Radio de l’Université du Masachussetts


Poèmes lus dans Poetry à la carte de Daisy Mathias

Without title
(inspired by Esther Berelowitsch photographies and Drôme’s views)


There is a wind
like a pivotal flight
a raptor in a difficult position
at the temperatures’ meeting point
in shadow with its prey

Yellows’ frenzy
before sunset
ice rekindles
and cracks
taking over fogs on the ground
ochres are coming into
a purplish clash
which star takes care
of dusks and dawns
drawing a rigorous line
what trajectory does it take upon itself?

the thousands of doors
of a fantastic tale
as many as blinking eyes
pour themselves out
thin away on the ground
the way we sidestep a perspective

the sun holes
branches in winter
they warm up
they give in
for a few hours sake

a blue artillery front
is moving on a day
at the heart of
a mothering forest
the sun salutes itself
blue yellow red cherished
on sami hats
of men and women
the sky puffed out
all day
it showered hail
and spring
withdrew from winter

clearing the storm
cutting down the margins
spattering the sky
with a colony of loons
so many contrasts persist
from a kilometer to another
from dead ends’ copes
to weather redemptions
clouds burst
in an elastic opening
a Chinese black
dismantles globes
bits of sky
almost gold with joy

watercolor furrows
and high robe trains
on mountain pores

she is a crocus
an awakening
emeralds for corollas
peduncle eyes
she will be given a wind’s name

snow does not melt
(it sinks in)
then rises back up
like a remorse
it is the coachdriver
of wind and deafness
the cover
for underwater
it only lives scattered
dotted about and turned away
by ice

by your face
the first blood
of melting snow
on your cheeks
shimmers the caress
of blistered rocks
in your eyes
It is so early
that linger together
a moon and a sun alike

there is gibberish used by wool and hands
a set of passes
legs bridgelike
wool as a highway
under the razor of a tightrope walker
a pyramid-shaped balance
made of hooks
the neck of sheep
bent into a caress
with the different poses
of the shearer

a chipped
of pink
two sharpened
to the canopy
there are moons
approaching through
ivory dew
arched crimson
fires groaned
by the cut-out of ridge trees
seaskapes exist
knocking on lost villages’ door
with their peak
promising them
sauciness for wealth

there are curtains
taking over
feet and fields
roads and lucerne
like in a full gulp
an indigestible hug

a figure
with dislocated feathers
down on the ground
have no more timing
they push back
the line of days