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samedi, 04 décembre 2010


Some cat gives

A bone to the dog

Which is not a dog

But a firefly


Schroedinger and his cat

Are always in mind

When the text is talking

With only just a sound


Echo is my name

The time of a reflection

Glare of a glimpse

All along the mirror's edge


But the questions are still on my mind Gilles, regardless of Schroedinger's cat and it's entanglements ;) Where is that place where the dead out of body reside constantly and the in body living visit periodically and how does one find their way there for a visit? You see, my interest in these things is not philosophical or spiritual, but quite pragmatic. Is it a place of thought or is it a place of feeling? I suppose the philosopher might say it's a place of thought, but tell me, what does the poet say? :)

Écrit par : Val | dimanche, 05 décembre 2010


Poet can only tell
His journey to nowhereland
And point his finger
To the point of no return
Where stands alone
The rhizome of all charms

Painting ignorance on the walls
The breath of the dragon
Looks like a silver arrow
Showing a sparkle in the night
Among the purple frost and haze

Écrit par : gmc | dimanche, 05 décembre 2010

The poet is always an enigma Gilles. Well, no always. ;) Lovely poem with very intelligent references. As always, your work is superb.

Écrit par : Val | dimanche, 05 décembre 2010

psst, it's not work, it's poetry^^

Écrit par : gmc | dimanche, 05 décembre 2010

Psst! You're right. :) The 'work' is figuring out the elusive nature and inner workings of the poet's soul. ;)

Écrit par : Val | dimanche, 05 décembre 2010

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