Dwa lemury na drzewie… Rozumiemy, rozumiemy. Podłoże psychosomatyczne, czyli zespół wyjątkowo niespokojnych paznokci.
A swoją drogą, czy ma pan jeszcze widzenia? Gdzie pan właściwie był, jak pana wśród nas przez tydzień nie było?
Jak to gdzie? Odebrał sobie życie i po powrocie pije, stał się oszczędny i unika filetów z atlantyckiego dorsza. A jednak smażenie!
Proszę podawać trzy tabletki na dobę. (Dwa lemury na drzewie…) I ma nagle negatywny stosunek do służby wojskowej.
W takim razie cztery. Trzy po posiłkach, a czwartą jak znowu zacznie sikać po żywopłotach. Jeśli już raz odebrał sobie życie, nie pozwólmy mu teraz żyć.
I demand. I insist. However, my expectation is reasonable. The trillium shall bloom each spring and delight me with delicate, white trinities. They oblige, my devoted subjects.
I made Dad nervous as, I’m fairly certain, he smoked twice as much when I was around. He inhaled sharply, deeply, a generous contribution to his emphysema.
Even my wife once (charitably, only once) used the phrase, “walking on eggshells.” I’ll always harbor this even if she forgot expressing it. I’m sure, I hope, I must have relented.
Apparently, my expectations were far too high. I demanded. I insisted. I do recall my pleas, though not my intensity as such, as a nervous little boy, any child’s anxiety over uncertainty.
Now, at this age, all my sharp edges filed smooth, obviously, markedly wiser (one would expect), I’ve cultivated diplomacy, learned to compromise, entertained the value of silence.
And yet I remain lonely. Apparently, simply walking into a room, I continue to require far too much. I suppose I do expect some essential things to function still (without perfection).
I’d enjoy a few simple courtesies: please and thank you, how-do-you-do, pardon me. From old friends (and either of my sisters), a call, a letter, a lunch, just a bit of honesty will do. I vow to forgo the anticipation of integrity.
I expect (or rather hope, as anyone does) to be loved, at least valued. On occasion. As time permits. At your convenience.
Penance
Dolorosamente, I remain a penitent.
I crave absolution as I failed to reconcile an old sin,
deadly Superbia, its pages faded, brittle at the edges,
lost in a monastery crypt. The summer after dropping
out of art school, I sat on the sofa opposite Charlie,
the geology professor – the girl from painting class,
Mary Alice’s father, in their little suburban living room,
listening to their dear friend play an Impromptu,
a Franz Schubertiade. My only task was delight,
but I was a thoughtless young bumpkin, oblivious
to most etiquette, a yapping, blundering puppy,
blathering on, duro bruscamente, while her fingers
glided like water pouring over keys.
Through moderato, allegro vivace, andantino,
sharp scowls shut me up, a smack on my muzzle;
however, embarrassment didn’t take until years later.
There remain too many events for which I feel regret
(one or two may be labeled loathsome). For this particular
transgression, I thumbed my rosary with due obsession,
recited the Act of Contrition, elaborated in the confessional,
there’s no one left to recall or care a whit for insignificant
atonement (and who’d forgive me four decades ago).
Now, nearly every day, I listen attentively to Schubert,
this beauty my penance, my Dolcezza.
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
spin the attraction
I believed it when you said:
“Stay away from Okies.”
“Stay away from swabbies busting bottles off the rail.”
“Don’t bug Carlos.”
Tonight the perseids will glitter for an hour,
sputter. disappear.
I believed it when you said
you’d find a job tomorrow.
everybody’s falling
Sure, my palms were sweating. The way she smiled at you, the way she took your hand and placed it on her hip. The way you drifted from the orbit of relationship. This is how it works, right? One stacked in the warp and reeling. The other standing still.
Kathleen Hellen is the recipient of prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review. Her debut collection Umberto’s Night won the poetry prize from Washington Writers’ Publishing House. Featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, Hellen’s work has been nominated multiple times for Best of the Net, the Pushcart and recently Best American Short Stories. She is the author of The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, Meet Me at the Bottom, and two chapbooks.She lives in Baltimore.
Aujourd’hui je ne sors plus tant, pour mieux prier,
Hier quatre cent coups, pour l’heure l’encrier,
Autrefois les amours… Cité : scène ou décor.
Il est une légende et je vais vous la dire :
Jésus habite ici, avenue des Lilas,
Oui, le Fils de Dieu même, a choisi d’être là.
Certains racontent l’avoir vu – ils lui parlèrent,
Des nuages du ciel, du soleil, du bel air…
Il est l’esprit des lieux, astres, zénith, nadir.
*****
Poème de reconnaissance
Oh quel bonheur ! Oh quel bonheur !
Viens à moi sans cesse, oh l’Amour !
