night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watcher watched him as he slept,
And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
With a hangman close at hand?

But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept:
So we--the fool, the fraud, the knave--
That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept.
___
Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
Mad mourners of a corpse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
Was the savior of Remorse.
___
The cock crew, the red cock crew,
But never came the day:
And crooked shape of Terror crouched,
In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and loud they sang,
For they sang to wake the dead.

"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame."
No things of air these antics were
That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most terrible to see.
Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each helped us at our prayers.
___
The morning wind began to moan,
But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red.
___
At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man's heart beat thick and quick
Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
From a leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who live more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.

IV.

There is no chapel on the day
On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
Or his face is far to wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,
But not in wonted way,
For this man's face was white with fear,
And that man's face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

But their were those amongst us all
Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each go his due,
They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
An Horror stalked before each man,
And terror crept behind.
___
The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
But it eats the heart alway.
___
For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
Christ brings his will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who tramp the yard
That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit man not walk by night
That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may not weep that lies
In such unholy ground,

He is at peace--this wretched man--
At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
Has neither Sun nor Moon.
___
They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
They did not even toll
A reguiem that might have brought
Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
And gave him to the flies;
They mocked the swollen purple throat
And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonored grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourner will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.

V.

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in goal
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother's life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.

This too I know--and wise it were
If each could know the same--
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!
___
The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed and cries to Time.
___
But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan:
But God's eternal Laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.
___
And every human heart that breaks,
In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break
And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
May Lord Christ enter in?
___
And he of the swollen purple throat.
And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
His soul of his soul's strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
The hand that held the knife.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and loud they sang,
For they sang to wake the dead.

"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame."
No things of air these antics were
That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most terrible to see.
Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each helped us at our prayers.
___
The morning wind began to moan,
But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red.
___
At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man's heart beat thick and quick
Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
From a leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who live more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.

IV.

There is no chapel on the day
On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
Or his face is far to wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,
But not in wonted way,
For this man's face was white with fear,
And that man's face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

But their were those amongst us all
Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each go his due,
They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
An Horror stalked before each man,
And terror crept behind.
___
The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
But it eats the heart alway.
___
For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
Christ brings his will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who tramp the yard
That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit man not walk by night
That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may not weep that lies
In such unholy ground,

He is at peace--this wretched man--
At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
Has neither Sun nor Moon.
___
They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
They did not even toll
A reguiem that might have brought
Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
And gave him to the flies;
They mocked the swollen purple throat
And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonored grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourner will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.

V.

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in goal
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother's life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.

This too I know--and wise it were
If each could know the same--
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!
___
The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed and cries to Time.
___
But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.
And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal.

VI.

In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
Eaten by teeth of flame,
In burning winding-sheet he lies,
And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

The End

J'aime beaucoup Oscar Wilde... Mais parfois c'est un peu long... Comme Hugo.... dont je suis fan...

Bavouilleur Nombre de messages : 32 Date d'inscription : 05/01/2006

"Un oiseau a fienté sur mon veston salaud" de Benjamin Péret (in "Le grand jeu", collection NRF Gallimard)

A Pierre Naville.

Main vide et pied levé
le bon enfant sur deux assiettes
mourait d'envie de rire d'un cheval
solitaire
de la lune
de la rousse
Au lieu de mourir
il aurait pu rire
il préféra cogner comme un sourd
sur l'arbre le plus proche
L'arbre miaulait
T.S.F. T.S.F.
La T.S.F. le mordit au pied droit
et un ours à la main gauche
Comme il était jeune il n'en mourut pas
On le décora
on en fit un ambassadeur
Paul Claudel

Bon, alors cela faisait un moment que je voulais poster ce texte là, mais chaque matin, pas assez de temps... lol alors voilà...

Madame,
Je n'ai commencé à vous voir que dans le début de l'après midi et sans doute - pardonnez la misère de cette confidence - parce que je n'avais alors rien de mieux à faire, attendant devant une école de musique où des enfants entraient, encombrés d'instruments parfois plus grands qu'eux.

Vous étiez là bien avant moi. Vous arriviez du fond des temps pour faire ce jour là vos premiers er derniers pas sur terre. Etant peu matinal, je n'ai pas eu la joie de vous connaitre dans votre jeune age. Celle que j'ai vue traverser un ciel transi de froid était une femme déjà mure, un peu fatiguée par des heures d'errance, mais c'était incontestablement la plus belle femme que j'aie jamais rencontrée. La beauté, madame, n'a pas d'autre coeur que le votre. Je vous regardais comme aurait pu le faire un peintre ou un amant. Les atomes dansant dans le vide et la patience effrayante de Dieu vous avaient revêtue d'une robe de fée. Je vous regardais comme celui qui n'a plus rien à faire de sa vie - qu'à la vivre avec assez d'insouciance et de joie tenue secrète.

Vous alliez partout dans la même seconde, comme une enfant riante. Vous étiez l'image d'une vie détachée de soi, prodigue d'elle même et parfaitement nonchalante quand à ses lendemains. Pendant que les enfants, dans leur école, recevaient une leçon de musique, je recevais de vous une leçon de bonté: c'est à votre image que j'aimerais aller dans la poignée de jours qui m'est donnée, madame, c'est avec votre gaieté et votre amour insoucieux de se perdre.

(...)

