> L’espace d’un pas (extraits)

L’espace d’un pas (extraits)

Par | 2018-05-26T06:05:27+00:00 21 décembre 2016|Catégories : Blog|

(extraits)

 

 

 

                                                                  Abandon

 

 

 

                                                       Le ver­tige de la parole

                                                                               ne se mesure plus

 

                         L’oubli est au regard         obtus

                                                       l’espérance immense

                                                                               si bien per­due

 

                          Le rire n’est plus              celui de l’enfant

                                                                                 il est double

                                                                                                      et en cela divi­sible

 

                                                       Comme un quê­teur d’étoiles

                            l’ombre se penche               au  miroir

 

                                                       mais les mains impuis­santes

                                                                                 res­tent vaines à sai­sir la clar­té

 

                                          

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                      Ciel    goût de sel

                                                         ouvert

                                                                     ravive      la bles­sure

 

                                      du gris s’étend  

                                                                      épaisse la pen­sée

 

                                       le feu d’entre les murs      s’enfume

                                                                                       les fenêtres sont humides

 

 

                                       O le som­meil en proie

                                                                 lorsque les mains se convulsent

                                       la chair fri­sonne            engluée

 

                                                                                  O le drap de prière

 

                            

 

                                    

                                 

                                   

                                                

 

 

 

 

                                                    Projetée                  vers d’improbables issues

                                                    la course défie       la source

                                             

                                                   Patience,    tra­jec­toire,            délais­sées

                                                   les pics se dressent                   au sable nu

 

                                                   Glisse le grain                  aux fentes des dia­logues

                                                                                              la soli­tude est affir­mée en vain

 

                                                 Tant d’ombres mou­vantes

                                                  flottent                             sous les yeux clos

 

                                                 La mâchoire ser­rée 

                                                                                     en appui

                                                                                                       sur la main

                                                porte                           le  poids intense

                                                                                                      de l’effort vain

                                                 le cou ploie

                                                                                       sous le coup sombre

 

                                              Cependant le vent

                                                                               bat les pans

                                                                                                      d’une fenêtre ouverte

                                                                 

                                          

                                                                                                       

                                        

 

 

                                Un manque de souffle

                                tache le chant

 

                                Seuls      les yeux suivent       la mon­tée des mots

                                                 tan­dis qu’une voix tombe

                                le long des cordes éli­mées

 

 

                                 La langue ravale l’élan    rete­nu

                                 pour n’avoir qu’attendu

 

                                 Chaque com­mis­sure sous le sel

                                 plisse        puis          craque

                                                   &  le long            de la terre

                                 des souches de troncs secs

                                 se vident                      éclatent

                                                                        sous le gel

 

                                Ombre    sève sombre

                                obs­cur­cit le songe

                            

 

 

                                                                                 

 

                                  

 

 

                                    

                                    Cingle le vent et glace les joues tendres

 

                                      Par des cieux pâles

                                      l’allée aux frêles meri­siers

                                      empoudre  nue

                                                                        l’entaille au sol

                                      

                                      Trop de blan­cheur      

                                                                            la vie en creux

                                         miroir       un ins­tant appa­ru  

                                                                               se fige

                                                     

                                         O l’étreinte d’un jour clos

 

                                         Cependant       suintent

                                         des gouttes de cha­leur                                                                                                                                                                            

                                                                  le long des paumes jointes

 

                                         Une veille en som­meil                recueille

                                          la vague  pro­messe                     d’un soleil plein

 

                                                        Panse  les ger­çures

                                           déjà             les impa­tiences

                                                                          se récusent

 

                                            Pourtant   l’instant

                                                                       s’éprouve dému­ni 

                                                                                                    

                               

                                                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                   L’afflux du vent                   s’écoule

                                                   gla­cé                         au cœur des veines

                                                   Sous un ciel                obs­cur­ci

                                                   le faix des villes             se rai­dit

 

 

                                                  Il pleut     le

                                                                         long

                                                                                   des ver­ti­cales

                                                                                                               Tombe

                                                                                                                                l’ombre

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                     

 

 

                                                         Lasse

                                                                           s’apaise la révolte

 

 

                                                       L’appel avec son heure     ont fui

 

                                                       délaisse             pour le désert

                                                       des cieux dolents 

                                                                                        se fanent

 

                                                       Reste  un lisse visage

                                                       blême     

                                                       que le sort        peine

                                                       d’un doigt à dési­gner

                                                       tenant la mort        comme fai­blesse

 

                                                       Voici venir le temps

                                                      où les forces reviennent

 

                                                      Le don est sans ran­cœur

                                                      nour­ri­cier       géné­reux        

 

 

 

                                  

X