(Poésie du jour)
Je ne suis qu’un
poète de mots
Comme une saison qui passe,
Le temps suivant changeant la saison,
Je me déshabille à l’hiver venant,
Suivent le vent à ma muse, j’en disparais.
De flocons blancs, j’en rêvasse aux lignes,
Tournoyant cet instant à ma muse,
Me blottissent à sa ligne poétique,
Je surpasse en des lignes blanches.
Je ne sais quoi faire de son tourbillon,
L’aimer où l’abondonner, mon triste sort,
J’écris pour aller fleurir son verger de proses,
Des brûlures aux doigts pour la satisfaire.
Je n’ai pas le choix de ces envies,
Une muse effaçant mes tourbillons d’un ailleurs,
La suivant à tous ses temps, intégré à mon corps,
Mon sang devenu prisonnier de son ancre.
Je ne peux aimer à un ailleurs plus doux,
Mon corps dans sa tempête, me fait sa convenance,
Son souffle effleurant mon corps de mes silences,
Une convenance pour une saison à la muse.
Mon corps nu à elle,
Me vide de ma substance de vie,
Une échappatoire de chaque saison à elle,
Mon corps devenant l’oblique de ses lignes.
Edmond NICOLLE
Le 01.12.2017
Auteur est créateur de poésies depuis 1973
Texte n°2580
1138/5000
https://youtu.be/vplX-qr4AIE
(Poetry of the day)
I am only a poet of words
As a season passes,
The next time changing the season,
I undress in the coming winter,
Follow the wind to my muse, I disappear.
White flakes, I dream of the lines,
Spinning this moment to my muse,
I snuggle to his poetic line,
I surpass in white lines.
I do not know what to do with his whirlwind,
Love him where to abound, my sad fate,
I write to go to flower his orchard of proses,
Burns to the fingers to satisfy it.
I do not have the choice of these desires,
A museum erasing my whirlpools from somewhere else,
The following at all times, integrated in my body,
My blood become a prisoner of his anchor.
I can not love to a softer elsewhere,
My body in its storm, makes me his suit,
His breath touching my body with my silences,
A convenience for a season at the muse.
My body naked to her,
Empty of my substance of life,
An escape from each season to her,
My body becoming the oblique of its lines.
Edmond NICOLLE
The 01.12.2017
Author is creator of poems since 1973
Text No 2580
(Poetry of the day)
I am only a poet of words
As a season passes,
The next time changing the season,
I undress in the coming winter,
Follow the wind to my muse, I disappear.
White flakes, I dream of the lines,
Spinning this moment to my muse,
I snuggle to his poetic line,
I surpass in white lines.
I do not know what to do with his whirlwind,
Love him where to abound, my sad fate,
I write to go to flower his orchard of proses,
Burns to the fingers to satisfy it.
I do not have the choice of these desires,
A museum erasing my whirlpools from somewhere else,
The following at all times, integrated in my body,
My blood become a prisoner of his anchor.
I can not love to a softer elsewhere,
My body in its storm, makes me his suit,
His breath touching my body with my silences,
A convenience for a season at the muse.
My body naked to her,
Empty of my substance of life,
An escape from each season to her,
My body becoming the oblique of its lines.
Edmond NICOLLE
The 01.12.2017
Author is creator of poems since 1973
Text No 2580
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