Copyright 2010 Alain Millon
Friday, March 18, 2011
Vague
Avant que la marée ne les emporte,
Sur le sable chaud, j'écris trois mots
Dont les coquillages forment les sept lettres.
Un bulot met le point sur le «i».
Une algue dessine l'apostrophe
De « je t'aime ».
Sur le sable chaud, j'écris trois mots
Dont les coquillages forment les sept lettres.
Un bulot met le point sur le «i».
Une algue dessine l'apostrophe
De « je t'aime ».
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
Meeting Lewis on the Max
(he points to his
muddy jeans)
I am
a caretaker
a plant doctor
(he laughs and shakes his head)
I live
in the basement of my aunt Bess
She was there for me
After Nam
I don't like to speak about it much
all the dead
all the dead
she passed
I stayed
I still
live there
down below
just off Broadway
I rent the rest
for company
and
live on
just
live on
working every day
to grow
flowers
(he smiles)
and make them stay
colorful and bright
colorful and bright
(he got off at
at the first stop
on South West Fifth)
the sky spit droplets of cold rain
the sidewalks mirroring his walking reflection
as he turned to wave
farewell
muddy jeans)
I am
a caretaker
a plant doctor
(he laughs and shakes his head)
I live
in the basement of my aunt Bess
She was there for me
After Nam
I don't like to speak about it much
all the dead
all the dead
she passed
I stayed
I still
live there
down below
just off Broadway
I rent the rest
for company
and
live on
just
live on
working every day
to grow
flowers
(he smiles)
and make them stay
colorful and bright
colorful and bright
(he got off at
at the first stop
on South West Fifth)
the sky spit droplets of cold rain
the sidewalks mirroring his walking reflection
as he turned to wave
farewell
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
All In Good Time
A bag by my feet,
I am standing in the hall of a metropolitan train station
Filled with a mix of
Horns and muffled voices,
An occasional shout echoing through the depth of the building.
I read names of foreign cities on a large screen
Of black, orange and green lights,
A technological achievement, I am sure.
I miss
The less flashy letters and numbers that
Used to click and clack
As they quickly turned
Before the words "delayed" or "cancelled"
Would appear in red.
Although the few notes still play the same tune
Before an impersonal female voice cuts in
To announce the arrival of a train
From Venice, Milan or Rome,
Or a departure for Madrid,
It's now a computer-enhanced automated device.
Some luggage makes its way to Platform Fifteen, I notice,
While some first-class passengers brush me by
To be the first occupants of their reserved seats.
One of them lets a "shit" pass her lips
Instead of an "excuse me".
At least some things never change.
Odd, I think. What's the rush?
I still can smell the overpowering Chanel Number Five.
I could take my camera out and
Snap a few shots:
That of an elderly gentleman
To my right,
With a medal dangling from his chest
From some war I presume
Although it could be from receiving an award
That of Best Pastry Chef of the Year 1962.
It would have been the highlight of his life.
He could look distinguished with a tall white hat
Despite the years gone by.
A sepia tone would suit his crisp portrait
Or that of a smartly dressed young woman,
A silk scarf around her neck,
Running to catch
An ever elusive means of urban public transportation.
She may have an urgent rendezvous…
Or she may be late to a job interview.
Or she may always be running this way
Just because everyone else does anyhow.
I would blur the black and white background for that one
But make her image sharp.
A photo must have a message,
Be a metaphor of sorts, I surmise,
Even if sometimes I am the only one who understands
What it is.
Today, I want to purchase a one-way ticket to Istanbul or Athens,
Get lost,
And have no idea what tomorrow
Brings.
But what about yesterday?
Well, yesterday is just that, isn't it?
An overstuffed bag with unnecessary items
To be left behind.
I like to believe I always travel light.
I also could go to a nearby café and strike a civil conversation
With some foreign strangers about to travel home.
I would ask them questions about
Their culture, their traditions,
How they liked their stay here.
It's safe that way.
And it kills time
Before I make my decision.
I am in no hurry.
There will be other trains.
Later.
I prefer, instead, to enjoy my solitude,
And observe people
And imagine their lives
In their own surroundings
As they become characters of stories I may not write.
Well…
Not right away, that is.
I am standing in the hall of a metropolitan train station
Filled with a mix of
Horns and muffled voices,
An occasional shout echoing through the depth of the building.
I read names of foreign cities on a large screen
Of black, orange and green lights,
A technological achievement, I am sure.