Oui je l’ai dit je connus jour !
À ton flanc n’ai sèvre en mon coeur !
Les songes infinis s’ébrouent…
Dans l’eau lacs clairs, bleus lagons, mers !
Oh notre Père un rien te voile,
Bénis la Sainte et toi l’étoile !
Le verger, la Lune et la Terre…
Vous me fîtes page de cour,
Et d’heurs en ors votre prière,
Passion, infini mystère,
Me porte aux ailes de vos Anges…
Que j’adorerai pour mélange,
D’une vie donnée en retour,
Aux yeux bleu de nuit, mon secours,
Enfant, nourrisson en vos langes.
*****
Comme une Comptine
Les pastels de bleus, d’ors, habilleront le Ciel,
Et partout sonne le refrain – bourdon de miel…
La musique en tout sens étalée là, éclate,
Et règne sans dessus – dessous – mer disparate.
Je me promène allant dépenser du tabac,
Et d’un air sobre, lent,
Marche au pas de combat…
L’homme est un animal ! Mystère, Loi des Fables.
Il vivra vieux, pensif et assis à sa table,
S’il connaît ce poncif :
« Au carrefour un arbre,
C’est ainsi !
Un Platane !
Je ne suis pas de marbre…
Voici,
Braire mon âne. »
*****
Esther
Ou : Petit Pied d’argent
Elle était là, mais oui Venise,
Venise est elle sans ses filles ?
Par le vieux Ghetto et l’eglise,
Oui juste là, Judeira,
Le trois. Et je la vis au bras,
D’une fontaine où brille l’eau,
Versée par un enfant… Halo !
Quand je lui dis « Quel est ton nom ? »
Elle répondit Esthera.
« – Quel est ton nom doux – étranger ? »
Me demanda t elle à son tour.
« Je suis Timothée, dis – je, et j’ai,
Tout juste là trouvé l’amour ! »
Puis la tendre, si belle au jour…
– Vous dirais je ici ? Et puis, non,
Poète n’est il roi du coeur,
Sans raison ?
– Il aime à mesure.
*****
L’amandier
A l’ombre d’un amandier,
En sifflotant, je sillonne,
Un champ ou la vie foisonne,
En vrai, joyeux jardinier.
Je n’avance pas, je donne,
Tout à ce cher amandier,
Le chant d’un paradisier,
Prouve que la terre est bonne.
Ma tête sous son calot,
J’aperçois au loin les bois,
Parfois je m’arrête et bois,
La fumée de mon brûlot.
Puis au soir, viens mon repos,
Je fume une herbe sauvage,
Et serein, je dévisage,
La lune, à tout cœur appeau…
*****
Jeunesse
Mon sablier de sang s’est vidé de l’aurore,
Oh ciel! Tant pis pour ça, tant pis pour les fusées,
A présent l’aube blanche ouvre ses ailes d’or,
Puis le lapis cinglant ceint mon front irisé…
Une charrette d’os à jeter dans l’oubli,
Mare sacrée des morts, le jour me reste à faire,
Les rêves trop lointains s’effacent dans mon lit,
Quand le matin sévère aiguise son mystère.
J’aperçois que plus loin : les nues sont entrouvertes,
Et repense à la Nuit ! Qui vient d’être passée…
En songeant que nos vies, quoique d’aucuns dissertent,
Ne sont que gouttes d’eau d’un océan lacées.
*****
Zut
Deux vieillards promenant leurs odeurs liminaires,
Dans le bus. Lui qui branle un chef un peu rassis,
Elle roide, quoique tremblant un peu aussi,
Tous deux fatigués, gris, d’une couleur de pierre.
Au milieu des cahots, ils sont là face à face,
Pensifs, presque rêveurs, une moue sur les lèvres,
Et pris au piège de leur destin qui s’achève,
Semblent consentir aux caprices de l’espace.
Puis, ils se lèvent, sortent dans la rue de Rennes,
Qu’ils arpenteront, quêtant pour leur quotidien
Cette vie échappée des cœurs que la mort gène,
Vers leur appartement aux meubles trop anciens.
****
Timothée Bordenave
Château d’Assat. France.
Pour European Poetry. 2024.XII.
A Brief Catechism
You find God in every step, Holy man! And you, holy woman, You will love Him life or death, Young or old, Sister or pregnant…
As for me, a poet in Paris, I will do my best for Him! It will be little, so dazzles me, His angel in my heart who smiles…
Little, yes! But already, a few pages, To say that one must be wise, As Saint Paul taught us…
To sing of those who, worthy, calm, Died for Him under the palm, Or took His cross on their shoulders…
Jesus in Paris
Paris – which is my city, with its thousand and one hundred churches, Sheltered, as we know, the flock of birds, It also welcomed the crowd of onlookers, Who walk its gray streets morning, evening, night, and day.
