TEN YEARS OF POETRY
Adrift, Afire, Astir
Does he know what a limit is?
Asking the question is answering it.
Of course NO! NO! NO!
Negative Holy Trinity that refuses the plain material reality of down-to-earth logic…?
And just as much the logic of the dematerialized, digitalized, dithyrambic perdition in all the rabbit holes he can find along the way in our cities, and God alone knows how many there are with all the sewage manholes in the gutters along the sidewalks.
At times he dreams he is a rabbi who could enter all these holes and just visit them as if they were the Promised Land or I don’t know what Eden or Paradise.
He is constantly falling for the desire to be listened to and even respected because his Aspergerism is not helping his integration in the society of the non-differently-abled people.
How do you call them in Harry Potter’s land?
The Muggles with blended minds or the Mudbloods with beetroot juice mixed with dirt in their veins.
Go have a trip into this ChristEasterMas Land! You might meet a few musical rats playing the Chorus along with some Countertenors directed by Joe Hill.
Jacques COULARDEAU, Olliergues July 27, 2019
THE LEGLESS WALKER’S
TRAGICUS DRAMATICUS BLUES
Thursday, November 22
Illustrations, Annunzio Coulardeau, aka Hallah
Editions La Dondaine
The unnamed character in this long poem is trying to follow what is happening in his mind after the accident, after he fell to the ground unconscious when trying to get back up after tying up his shoe. He is entirely locked up in his own self and he is even seeing himself from outside himself, he is the watcher, and the watchee is there lying on the sidewalk and then later on suffering on a hospital bed.
The trauma is deep and brutal and he may have lost his own mind at some time in this descent into pain, the worst pain being that he was no longer the master of himself, and yet he fought for some revival, some responsibility, for some modesty if not bashfulness. Suffering from being unable to hide, and passing water became an ordeal and he had to do it in spite of all.
This unnamed character is trying to follow the strings that are within his reach, trying to re-emerge from this deep traumatic cesspool in which he is some kind of floating half-rotten piece of wood that is losing its substance, impregnated with muddy water as it is. He pulls these strings. They resist. Yet he has to get out of the soup in which he is dissolving.
In his post-traumatic pain and corrugation, he tries not to get lost in translation as if he would be transmuted into some vaporous smog in a lightless empty void, floating fleshlessly and mindlessly. Some recollections resonate in his brain, torturing his desire to just pass away with the challenge to stand up and howl at his fear, his angst, his apprehensive revulsion. Going down the road feeling bad in the midnight hour when pushing the Dreadful Gate open.
Dr. Jacque COULARDEAU
Je dédie ce poème à tous ceux qui m’ont permis de me relever du sol le jour de Thanksgiving, Jeudi 22 novembre 2018. Au plus bas dans mon errance mentale, le troisième jour, un Samaritain, qui devait être bon, me releva et me rendit l’espoir que je pourrais encore marcher malgré l’abandon dans lequel je me réfugiais. Le sixième jour et la sixième nuit virent une aggravation brutale de la situation qui fut prise en main par le même Samaritain qui me fit passer l’étape de la sagesse salomonique sans couper le bébé en deux, puis du septain de l’achèvement qui déboucha la huitième nuit sur une seconde venue ouvrant la porte et la voie à l’affrontement de la vie et de Belial le neuvième jour, à la fois le dragon et la bête, de la vie réelle.
Que tous soient ici remerciés pour ce qui fut pour moi une apocalypse réussie. Si la juivité de ce discours surprend quelques-uns des lecteurs, qu’ils pensent en terme de spiritualité bouddhiste et de trois en trois , de dukkha en anicca et anatta, toute l’équipe de ce Samaritain dont je parle m’ont remis sur le chemin octogonal qui mène à nibbana (nirvana en sanskrit). Qu’ils en soient ici remerciés.
Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU
THE LEGLESS WALKER’S TRAGICUS DRAMATICUS BLUES: THANKSGIVING 2018 Thursday, November 22 (English Edition) Format Kindle
de Jacques COULARDEAU (Auteur), Annunzio COULARDEAU (Illustrations)
Format : Format Kindle
Taille du fichier : 7874 KB
Utilisation simultanée de l’appareil : Illimité
Editeur : Editions La Dondaine; Édition : 1 (4 décembre 2018)
Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
Langue : Anglais
Synthèse vocale : Activée
Lecteur d’écran : Pris en charge
Composition améliorée: Activé
EUR 4,40 — US$ 4.99
La poésie, orgasme mental
Le poète, jouisseur onaniste verbal
Jacques COULARDEAU ebooks and CDs
The Poet, Onanistic and Orgasmic in words
La poésie, orgasme mental
Le poète, jouisseur onaniste verbal
Poetry, a mental orgasm
The poet, a verbal onanist
Poetry and Poésie in a cosmological drama
Poetry, Oniric and Dramatic (Updated)
No one knows where poetry starts and when poetry stops. It is in all our days, minutes and hours. It is with us all the time though most of us do not see it or realize it is hiding in our pockets.
Poetry comes down with me from my higher floors when I step into the soil of the garden and try to slither between the flowers and among the vegetables. A ladybug is a treat on a green leaf and a bee is a visitor on a rose.
You can easily hear the chirping cicadas and the warbling birds twitting their messages to the whole world, their messages about the coming weather, the impending storm, the unforeseen shower. They know better than we do: they are the poets of nature.
In the evening I close up my shutters and my windows and my doors and I curl up under my featherbed and try to ruminate what I have swallowed too fast during the day.
They all come back, the good, the bad, the evil, the ugly too and the angry above all with their screams and their fiery eyes. They could easily reduce you to ashes and you are no phoenix. Your death will be final, at least in this momentary and transient existence. You may get a second chance beyond the ashes and the flames, reincarnate in bones and blood.
It is so strange that in this moment of revelation about myself it is all sorts of foreign countries or distant places that come back, and this impossibility to step out of myself and merge with the desires of others. Life has been long harassment for me and death might be a challenge and a change.
Beauty then is the inner dimension of my frustration and the dreamlike appearance of my self-contempt. Poetry is the only way to make peace with my satanic mind and to reach out for a world I imagine more than I apprehend.
We all want to be understood, listened to and maybe liked, a little bit at least. Contact is bliss but it is so hard to go beyond its desire and reach out for the other, the others, the empathy that may be floating around in thin air and that we cannot really feel at the tip of our fingers. We are going on tiptoe in life to avoid any possible stir, and yet the local bully says:
“What are you hiding in your hands, sissy sassy dummy dum-dum dunderhead!”
And in your heart you welcome the contact and say in silence “Nothing, Sir, Mister Master Sir, nothing.”
The cotton-wool of my discomfort
Masturbates my distress
With unbearably delightful cheerlessness
And fondles my blank void-ness
With eternally resting softness
Velvet snug in the cell-lessness
Of this expanding here-ness
Of that overflown there-ness
Of a heartful of restlessness
Of a restful of heartlessness
The walls have shrunk in front of my eyes
The dancers resisted for a while
But the dark web of my brains
Spidered them over with the white
Of the fleeing screen of ink
That traps the fish
That grounds the tanks
That blinds the shells
And rapes the oyster shrine
That shines in the dimly rosy lips
Of the sea-sand undulating with algae
Dancing with medusae
Swaying with sharks
And rolls the cloudy bouquet
Tasty and crunchy
Like a brownie sprinkled with walnuts
I grin the icing with my golden teeth
And the Rhyne wine twines round my spine
My bonnie bony back formalness
And grinds to ashes
The sweet sugary fumet
Of an herby Irish stew
Steelful like an IRA rifle
Tarful like a highland Scotch
Melts to sparkling crystal
The sweeping sway of my . . .
. . . Rumbanesque chachawise soukouslike samba
The water chute sprays the air
With the white foam
Of the swelling current
Thrusting through the banks
Through the virginal jungle of Africa
Black and dark as a happy night
Luminous as a sad memory
That lancinates my syndromes
With the recurrence of boredom
The naughtiness of neverdom
The strife of letting it be again
The resuming silence of the end
When the violet reclines its head
When the rose lilies its petals
The naked wind of the morning
Breaks through the draping sheets
And vanishes in the mourningful distance
Of a hangover showering down
On the flat bottom of our boxed lives
Only the rug will keep the stain
The flesh will be refreshed
By the absolving cup of coffee
By the pregnant Monday
That will inevitably enwomb our thirst
In the fetal capsule
Of next Saturday night’s
Might have been
Desire of the never-to-be-remembered