I miss
The less flashy letters and numbers that
Used to click and clack
As they quickly turned
Before the words "delayed" or "cancelled"
Would appear in red.
Although the few notes still play the same tune
Before an impersonal female voice cuts in
To announce the arrival of a train
From Venice, Milan or Rome,
Or a departure for Madrid,
It's now a computer-enhanced automated device.
Some luggage makes its way to Platform Fifteen, I notice,
While some first-class passengers brush me by
To be the first occupants of their reserved seats.
One of them lets a "shit" pass her lips
Instead of an "excuse me".
At least some things never change.
Odd, I think. What's the rush?
I still can smell the overpowering Chanel Number Five.
I could take my camera out and
Snap a few shots:
That of an elderly gentleman
To my right,
With a medal dangling from his chest
From some war I presume
Although it could be from receiving an award
That of Best Pastry Chef of the Year 1962.
It would have been the highlight of his life.
He could look distinguished with a tall white hat
Despite the years gone by.
A sepia tone would suit his crisp portrait
Or that of a smartly dressed young woman,
A silk scarf around her neck,
Running to catch
An ever elusive means of urban public transportation.
She may have an urgent rendezvous…
Or she may be late to a job interview.
Or she may always be running this way
Just because everyone else does anyhow.
I would blur the black and white background for that one
But make her image sharp.
A photo must have a message,
Be a metaphor of sorts, I surmise,
Even if sometimes I am the only one who understands
What it is.
Today, I want to purchase a one-way ticket to Istanbul or Athens,
Get lost,
And have no idea what tomorrow
Brings.
But what about yesterday?
Well, yesterday is just that, isn't it?
An overstuffed bag with unnecessary items
To be left behind.
I like to believe I always travel light.
I also could go to a nearby café and strike a civil conversation
With some foreign strangers about to travel home.
I would ask them questions about
Their culture, their traditions,
How they liked their stay here.
It's safe that way.
And it kills time
Before I make my decision.
I am in no hurry.
There will be other trains.
Later.
I prefer, instead, to enjoy my solitude,
And observe people
And imagine their lives
In their own surroundings
As they become characters of stories I may not write.
Well…
Not right away, that is.
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Un Jour, C'est Long
...Si tu me voyais
Essayant de deviner ton soleil
Qui tarde à venir...
Je regarde par la fenêtre.
Il pleut.
La dernière tempête est là. Les bourrasques s'engouffrent entre les rangs d'arbres en fleur. Ainsi vont virevolter des flocons roses et blancs du nouveau printemps qui ne fait que s'installer.
Je prépare un plat. Dans une cocotte, mijotent des haricots à la mexicaine dont les relents envahissent la maison. Je voudrais confectionner des tortillas de maïs faites main et les griller à même le feu rien que pour humer leur odeur. Et du citron vert. Et une purée de piments rouges et forts. Et des tranches d'avocat.
Mais je n'ai pas faim. Je préfère penser. C'est-à-dire penser à toi.
Chez toi, c'est la nuit. La nuit froide de l'hiver. De ton toit, descendent les longs doigts de stalagmites glacées. Goutte à goutte...
Tu dors. Alors je chuchote. Discrètement. Tu ne m'entends pas. Je te dis des tas de choses : de petites et grandes nouvelles, des choses frivoles, des histoires, des contes.
Le réveil tic-taque.
Je pense au grand oiseau blanc qui vient de s'envoler d'une branche. Ce qu'il doit voir, ce qu'il verra, ce que tu verras lorsqu'il passera au-dessus de toi. Tu placeras ta main en visière et tu te souviendras.
Je réécoute maintenant une deuxième Nocturne.
J'attends ma nuit.
Essayant de deviner ton soleil
Qui tarde à venir...
Je regarde par la fenêtre.
Il pleut.
La dernière tempête est là. Les bourrasques s'engouffrent entre les rangs d'arbres en fleur. Ainsi vont virevolter des flocons roses et blancs du nouveau printemps qui ne fait que s'installer.
Je prépare un plat. Dans une cocotte, mijotent des haricots à la mexicaine dont les relents envahissent la maison. Je voudrais confectionner des tortillas de maïs faites main et les griller à même le feu rien que pour humer leur odeur. Et du citron vert. Et une purée de piments rouges et forts. Et des tranches d'avocat.
Mais je n'ai pas faim. Je préfère penser. C'est-à-dire penser à toi.
