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CAUGHT IN THE NET 136 - POETRY  BY NICOLAS FLEUROT

Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit - www.poetrykit.org
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Submissions for this series of Featured poets is open, please see instruction in afterword at the foot of this mail.
 

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A strummed guitar chord

Maybe two, maybe three

That gives you the blues

 

                 from; October Rain by Nicolas Fleurot

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CONTENTS

1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
 

 

     

I WRITE POETRY

33

THE DAY THE RAIN SANK IN THE MARBLE’S VEINS

I WOULD HAVE LOVED TO…

WHEN IT RAINS

THERE

THIS MORNING WHEN I DRANK THE SUN…

HER LIFE IS SAND…

OCTOBER RAIN

THE WORDS

 

3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY

4 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY:  Nicolas Fleurot

 

Nicolas Fleurot is a French poet and artist born in 1980. Since 2000, his poems have been published in several poetry magazines and anthologies. An independent Belgium publisher has published three of his poetry collections and he has self-published a collection in France. Nicolas Fleurot resides now in Ireland and works and writes in English. He also appears as an extra in various short / feature movies.


 

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2 - POETRY 

I WRITE POETRY

 

I write poetry

Because I am financially suicidal

I write poetry

Like thousand of others

Poets who try to sell me their books I can’t buy because I wasn’t able to sell my own

 

I write poetry

Because I see fluffy colours

I see ashes dancing in the rain

I write poetry

Because I see Light in the shape of a horse galloping in the shadow of your Love

 

I write poetry

Because I didn’t have the right balls or the right drugs to become a rock star

 

I write poetry

Because sometimes at night I hug the darkness and the stars become diamonds and the dust become gold and dreams become butterflies that never die

 

I write poetry

Because I talk to teddy bears

 

I write poetry

Because that is what I see in people

 

I write poetry

Because that is what I did most of my Life

 

I write poetry.

 

 

33

 

Sometimes the silence smiles tears on his lips

But he doesn’t know / he sleeps back to work

Sometimes he can taste the tears on his lips

And he looks at the highway, glass road

And he smiles, shaking the tears on his lips

Limping lips like a clothes line where you

Hang words that have

Never been washed

Dirty muddy bloody sweaty earthy dusty words

Hanging there like tears on his lips

But he doesn’t know / he sleeps back to work

And sometimes the silence carves dreams on his smile.

 

 

THE DAY THE RAIN SANK IN THE MARBLE’S VEINS

 

The dawn was floating in a puddle on Lŕna Mhuire

When she came back inside to listen to the cake

 

Attentive to the signs revealing the passage of time

                   

The undergrowth vegetation

Rivers

Snow

The spring greenery

Forgotten objects as traces of civilization

 

She was surprised that this interior earthquake tremor

Can be reduced to a line in an unpublished poetry book

 

And as a fish insulated the edge of her eyelid

She wondered if she could delete dead people

From her mobile phone contacts.

 

 

I WOULD HAVE LOVED TO…

 

I would have loved to live a little bit

But all is running and drowning

Getting old

Pink and white hairs

Eyes faded away

All is running and drowning

          No escape

I would have loved to live a little bit

          To live for something

          To die for someone

                    Or

          To die for something

          To live for someone

                    And smile.                            

 

 

WHEN IT RAINS

 

When it rains and I have nothing to do, like today,

Time, more than ever, ceases to flow.

I think of you, and this thought fills the void,

Like a pouch full of dreams that have your fragrance,

Your shape, your hues, the sound of your divine voice.

In my head floats your image, a heavenly manna.

 

When it rains and I have nothing to do, boredom is shapeless

And I escape from it for an eternal instant:

I close my eyes. You are there.

The rain beats on the windowpane, you are there.

Time flies in this sweet companionship

Foggy, ephemeral, and filled with tenderness,

When it rains and I have nothing to do, like today.

 

 

THERE

 

My lips are brambles

And my words hang on it

Skinned, scratched, murdered

As I lay in a world

Of music and colour

Haunted by the ghost of the sun.

 

 

THIS MORNING WHEN I DRANK THE SUN…

 

This morning when I drank the sun

To be

One last time

Drunk on you

 

This morning where I was staying still

Empty, useless

Looking far-off, couldn’t see anything

Everything was blurry

A country side of melting shapes

Nothing else mattered

Except this little piece of you

Swimming in my head

 

This morning when I thought about you

Lasted for a day.

 

 

HER LIFE IS SAND…

 

Her Life is sand

And seems to slide

In between my fingers

Just like emoving sands

Where I slide in between the months

          And the days and the nights

And I drown in the time

          Of her Life

My mouth is full of sand

And my tongue is carving

          Castles.

 

 

OCTOBER RAIN

 

The rain writes long muddy novels

About misty stories

 

One night here, an evening there

A face for a drop

For every drop

 

A strummed guitar chord

Maybe two, maybe three

That gives you the blues

 

The film continues

It is sold out

On this evening of October

 

Downstairs, in the city

The long muddy novels

Tremble, quiver

 

The rain types

 

And taps, and claps, claps

And takes the top of my head

For a typewriter.

 

 

THE WORDS

 

There are words that come back
Such as seasons
and resume their habits
Without particular reasons

 

So the other day

I wanted to complain about my confusion
In a stupid poem
And I was looking for my words

Hunting my preys

I suddenly recalled having already used them
There at least four months ago
In a day like this one
In a stupid poem like this one


So here they come again
And they will come again and again

The words
But they will appear so worn that

Finally

They will lose their meaning

And the confusion

Will be even heavier.

 

 

 3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY

 

I WOULD HAVE LOVED TO… - Originally published in French in the poetry collection “Caresse de la Paresse”; English version published in the Cartys Poetry Journal.

 

WHEN IT RAINS - Original version “Quand il pleut…” in “Caresse de la Paresse” ; English adaptation by Plowshare for the n°34 of Information from the Belgian Pugwash Group.

 

All other poems are novel / unpublished yet.

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4 - Afterword

Email Poetry Kit - info@poetrykit.org    - if you would like to tell us what you think. 

We are looking for other poets to feature in this series, and are open to submissions.  Please send one poem and a short bio to - info@poetrykit.org

Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net.  Our other magazine s are Transparent Words ands Poetry Kit Magazine, which are webzines on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at -
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