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?
…
Snowflakes
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
triumphing
at the heart of
a mothering forest
the sun salutes itself
blue yellow red cherished
admired
on sami hats
of men and women
travelors
….
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
foam
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
murmurs
Stateless,
it only lives scattered
dotted about and turned away
by ice
…
by your face
streams
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
yellow
of pink
crescent
moon
two sharpened
tips
turning
to the canopy
….
Dusk
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
…
Birds
buzzards
tree
spindles
a figure
with dislocated feathers
down on the ground
singers
have no more timing
they push back
the line of days