Chez toi, c'est la nuit. La nuit froide de l'hiver. De ton toit, descendent les longs doigts de stalagmites glacées. Goutte à goutte...
Tu dors. Alors je chuchote. Discrètement. Tu ne m'entends pas. Je te dis des tas de choses : de petites et grandes nouvelles, des choses frivoles, des histoires, des contes.
Le réveil tic-taque.
Je pense au grand oiseau blanc qui vient de s'envoler d'une branche. Ce qu'il doit voir, ce qu'il verra, ce que tu verras lorsqu'il passera au-dessus de toi. Tu placeras ta main en visière et tu te souviendras.
Je réécoute maintenant une deuxième Nocturne.
J'attends ma nuit.
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
Une Autre Saison
Cette voix dont l'écho me revient
Guide ma main
Ces mots qui pleuvent
En trombes
Qui tombent
Sur le papier
Je la suis
Pour ce qui en est de
Ce que je te dirai
« Ce soir
J'ai senti ta caresse
Sur mon front
Tes doigts dans mes cheveux
La douceur de ta main
Le goût de tes lèvres
La beauté de tes yeux
Ton souffle chatouillant mon oreille »
De loin
J'aurais regardé ce cœur offert
Sur un plateau ciselé d'argent
J'aurais vu cette âme
Aux reflets d'or et de diamants
Depuis je n'aurais cessé
De rêver
De penser à
Ce que je te dirai
« Maintenant que tu es
Dans mes bras
Ma princesse
O, ma douce amie
Rien n'est plus ce qui était
Puisque tout est ici
Cela fut un long hiver
De neige, de glace et d'oubli
Un paysage recouvert de cicatrices cachées
De plaies entrouvertes
D'espoirs trompés
De fleurs fanées
Que ne puis-je bientôt te rendre
Tes câlins, tes douces paroles
Tes tendres baisers »
Dans toute ma ferveur retrouvée
J'aurais deviné que
Toi aussi
Tu auras eu les mêmes peines
La même tristesse
Sans amertume pourtant
Puisqu'un jour
Tu savais
Ce que je te dirais
Que tu retrouverais l'été
Notre été
Guide ma main
Ces mots qui pleuvent
En trombes
Qui tombent
Sur le papier
Je la suis
Pour ce qui en est de
Ce que je te dirai
« Ce soir
J'ai senti ta caresse
Sur mon front
Tes doigts dans mes cheveux
La douceur de ta main
Le goût de tes lèvres
La beauté de tes yeux
Ton souffle chatouillant mon oreille »
De loin
J'aurais regardé ce cœur offert
Sur un plateau ciselé d'argent
J'aurais vu cette âme
Aux reflets d'or et de diamants
Depuis je n'aurais cessé
De rêver
De penser à
Ce que je te dirai
« Maintenant que tu es
Dans mes bras
Ma princesse
O, ma douce amie
Rien n'est plus ce qui était
Puisque tout est ici
Cela fut un long hiver
De neige, de glace et d'oubli
Un paysage recouvert de cicatrices cachées
De plaies entrouvertes
D'espoirs trompés
De fleurs fanées
Que ne puis-je bientôt te rendre
Tes câlins, tes douces paroles
Tes tendres baisers »
Dans toute ma ferveur retrouvée
J'aurais deviné que
Toi aussi
Tu auras eu les mêmes peines
La même tristesse
Sans amertume pourtant
Puisqu'un jour
Tu savais
Ce que je te dirais
Que tu retrouverais l'été
Notre été
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
Nocturnal Flight
When I step into the night
With my wingless heart
I sometimes do not see the light
Of yours, my muse
It is as if I had lost
All hope
To the nocturnal gloom
It is as if my soul
Could no longer fly
_____________________________Over the tenebrous valleys and empty deserts
_____________________________The Great Divide or the frozen lakes
_____________________________The rivers of ice that meander aimlessly
_____________________________Or the seemingly motionless glaciers
But with the morning sun
My spirit, once again
Soars above the clouds
Riding the eastern wind
To feel the warmth of
Your song
The enchantment of
Your existence
With my wingless heart
I sometimes do not see the light
Of yours, my muse
It is as if I had lost
All hope
To the nocturnal gloom
It is as if my soul
Could no longer fly
_____________________________Over the tenebrous valleys and empty deserts
_____________________________The Great Divide or the frozen lakes
_____________________________The rivers of ice that meander aimlessly
_____________________________Or the seemingly motionless glaciers
But with the morning sun
My spirit, once again
Soars above the clouds
Riding the eastern wind
To feel the warmth of
Your song
The enchantment of
Your existence
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
Opus
Written under the stars
The
Words
Land
Like flakes upon the snow
As notes in
Dolce
SI
SOL
SOL
MI
RE
SI
One phrase
An all or nothing
Two leaves from the same branch
A solo for two
SI
DO
RE
SOL
SI
LA
SOL
