The Child Across the River
You search for your past
in the nests winter
hangs high up in the poplar trees
eager to see new shores
birds have left their dreams
inside them as an offering
before wandering the skies
You address the wind
in the retreat of his hovel
at the edge of the night
he chases brambles away
and shakes out his sheets
in front of the fireplace
where an armful of leaves
sets your dreams afire
The wind gifts you a bed of mist
and a boat to cross the river
on the other shore childhood
dances in a dress of snow
and sets the table for you
guest of the bees
you meet with the past
in the dried dregs
of a chipped breakfast bowl
The cracked windowpane
endlessly weaves
a web of frost
forever overtaken
by mocking dawn
Barely time for you
to glimpse the dormice
still fast asleep
after they buried the day
under their shovelfuls of stars
Nothing has changed
the lame wicker chair
where three tabby cats are dozing
or the round table limping
under its skirt of oilcloth
only maps
don’t know where your house is
you the seafarer
of lost oceans
under frozen clocks
Travel Items
You unravel the world
in the eddying waters
where distance is inscribed
as the liner moves away
so excessively far
up to the Saint-Lawrence river
but they never told you
where loved faces tumble into the unknown
till when?
just like streamers
she had told you
they endlessly unwind
and you are not separated
You gaze at the waves
amid dancing reflections
passers of days
images slip in
from another house
landscape candles
black and white photos
with sharp edges
that cut your fingers
where loved faces tumble into the unknown
till when ?
names of countries and cities
Chapleau, Armstrong or Rainy River
they are very far
you don’t know where they are
You go up-stream as the ink flows
letters, words and nouns
through the prism of languages
on the page
a fragile surface where to hold the world
blue sheets of paper
the mail takes ages to come
and every day spent waiting
wrecks hopes
shapes grow longer
and fill the emptiness
colours suffused with light
or darkened by night
The world has its double
a shore of pages
where to return, to become
the same, or another person
in summer sometimes
the scent of a perfume
«Je reviens», I am back,
never for very long
along with doorsteps
that separate or bring together
adorn and are alike
You shudder
immersed with trees and landscapes
from the outset
on that dawning sky
where your memory fails you
yesterday
she would speak
of Guntur and Hyderabad
words tinkled
like her doll dinnerware
made of copper
shaken with languages and echoes
sometimes dark and strange
so beautiful they make you cry
today
Carl Schurz Park
86th Street
the child wants to say écureuil
squirrel
finger pointing
to a branch
and the East River
flowing past
under the winter sky
you breathe in
nourished by perfumes and colours
shaken by images and voices
fragments of the world inside you
and on dances that dawning sky
where everything began
on that day
she spoke
a language
no one understood
around her
snatches lost
but heard
you walk on
in a night
sometimes pierced by lightning
never mind
everything is still there
according to the clouds
and the wind
chasing days away
(From Passeurs de rives, éditions La tête à l’envers, 2015, translated from the French by the author)
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