Alors, à qui s'adresse l'auteur ? (Christian Bobin)

Pas mal pour Claudel Alex, je ne connaissais pas celui là Smile

...
quand à Bobin, je donne ma langue au chat scratch

Le texte n'est pas fini... Il fait en fait plusieurs pages. Le titre donne la réponse: Une lettre à la lumière qui trainait dans les ruesdu Creusot en France, le mercredi 16 décembre 1992 vers 14h...

C'est pas fort ?

Très fort, en effet Smile

Et ses bouquins sont pleins de textes aussi bien...

Dites-moi où, dans quel pays
Est Flora la belle Romaine,
La royne Blanche comme un lys
Qui chantait à voix de sirène»

ce n'est pas de moi mais je l'ai trouvé sur le site de mon poète préfèré :Antonin Artaud
Mais j'ai beaucoup de belles phrases aussi hormis les poèmes...telles que :
«Avec moi c'est l'absolu ou rien, et voilà ce que j'ai à dire à ce monde qui n'a ni âme ni agar-agar.»

«Ce refus imbécile de s'avancer jusqu'aux idées»

«Ce que c'est que le Moi, je n'en sais rien. La conscience? une répulsion épouvantable de l'Innommé, du mal tramé, car le JE vient quand le coeur l'a noué enfin, élu, tiré hors de ceci et de cela, contre ceci et pour cela, à travers l'éternelle supputation de l'horrible, dont tous les non-moi, démons, assaillent ce qui sera mon être...»

«Les gens sont bêtes. La littérature vidée. Il n'y a plus rien ni personne, l'âme est insane, il n'y a plus d'amour, plus même de haine, tous les corps sont repus, les consciences résignées. Il n'y a même plus l'inquiétude qui a passé dans le vide des os, il n'y a plus qu'une immense satisfaction d'inertes, de boeufs d'âme, de serfs de l'imbécillité qui les opprime et avec laquelle ils ne cessent nuit et jour de copuler, de serfs aussi plats que cette lettre où j'essaie de manifester mon exaspération contre une vie menée par une bande d'insipides qui ont voulu à tous imposer leur haine de la poésie, leur amour de l'inepsie bourgeoise dans un monde intégralement embourgeoisé, avec tous les ronronnements verbaux des soviets, de l'anarchie, du communisme, du socialisme, du radicalisme, des républiques, des monarchies, des églises, des rites, des rationnements, des contingentements, du marché noir, de la résistance.»

«Les asiles d'aliénés sont des receptacles de magie noire, conscients et prémédités. Et ce n'est pas seulement que les médecins favorisent la magie par leur thérapeutique qu'ils raffinent, c'est qu'ils en font. S'il n'y avait pas de médecins, il n'y aurait pas de malades, car c'est par les médecins, et non par les malades, que la société a commencé. Ceux qui vivent, vivent des morts, et il faut aussi que la mort vive... Il n'y a rien comme un asile d'aliénés pour couver doucement la mort, et tenir en couveuse les morts. Cela a commencé 4000 ans avant J.C., cette technique thérapeutique de la mort longue. Et la médecine moderne, complice en cela de la plus sinistre et crapuleuse magie, passe ces morts à l'électrochoc ou à l'insulinothérapie, afin de bien, chaque jour, vider ces haras d'hommes de leur moi, et de les présenter, ainsi vides, ainsi fantastiquement disponibles et vides, aux obscènes sollicitations anatomiques et atomiques de l'état appelé «bardot». Livraison du barda de vivre aux exigences du non-moi. Le Bardot est l'astre de mort par lequel le moi tombe en flasque, et il y a, dans l'électrochoc, un état flasque, par lequel passe tout traumatisé. Ce qui lui donne non plus à cet instant de connaître, mais affreusement et désespérément méconnaître ce qu'il fut quand il était soi. J'y suis passé et ne l'oublierai pas.»

Voili voilou j'éspère que vous avez aimé...Pour ma part je trouve ça très beau, Antonin Artaud est un génie à consommer avec modération...

( juste une parenthèse, ton avatar, c'est de Luis Royo, nan !? )

Un merveilleux poème:

Bienvenue Dans Les Ténèbres De Mon Onirie
Où Viennent Parfois Se Perdre Les Raisons De Ma Folie...
Je Hais Les Testaments et Je Hais Les Tombeaux;
Plutôt que d'Implorer Une Larme Du Monde,
Vivant, J'aimerais Mieux Inviter Les Corbeaux
A Saigner Tous Les Bouts De Ma Carcasse Immonde.
Charles Beaudelaire

Un Autre connu que j'aime utiliser comme pseudo:

Il n'aime pas la mort,
Elle n'aime pas la vie;
Il est mort pour elle,
Elle vie pour lui.

(au fait, vi c'est bien de Luis Royo)

Très joli... vraiment... bon, va falloir que je choppe mes textes préférés de mon maître Hugo...

Bavouilleur Nombre de messages : 32 Date d'inscription : 05/01/2006

Pierre a écrit:: Pas mal pour Claudel Alex, je ne connaissais pas celui là ...
quand à Bobin, je donne ma langue au chat

Ce n'est pas un poème de Claudel, il est juste cité à la dernière ligne Smile

Ce texte est de Benjamin Peret, le plus surréaliste des surréalistes d'après Breton. Il est celui qui a le meiux expérimenté sur l'écriture automatique. Ca vaut ce que ca vaut, mais c'est souvent marrant Smile

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