Alain Fabre-Catalan

  Next door they have plant­ed this­tles I say this­tles but they’re more like globe arti­chokes        but taller — much taller      eight, per­haps ten feet tall a bit like knap­weed real­ly with […]

  They say that the year turns — but in what direc­tion? I should say colour most­ly : green into browns and yel­lows — the occa­sion­al reds. It’s turn­ing away from the sun as […]

Né en 1954. Vit à Sar­rebourg (Moselle). Poète, chroniqueur dans plusieurs revues (dont Diérèse, Tra­ver­sées et CCP) et sur quelques sites poé­tiques (Poéz­ibao, Sitaud­is, Libr-cri­tique)), il dirige depuis 2000 la col­lec­tion de poésie « Vents […]

  On a per­du son nid et comme coupé ses ailes avant la migra­tion On a raté le dernier car de ramas­sage et on serre con­tre soi un bil­let pour nulle part on s’écrit […]

  To Thrace I have come, not on account of Rome. To Thrace I have come, not on account of Latin fes­ti­vals. To Thrace I have come, not on account of pompous expans­es. To […]

    Until the very end of dying       there will be one wind in your throat       and one train, voic­es and a storm. Once the land­scapes are gone and the end itself […]

  The islands are pure. Move­ments and the grotesque begin fur­ther away, on con­ti­nents. What splen­dour! What masks! Lat­er on there are pearls. Here are figs, slave girls, bas­kets, the sev­en snakes. Over there […]

  You descend into the world, God. You arrive and imag­ine that you are sly­er than islands, wis­er than glass. You bring silk made to mea­sure for my dark­ness. You pry into my joints […]

  Land­scapes have slid away, only a herbal gen­er­al­i­ty pre­vails. “Excuse me, I feel sick, it is too staunch under your fur hat. Excuse me, I am leav­ing this train.” To the north­ern castle, […]