Litterature Poemes

Encore un de mes poèmes issu du recueil "Chaos et Onirisme".

"Messager Muet"


Muette, dans une cage atemporelle.
J’emprisonne les mots ivres de liberté
Pour ne pas blesser le silence qui plane.

Silence, messager muet du Chaos,
Tes insinuations sont assourdissantes,
Soigneusement disséminées par le vent.

Silence, parenthèse éphémère d’un monde figé,
Tu sembles suspendre un instant le Temps
Avant qu’il ne reprenne sa course effrénée.

Silence,
Par ce mot vagabond échappé de mes lèvres,
Je te fais éclater en une pluie de murmures.


M.

Voici un livre que je vous recommande vivement : "La Sève et le Givre" de la talentueuse Léa Silhol que j'ai découverte grâce à ma meilleure amie.

Un univers fantastique, des décors oniriques, une plume unique, audacieuse, épicée et une histoire d'Amour pure, glacée et brûlante à la fois, toute en oxymores, sans aucune miévrerie...

Un poème issu de mon avant dernier recueil, "Chaos et Onirisme"...


" La Mélopée d'Aesylë"

Dans une clairière,
Sur un lit de lotus,
Une nymphe reposait,
Couchée sur le flanc,
Lascive.

Fille du Vent, elle se nommait Aesylë.
Sa peau, étonnamment diaphane,
Ainsi que sa pose alanguie,
Lui conféraient l’aspect d’une de ces statues
Qui trônent à l’entrée des temples des mortels.
Elle s’étira langoureusement.
L’Eternité lui pesait,
Muette compagne.
Elle aimait observer les mortels,
Parfois même elle les enviait.
Elle soupira.

Lorsque la Lune couronna le plus haut des pins,
Elle se leva subitement.
La Nuit, devant tant d’impudeur,
L’habilla d’un voile argenté
Pour dissimuler ces formes harmonieuses.
Aesylë entama une danse étrange,
Presque au ralenti,
Un ballet de fantôme au milieu de la brume.
Puis, elle se mit à chanter
Une mélopée mélancolique.
Des larmes s’échappèrent
De ses grands yeux parme, si tristes.
Elle tendit les bras vers le firmament,
S’offrant aux astres,
Et implora la Lune.

Sa mélopée, déchirante et passionnée,
Parvint aux oreilles d’un mortel.
Ce dernier, sous l’emprise de ce chant,
S’enfonça dans les bois glacés
Jusqu’à la clairière baignée de brume.
Alors, ses yeux furent captifs
De cette vision céleste,
De cette nymphe lascive.
Effroyable beauté.
Aesylë interrompit son chant.
Les lyres se turent.
Un sourire éclaira son visage.
Le mortel pâlit et s’effondra.

Sur un lit de granit,
Elle le déposa doucement.
Il semblait bercé par le sommeil.
De sa main blanche tremblante,
Elle effleura le front du mortel immobile
Et redessina les contours de son visage.
Comme elle lui enviait sa mortalité
Qui faisait de sa Vie un songe palpitant !
Troublée par cette puissante faiblesse,
Aesylë pilla alors le nectar venimeux
Des lèvres du mortel inanimé.

Dans le firmament éthéré,
L’astre nocturne déchira l’obscurité,
Irrité par cette étreinte.
Mais Aesylë ne vit pas les augures :
Elle voulait ouvrir les yeux du mortel
Pour y contempler son Ame.

De nouveau, elle entonna sa mélopée.
Puis elle dispersa des poussières de comète.
Sa voix se fit terrible.
Des ombres peuplèrent ses yeux.
Lugubre cérémonie.
Soudainement, le mortel s’éveilla.
Alors, Aesylë plongea dans son regard.
De ses yeux, elle aspira son âme.
Le mortel fut submergé de peur.
Son effroi la grisa, à la manière de l’hydromel.
Elle lui envia sa crainte
Qu’elle ne connaissait pas.
Elle esquissa un sourire cruellement envieux.
Le mortel se débattit.
Puis, majestueusement, elle se pencha
Et posa ses lèvres sur les siennes.
L’homme ne résista pas.
Elle le serra contre elle, extasiée.
Lorsqu’elle relâcha son étreinte,
Il était là, sans vie,
Tel un pantin désarticulé.

L’horreur la saisit.
Longuement, elle pleura des larmes de glace.
Elle ouvrit une fiole d’argent finement sculptée.
De la fiole s’échappèrent quelques gouttes
D’un nectar couleur ébène
Qu’elle recueillit de sa langue.
C’étaient des larmes de Lune.
Aesylë s’endormit alors,
Aux côtés du mortel inanimé.

