Brash

Most people have no right to be humble. Humility is a privilege, it is only for those who have achieved something, who then show humility as a kind of positive, constructive vanity. Having achieved nothing, I know my place, I must be foolishly brash and proud of the nothing I have done, to keep pushing and pulling, till one day, hopefully, I can really be proud, and shut up.

Mirror

As I look in despair at my body that, already imperfect in its youth, has now decided to show signs of a steady and ineluctable decline into middle and then old age, nothing frustrates me as much as to look into a mirror. And Pessoa confirms my intuition, when in his book, the “Book of disquiet” (which I simply cannot recommend enough to better understand the modern world we live in), he explains that the mirror has poisoned the human soul, that must be perfect in its own eyes, that in ancient times, people would rarely, if at all look at themselves in a mirror, and if they would, it would be by bending down in an act of belittlement, to look into the water. In another part of his book, he describes how greek literature did not have mention of this modern day angst, despite all the statues they made. This is also ofcourse the content of the Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, where a man is driven to madness, seeing himself age. We do not see the origins and the subtle, ill-effects of the modern world, the way fish do not see water….

Les vagues

Ma tête se dégarnie

L’ombre de la mort flotte sur moi

Mes cheveux comme les vagues de la mer se reculent

Mais non pas comme eux,

ils ne reviendront plus jamais.

Le temps ne se voit pas dans les vagues

C’est pourquoi on aime les regarder

C’est pourquoi les formes arrondies nous apaisent

le bonheur est dans le cycle

Le bonheur familiale est là aussi

Les enfants nous font croire que nous sommes de nouveau jeune

Le quotidien se répète

La mort a peur de qui?

Chapeau rouge

Avec ce chapeau rouge
je m’exteriorise
je ne suis plus moi-même
je suis l’homme
qui porte un chapeau rouge
En ces chaussures de bleau-merde claire
je m’exteriorise
je ne suis plus moi-même
je suis une ombre
flottant sur de la bleu-merde claire
Avec ce pull noir
je m’exteriorise
je suis un suisje
portant un pull noir
qui effleure une passante
Avec ce poème
je m’exteriorise
je ne sais qui je suis
je suis ces mots
qui m’écrivent
Avec mon intérieure
je ne puis m’intérioriser
car en m’intériorisant
je m’exteriorise
à l’intérieure