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CAUGHT IN THE NET 136 - POETRY BY NICOLAS FLEUROT
Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit -
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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
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
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.
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 -
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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
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