Dans une clairière,
Une nymphe reposait,
Couchée sur le flanc,
Sur un lit de lotus,
Lascive.

Le vent, endeuillé, souffla un air glacial,
Faisant de ces êtres enlacés
Deux statues de marbre glacé.
La légende dit que les soirs d’éclipse,
Les amoureux peuvent entendre leurs pleurs.
Condamnés à ne pouvoir s’aimer,
Enlacés dans la pierre,
Pour l’éternité.


M.

Voici mon dernier poème qu'une femme vampire aurait pu écrire avec ses larmes de sang...


"Sa Nuit"

Elle aimait le Jour
Qui la condamnait.
Elle fuyait la Nuit
Qui la chérissait.
Ses grands yeux criaient famine,
Avides de la lumière ennemie.

Un soir de vagabondage,
Elle s’arrêta au bord d’une falaise.
Des comètes peuplaient ses yeux d’encre.
Les embruns de l’océan la bercèrent.
L’Aube se dessina à l’horizon.
Elle resta figée devant ce tableau.
L’astre de feu, colosse de flammes,
Entreprit son irrésistible ascension.
Des couleurs déchirèrent le Ciel.
Ses yeux se firent éclats de miroir.
Une larme fondit sur sa joue.
Déjà, la morsure ardente du soleil
Dévorait le velours de sa peau glacée.
Elle accueillit ce Jour incandescent,
Amant gourmand, duel indécent,
Les bras en croix, le regard extasié.
Un sourire se dessina sur son visage diaphane.
Toute entière le Jour la prit,
Amant offrant une étincelle de Vie,
La condamnant à une éternelle Nuit,
Sa Nuit.

Le vent dispersa ses cendres tièdes
Sous des gémissements secrets.

Elle aimait le Jour.
Elle mourut de cet Amour.


M.

Poème qui fait partie du recueil "De Fange et d'Etoiles".


"La Dernière Etreinte"

Il a mis ses gants de velours noir.
Il a effleuré un corps enveloppé par la Nuit,
Lascivement lové dans des draps tièdes.
Brusquement,
Il a posé ses mains glacées
Sur la gorge frémissante
De la créature endormie.

Une paupière qui se soulève.
Puis l’autre.
Eclair de panique animale
Qui zèbre le ciel orageux des yeux.
Un cri qui s’étouffe.

L’étreinte s’est resserrée.
Les mains se sont faites plus dures.
La créature prisonnière s’est débattue.
Violemment.
Vainement.
La petite Vie menacée, dans un suprême effort,
A tenté de lutter.
Le joli visage diaphane s’est crispé.
Les yeux noirs ont supplié.
L’horreur s’est inscrite en rides profondes.

Il a tremblé l’espace d’une seconde.
Des morceaux de passé ont resurgi,
Des images d’étreintes d’un autre genre,
Des étreintes passionnées, tourbillonnantes de Vie.
Une larme est tombée.
Mais les mains ont maintenu leur pression meurtrière.

De l’air !
De l’air !
Un râle est né et s’est évanoui.
Lentement,
Le souffle de la Vie
A quitté sa forteresse charnelle.

Alors,
Il a enlevé ses gants de velours noir
Et il a refermé la porte
Sur le linceul de l’obscurité.
Il l’a laissée dormir.



M.

Voici mon dernier poème écrit en date. Il fait partie du recueil "De Fange et d'Etoiles".


"Petit Bout de Papillon"

Elle gît sur le sable froid, recroquevillée.
Petit bout de papillon tout chiffonné,
Banni de sa chrysalide divine à jamais.
Petite nymphe d’albâtre par l’effroi figée.
La peur… Elle ne connaissait pas.

Tout échevelée, tremblante, vulnérable nudité
Dont chaque trait fut amoureusement esquissé
Par cette main d’artiste qui lui a tout appris,
Par cette main dictatrice qui lui a tout repris.
La colère… Elle ne connaissait pas.

Sensations naissantes embrassant le Chaos.
Dans son dos, un feu amant ravage sa peau.
Elle n’est que cendres sous le baiser du vent.
Souillée par les larmes, si humaine à présent.
La douleur… Elle ne connaissait pas.

Petit papillon échoué sur la terre craquelée.
Une plume immaculée, vestige de son passé.
A terre, deux ailes blanches sanguinolentes.
Dans sa tendre chair, deux plaies béantes.
L’horreur… Elle ne connaissait pas.

Ses yeux reflets d’Absolus caressent l’horizon.
Le monde des humains est une belle prison,
Une tornade de sensations insoutenables.
Pourquoi cette punition qui l’accable ?
L’injustice… Elle ne connaissait pas.