I lived there! Yes: as a child, I was there, I am still there, Today I don’t go out so much, the better to pray, Yesterday four hundred blows, now the inkwell, Formerly love affairs… City: scene or setting.
There is a legend, and I’ll tell it to you: Jesus lives here, on Avenue des Lilas, Yes, the Son of God himself chose to be here.
Some say they saw him – they spoke to him, Of the clouds in the sky, of the sun, of the beautiful air… He is the spirit of the place, stars, zenith, nadir.
Poem of Gratitude
Oh what happiness! Oh what happiness! Come to me constantly, oh Love! Yes, I said it, I knew day! At your side, I am not weaned in my heart!
Infinite dreams shake… In the water, clear lakes, blue lagoons, seas! Oh our Father, a trifle veils you, Bless the Saint and you, the star! The orchard, the Moon, and the Earth…
You made me a page of court, And your prayer, with golden happiness, Passion, infinite mystery, Carries me on the wings of your Angels…
Whom I will adore as a mixture, Of a life given in return, With the blue eyes of night, my help, Child, infant in your swaddling clothes.
Like a Nursery Rhyme
Pastels of blue, of gold, will dress the Sky, And everywhere rings the refrain – honey drone…
The music spread out there, bursts forth, And reigns upside down – a disparate sea.
I walk, going to spend some tobacco, And with a sober, slow air, March at the marching pace…
Man is an animal! Mystery, Law of Fables. He will live to be old, thoughtful, and seated at his table,
If he knows this cliché:
“At the crossroads, a tree, That’s it! A plane tree!
I am not made of marble… Here, Braying my donkey.”
Esther Or: Little Silver Foot
She was there, yes, Venice, Is Venice without her daughters? By the old Ghetto and the church, Yes, right there, Judeira,
The third. And I saw her on the arm, Of a fountain where the water sparkles, Poured by a child… Halo!
When I asked her, “What is your name?”
She answered Esthera. “- What is your sweet name – stranger?” She asked me in turn. “I am Timothy,” I say, “and I have
found love right here!” Then tenderness, so beautiful in the daylight…
Would I tell you here? And then, no, Isn’t a poet king of the heart,
Without reason?
He loves as he goes.
The Almond Tree
In the shade of an almond tree, Whistling, I wander, A field teeming with life, Like a true joyful gardener.
I don’t move forward, I give, Everything to this dear almond tree, The song of a bird of paradise, Proves that the earth is good.
My head under its cap, I glimpse the woods in the distance, Sometimes I stop and drink, The smoke from my firebrand.
Then in the evening, my rest comes, I smoke a wild herb, And serene, I gaze, The moon, calling to every heart…
Youth
My hourglass of blood has emptied itself of dawn, Oh heavens! So much for that, so much for the rockets, Now the white dawn opens its golden wings, Then the stinging lapis lazuli encircles my iridescent brow…
A cartload of bones to throw into oblivion, Sacred pool of the dead, the day remains for me to make, Dreams too distant fade into my bed, When the severe morning sharpens its mystery.
I perceive that further away: the clouds are half-open, And I think of the Night again! Which has just passed… Thinking that our lives, though some may argue, Are but drops of water in a laced ocean.
Damn
Two old men strolling their liminal scents, On the bus. He’s jerking off a somewhat stale head, She’s stiff, though also trembling a little, Both tired, gray, the color of stone.
In the midst of the bumps, they stand there face to face, Pensive, almost dreamy, a pout on their lips, And trapped by their destiny which is coming to an end, Seem to consent to the whims of space.
Then, they get up, go out into the street of Rennes, Which they pace
Timothee Bordenave is a French author of fiction, poet and essayist. He lives in Paris, when not abroad or in a countryside retreat. He has published many books, and thousands of blog posts, either in French or in English.
He is also an artist, as a photographer and a painter, and is currently represented by different galleries and websites.
Timothee was born in Paris in 1984, then studied literature at high school, then law, then he became a librarian. Today he is devoted to art, and to his writings.
By her sister’s father in law with the help of family members
Struggling with life for eight days in the hospital
She expired today.
Now the time is spring and the sacred month of Ramadan
When nature spreads its glow by its own
The glory we enjoy in every step
The new leaves are coming out at the place of old falling down
On the roads and fields.
Inspite of all those beautiful sights
I see nothing in this dark world I live
Asias are dying in bed without any claim
In subconscious mind I feel sorry to think
The victims die before the death of the rapist
Like the tigers in the forest they roam about
After eating the flesh of a doe.
In this dark room I switch on the light
But darkness never removes
Something hounds me in my surroundings
That always sag my heart deep into fear.
I ask my country, how are you, dear Bangladesh?
Are the conductors okay to help drive the bus well?
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
13 March, 2025.
Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.
