Diverses poetic ports:

The sad country.

The country............................................. Speak

We will start over again........................................................... The sooth-sayer

My mother...................................... The mother.

The unilingual machine.

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The sad country

I wander among the beasts
my intestines stuck to the branches of heaven
magisterial strides towards the sun
the jaws of crocodiles to the horns
I dote prayers to the wind
wind of veins to the disgarnished morning
gargarism of saxophones
rains of soups to the travel
stop of feet to the put? sharing

I will go sleeping over the blueberries
the night over my naked prick
I will go thirst sadness to my ass
the patern of hand knife to my earth
I will sleep over the bluberries
the belly open to the moon's blood
my hand hanged to the dream's stream
I will go dying to the sad country
dying in the ropes of the dream.

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The country

I would have like to tell the country
to relate it or let me hear talk
I would have love the country
I would have love to tell it
but the country do not belong to me
and this contry do not know me
I am citizen of Irak
citizen of eqypt of israel
I am turc mahometan
black from the Rio grande

noir du rio grande

I am from over there
not from here
I am from anywhere
not from here
I am a stranger
not from here
and however I inhabit the country
that is not my country
I inhabit a country

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Speak

speak not to let the words
reproach to you
to empty your tripes of
your anger
speak with the yankee tune proprietary swallower
of spaces
speak over your hunger the right to work to walk over
your soil
to choose your ennemies you morality the language of
your blasphemes
to choose your way of dying of fattening of measure
your pastes
speak

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We will start over again

lif will take over
from here to there
after the fritting out
of the contradictions
after the collapse
of the semaphores
life will born new skin
tomorrows perled
tomorrows perled
we will take over
the yankee shores

pulled away from the look
of our fathers
we will take back the grass
under our feet
our adultary wifes
to the Nefertari dream
our tortured
to the Pharaon's dollar
our mutilated to the shield
of their Queen
we will take back
our sheep
eaven if we cover our corpse
up to Harlem
neger
to the tiles.

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The sooth-sayers

laissons parler les devins
ils ergotent nos lendemains
les tueries de dimanches matraqués
les devins
les rangés à la gloire de dieu le père
laissez parler nos aînés
les matraqueurs de dimanches fleuris
nos bien assis à la gloire de Cette Majesté
parlez les papas à scrutin
les mamans en pleurs
la morale à l'estousse d'élections truquées



parlez parlez
les démocrates de pacotilles
façadeurs discoureurs moraloiseux
religieusots
enfants de Marillards
sermoneux
réglementeuses
parlez toutes vos tripes
criez vos puretés d'entrailles
on ne vous qu'en enterrera mieux

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My mother......

elle est belle la mère
belle au sourire d'aube
crédule et naïve
plaintive et module
la mère
la mère des chapelets
aux doigts ridés
la mère de finesse
mère tendre
archange
mère de pleurs
et de joies
mère de larmes
longues et inutiles
la mère divine
et caresse
la mère d'ici
ma mère.

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	The mother......

the mother who cries alone
for the child of her
the lovely lady of God
elsewhere on the prayer-stool of heaven

the mother of rosary's fingers
to the angel's prayers
the lovely naive prayer
that attracts the angel of heaven.

the mother of extasy lips
the mother of God
the mother of those who sins
the mother of us all.

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The unilingual machine

I speak and suddenly everything stops
the machine stops
she nurrish herself from another language
I am the language that do not nurrish
I am the motionless machine
I am the death language

Some speaking my language
refuses this situation
they claim a machine of their language
a machine according to their language
they rebell against the existing machine
they destroy the machine

But the machine protects itself she barricade itself
she nourished itself from her language
or from the blood of the other language
it is a powerfull machine
speaking a powerfull language
the yankee language

Some others speaking my language
support that state of facts
delegated they are by the powerfull machine
they imagine as a strategy
the machine nourishing itself from both language
without changins its nature

Thus we learn the language of the machine
beleiving we serv it in both language
we nourish it in its own language
until the day we discover that she assimilates only her own
we forget our own language

Also reestablish the situation

or I would have shout for nothing....

Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (poésie: la machine unilingue, 1960) © 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe

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