Submergée par ces brûlures de sentiments,
Petit bout de papillon dérive vers le Néant.
Se boucher les oreilles, fermer les yeux.
Ne les rouvrir que pour voir les Cieux.
L’espoir… Elle ne connaissait pas.

Symphonie de trous noirs et de lumière.
A sa folie se mêlent d’étranges prières.
Au loin, un astre de feu dévore l’horizon.
L’horreur est balayée par cette extatique vision.
La beauté éphémère… Elle ne connaissait pas.


M.

"Endya"

Chapter II : Andreas’s Diary...

She was that kind of being you cannot tell whether they are human or not. Perhaps angelic, rather demoniac. She had dark hair with light in it. Her skin was the colour of mother-of-pearl and her lips were bloodless. She looked like those antic statues at the entrance of temples. Her demeanour was that of a tiger, there was something feline about it. Strange. I was fascinated by each of her gestures. I could have watched her move for hours.

However, there was something unusual about her eyes. They were black, totally black. Their blackness seemed to veil a dark secret. It seems some flames were dancing on them. Endlessly. They expressed things you cannot tell with simple words. It seems her eyes had seen things they should not have. It seems they were far from reality, far from humanity. Other spaces. It seems they had reached a concept, they had seized it, impossible though it may seem. I could guess the soul behind these eyes. There was a kind of superiority in them. Close to the Divine.

It was a cold night. I had followed her until Eden Street. It was a small dark street. Skinny rats were running on the dusty pavement. She was magnificent under the light of the moon. She was wearing a black dress and part of it was made of embroidered veil. I could guess her breast under the veil. She was absolutely gorgeous. And threatening. She walked silently. There was no hesitation in her movements. I could not detach my eyes from her. Suddenly, she stopped and turned back. Had she felt my presence ? She studied quietly the area. I stopped breathing. Then, she stepped back and said in an icy voice :

“Predators without discretion become preys.”

I was petrified. I could not move. She quickly discovered I was hiding under a porch. She came close to me and her black eyes scrutinized me. It was like being scanned. She entered my soul.

“No name ?”, she asked in an arrogant way.
“Andreas.”, I whispered.

She said nothing during what seemed an eternity to me. About thirty seconds. I was paralysed, in a kind of trance-like state, without knowing why. Then, she broke silence :

“I am sure you have been taught this place is no Garden of Eden.”
She smiled cruelly and added : “I know it is not the first time you observe me. Many nights have passed and you still follow me like a dog would follow his master. It becomes pathetic. Why are you following me ?”
“I… I don’t know… I… I… just…”
“Why are you following me ?” she said again icily, her eyes lit with a strange fire.

No words came through the threshold of my lips. My eyes were devouring her image. Her perfection made me shiver. She noticed it :

“Cold ? Or fear, I presume…”

I stood silent. She added :

“Men are not supposed to be afraid of women. It is your society code. You should know that.”

“I am not afraid.”

“Male pride.”

Her words were like blades caressing the skin. They were cold. They were painful. While she was speaking, she walked around me as if following an invisible circle. I felt ill at ease. She clearly enjoyed the situation and made it last.

“If I were you, I would go away… It is not a place for the perfect gentleman you seem to be.”

She turned her heels and started walking in the opposite direction.

“May I know your name ?” The words had escaped from my mouth.

She stopped and turned her head. She seemed surprised and she smiled strangely.

“Endya.”, she whispered.

And she went away serenely, without looking over her shoulder. From that moment, I knew I would never forget her name, I knew it would be branded in my memory forever.


M.

"Endya"

Voici le premier chapitre. Les protagonistes sont Andréas, un jeune humain, bibliothécaire, ayant survécu au Grand Cataclysme. Il croisera le chemin d'Endya, une jeune femme qui semble irréelle... Dès le second chapitre, Andréas tient un journal intime.

2086. The earth is bleeding. Her sons stabbed Her right through the heart. A nuclear war devastated the entire planet in 2077. It lasted one day and then it was all finished. Most of the animals died. Humans too. They died as they deserved to die : miserable, suffering agonies, asking Death to pity them. No pity for such a decadent race. No pity for such cruel beings.

However, hundreds of humans survived. The most resistant, the most obdurate, the most skilful of them. They rearranged the destroyed cities into small camps. Death was breathing its plagues everywhere around them. There was a never-ending curtain of smoke. Everything was rotten, destroyed, scattered around… But humans are obstinate. They rebuilt several houses. They dug into the red earth, the bloody earth, the earth they had stabbed and poisoned during many years. It was useless. The earth was sterile. Rancour. It was Hell on earth. And it was far worse than what humans had imagined.