As light as five feathers
They become
FA
SOL
RE
MI
DO
Caresses, music and wind
All is lightness
All is you
Earth, fire and ice
And I become
FA
SOL
RE
MI
DO
An Andante
As the night
Unfolds
The
Words
Land
Like flakes upon the snow
As notes in
Dolce
SI
SOL
SOL
MI
RE
SI
One phrase
An all or nothing
Two leaves from the same branch
A solo for two
SI
DO
RE
SOL
SI
LA
SOL
As light as five feathers
They become
FA
SOL
RE
MI
DO
Caresses, music and wind
All is lightness
All is you
Earth, fire and ice
And I become
FA
SOL
RE
MI
DO
An Andante
As the night
Unfolds
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
Saturday, March 5, 2011
AURORA BOREALIS
====================================
Buzzes and hums
Buzzes and hums
In the depth of night
====================================
Curving lights
Will unfold a
Heart-shaped
Origami
====================================
Buzzes and hums
Buzzes and hums
Buzzes and hums
=====================================
Above the ocean
""""""""""""""""""
My head will hush
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
And my eyes will close
_________________________________
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
To dream of you
Buzzes and hums
Buzzes and hums
In the depth of night
====================================
Curving lights
Will unfold a
Heart-shaped
Origami
====================================
Buzzes and hums
Buzzes and hums
Buzzes and hums
=====================================
Above the ocean
""""""""""""""""""
My head will hush
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
And my eyes will close
_________________________________
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
To dream of you
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
Friday, March 4, 2011
Under the Willow Tree
My head rests on gray granite
Warmed by the pale summer sun
While, sitting on a step, you're chiseling words to remember you by
I can see the wind
In your hair
I can see the weight
I can't lift off your shoulders
There are things one must do on one's own
You could have told me
If I had listened
Instead I sang
I'd rather be
Lying with you in the shade
Of a willow tree
Only the garden in disarray
Remembers the echoes
Of children laughter
The quarrels of two lovers
The crowd came to hear
Long after the dancers were gone
They hummed love songs late into the night
The house of yesteryear still smells of smoke and wheat and mint and sweat
And dust
Your words of wisdom
Came from
A clear globe full of strange water
Your passion contained therein
Making sense of the world
You could have said
Learn to be loved
For love is a great white bird that can fly away
If only I had listened
Instead I kept on singing
I'd rather be
Lying with you in the shade
Of a willow tree
Warmed by the pale summer sun
While, sitting on a step, you're chiseling words to remember you by
I can see the wind
In your hair
I can see the weight
I can't lift off your shoulders
There are things one must do on one's own
You could have told me
If I had listened
Instead I sang
I'd rather be
Lying with you in the shade
Of a willow tree
Only the garden in disarray
Remembers the echoes
Of children laughter
The quarrels of two lovers
The crowd came to hear
Long after the dancers were gone
They hummed love songs late into the night
The house of yesteryear still smells of smoke and wheat and mint and sweat
And dust
Your words of wisdom
Came from
A clear globe full of strange water
Your passion contained therein
Making sense of the world
You could have said
Learn to be loved
For love is a great white bird that can fly away
If only I had listened
Instead I kept on singing
I'd rather be
Lying with you in the shade
Of a willow tree
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
ESSENCE
Toi, tu deviens terre
Sur laquelle je me couche.
Pour mieux te sentir.
Capturer ta fraîcheur.
Ta senteur vive.
Ton essence.
Où je laboure la glaise de mes doigts.
Où je racle de mes ongles cassés ton sol durci de sécheresse et d'oubli.
Où je deviendrai eau
Par laquelle je suis.
Ruisseau, rivière, torrent,
Fleuve ou affluent.
Dont tu boiras chaque goutte,
Qui imprègnera chaque recoin
De ton mystère.
Enfin,
Nous serons arbres, fleurs, fruits, herbe, feuilles.
Nous serons un.
Sous les étoiles.
Sous la lune.
Sous le soleil.
Sous ce ciel.
Que, déjà, nous partageons.
Ensemble.
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
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