There was a kind of beauty in this devastated landscape, though. Humans were not polluting it anymore. It was like having killed useless insects, parasites. It was a success in a way. The earth was clean now. Nature had won. Ivy and other plants had invaded the remnants of most of the towns. However, in some cities, there were intact areas, still with the names of the streets. But no light, no laugh, no hope in this eternal night.

It was literally an eternal night. The seven years which followed the war did not see the sun. The several explosions had created a veil of dust and destroyed materials. It was hard to breathe. Then, the sun had reappeared shyly but bright days were not to come. It was a succession of dark nights and ashy days.

Paris had suffered. Half of the town had simply disappeared, swallowed by bottomless abysses. There had been an incredible earthquake. It had been as if the Earth was asking for human sacrifice, as if she had devoured men and women : thousands of people had fallen into the chasm. The Eiffel Tower had collapsed and killed hundreds of people.

For the first time in its history, Paris was quiet. People were scarce in the streets. A pair of ravens had built their nest in an old lamp. Everyday, the birds saw a strange dark-haired man. Before the war, this man was only interested in books. He considered he was no human and he despised his peers. Perhaps this is what saved him. But was he really saved ? Or was he punished in a more terrible way, condemned to live on the cemetery of his species ? He lived in a library where he had found a decent shelter. He had succeeded in finding a spring of water in a street nearby. It was probably contaminated by toxic substances but he did not care. He had chosen between a deadly life and a death synonym for salvation. He had clung to Life desperately. He had witnessed everything. It was like in the Book of Revelations. He had to write what had happened. It was his mission. There was an inner part of himself which was convinced of it. But his life was no Paradise. He ate what he found. Sometimes, he killed little animals in the park. During the first days, he was literally starving. It was eating disgusting things or dying from hunger. The choice was simple. It even happened once that he ate a human body, or what was left of it, in a small street. This is how it all began.

It was a moonless night. He did not like night, it meant he was vulnerable. He feared the predators, especially the wolves. They had appeared about six months after the end of the war. Before, he had only seen them in zoos. He preferred them in zoos, not when they came to the town to feed. He had become their prey. He disliked the idea.

On that night, he had seen a strange shape, a shape which seemed to be dancing in the air. It was a woman, all dressed in black velvet. He had wondered where she had found such beautiful clothes whereas he was obliged to wear rags most of the time. Besides, she seemed in perfect health. He decided to follow the creature and to study her. He even succeeded in sketching her while she was in the park, seeking for something he did not know. She became an obsession to him. He had seen other women after the war but they were scarce and not as beautiful. She became part of his life. He knew her habits. He knew she liked walking in the forest at night. He knew she sang melancholy hymns in an unknown language which sounded like pure poetry. He knew her without knowing who she was..."


M.

L'été dernier, lors d'un élan lyrique irrépressible, j'ai commencé à rédiger une nouvelle post-apocalyptique et cette dernière m'est naturellement venue... dans la langue de Shakespeare ! Il est fort possible qu'elle comporte quelques erreurs et maladresses (toute correction sera la bienvenue). Voici l'introduction pour débuter...


"Endya"

"The young man lay on the grass, his eyes half closed. His face expressed innocence. And serenity. He was embracing a bible lovingly. His skinny hands seemed to protect the precious book. It was the bible he had been given by his father when he was ten. His father had told him : “This is the Holy Bible. Treasure it. If you feel alone or if you are afraid, open it and read a passage.” These words were branded in his memory. But his father had left him. He had abandoned his only son. Silence. The wind caressed the young man’s hair. Nature was his mother now. Life had also abandoned his poor body."


M.

The Lament for Lucifer


Close my eyes to the sunlight,
My Morning Star, my storm.
Fold your wings in grace and take your leave of me.
Taste my blessings as you go.
We will not lie as one again
For my womb is a garden of rot.
My heart is ashes.
My tears are blood.
Hunt well, my breath, and take with you
The bones of our children, wrapped in palm leaves.
Scatter them to the horizon and allay their cries.
I shall tend a grave of deep water
And shall wash away our enemies.
Bide well, my desert wind,
Hold aloft your blade and oil it with tears.
I shall be the owl upon the nightwind,
The cat with silent paws
And the serpent at the head of Caine.
I shall be the seed of tears but my eyes shall be salt and silence,
My heart shall be the desert and the sea,
And my cry shall be the owl going hunting
As the sun departs my sky.
Weep not, my beloved,
But hold me close in your distant chaos.
We shall be the thorns of ruined Eden.
Forget me not,
Sun to my Moon,
Cry to my Silence.