Jean D’Amérique
POET NO THANKS
I wasn’t a poet
I was a man and I was a woman
I was acid rain and dry wood
the bitemarks the chunk the loss were mine
and my pearls were my crooked hip my broken shoulder
my bones were panic my iron fizzed with it
I wasn’t a poet
all I had was this mouth turned inside out
a machinegun born fired and suns ready for shipping
face facedown in the gutter
chapel or doormat I watched life move along
always bringing the night to me in thick globs
I wasn’t a poet
I was clod and dust
red water and wild phlegm
breached caravel retracing a sea furious with dailiness
my bare chest sweeping the streets
of every town no dawn knows how to run
I’d love a volcanized eye but I wasn’t a poet
I strode straight through a tide of beasts
their teeth ripping my speech from me
and plastic clogging every vein in my body
a moon stained by the first sidewalk it falls on
you don’t write with your viscera
they cast sentences too heavy for our little notebooks
you always have to pay for words with clamor
when silences inhabit the horizon
then we can dream of languages we haven’t learned to speak
when you cut a throat
what you see overflow from it like an overripe sun is its language
it’s not so much the sighs draining out
as it is the night invading its howl
all my face needs to do is produce the recipe for blood
the name endowed with injuries I wasn’t a poet
speechless day charred forest my hands were hidden behind the void
and my heart was asleep in a laundromat
and I passed the exams my dreams laid out
and I surpassed my fever whenever dusk rose
ardor burst in the city’s stockpot
luggage abandoned to the lifeless skies
navel embedded in the most accomplished oblivion
and I climbed to sorrow’s clinic’s door
I was as fresh as bread everyone wants
sad as the crust one resists cracking
I wasn’t a poet
I was the defiled acacia
the bird trapped in the north by a poisoned tree called modernity
I was this thirst jeered at by the river
that had once made the arms of my ancestors sprout
I was this hunger
humiliated as meat dangling after an ax fight
my sentence disappeared under bootprints
and I was invited to listen to life and its official orations
body crossed by mirrors
in which I contemplated here the murks scourging me
and there a desert kneading me to hatch its sour dreams
I wasn’t a poet
I let the flowers grow in me
and the lightning beat at my door throughout the minute
eternity of my rage
the easy blood and the murky song facing the dark
I was as old as a lightweight stone
and a mind trimmed to fit a set face
I wasn’t a poet
all I had in my bag was this prose
surrounded by cadavers
DICHTER NEE BEDANKT
ik was geen dichter
ik was man ik was vrouw
zure regen en dor hout
voor mij de beetwonden de scherf het verlies
ontspoorde flank versplinterde schouder míjn parels
ik was trance van botten in mijn staalharde binnenste
ik was geen dichter
ik had alleen die binnenstebuiten gekeerde mond
een mitrailleur die afgevuurd geboren was en in te lijsten zonnen
en mijn gezicht lag in de goot
tempel of treeplank ik keek naar het leven dat voorbijging
en mij voortdurend grote spatten nacht bezorgde
ik was geen dichter
ik was blok en stof
rood water en wild spuug
lekke schuit die de woeste golven van het dagelijks leven opzeilt
mijn bloot bovenlijf deed het huishouden op asfalt
van al die steden waar geen dageraad kan rennen
toegegeven ik had een vulkanisch oog maar dichter was ik niet
ik stapte door een branding van roofdieren
met hun slagtanden rukten ze mijn woorden uit
en het plastic kilde elke ader van mijn lijf
maan die bij de eerste de beste stoeprand werd verkwanseld
je schrijft niet met je ingewanden
de zinnen die ze vormen zijn te zwaar voor onze opschrijfboekjes
woorden zijn altijd de dupe van het kabaal
is de horizon eenmaal met stiltes bewoond
dan denk je aan de talen die je niet hebt leren spreken
wanneer een keel wordt afgestoken
zie je zeker hoe iemands taal gutst als een overrijpe zon
het is niet zozeer het zuchten dat uitputtend is
het is de nacht die het schreeuwen overmant
om het bloedverhaal te schrijven volstaat mijn gezicht
mijn naam was met wonden opgetuigd ik was geen dichter
doofstomme dag afgebrand bos mijn handen gingen schuil achter de leegte
en mijn hart was ingeslapen in een wasserette
en ik nam mijn dromen examens af
en telkens als ik opstond in de schemer streek ik mijn koorts
mijn vuur was stikdood in de kookpot van de stad
mijn koffers achtergelaten bij dode hemels
mijn navel verzegeld in het vergevorderdste niets
en ik klom naar de klinische grens van de verlatenheid
ik was vers als brood waarnaar je verlangt
verdrietig als de korst die je toch maar niet breekt
ik was geen dichter
ik was de aangerande acacia
de vogel die verstrikt zat ten noorden van een gifboom genaamd moderniteit
ik was die dorst die werd uitgejouwd pal naast de stroom
hoezeer die ooit ook was opgeweld door mijn voorouders’ armen
ik was die honger
vernederd als een lijf dat in een bijlgevecht wordt weggesleept
de zin die ik sprak verdween onder de zolen
en ik mocht luisteren naar het leven in officiële toespraken
mijn lijf was met spiegels doorschoten
en ik keek toe hoe ik híer werd verwoest door wat onpeilbaar bleef
dáár werd geteisterd door een woestijn tot ik bittere hersenschimmen baarde
ik was geen dichter
ik liet bloemen opschieten in mij
en de bliksem trof ogenblikkelijk mijn deur
eeuwig mijn razernij
het vlotte bloed en het onpeilbare zingen tegenover wat duister is
ik was zo oud als lichte steen
en mijn geest was gesnoeid tegen het muurvaste voorhoofd
ik was geen dichter
in mijn bagage zat alleen proza
omringd door lijken
POÈTE NON MERCI
je n’étais pas poète
j’étais homme j’étais femme
pluie acide et bois sec
à moi les morsures le fragment la perte
flanc désaxé épaule brisée perles miennes
j’étais transe à même les os dans mon fer intérieur
je n’étais pas poète
je n’avais que cette bouche à l’envers
une mitraillette née déchargée et des soleils à encadrer
et le visage couché dans le caniveau
temple ou marchepied je regardais passer la vie
me livrant sans trêve la nuit en denses éclaboussures
je n’étais pas poète
j’étais bloc et poussière
eau rouge et crachat sauvage
caravelle percée qui remonte la mer furieuse du quotidien
ma torse nue faisait le ménage sur les bitumes
de toutes ces villes où nulle aube ne sait courir
l’œil volcanisé je veux bien mais je n’étais pas poète
je marchais au milieu d’une marée de fauves
leurs dents m’arrachaient le verbe
et le plastique achevait chaque veine de mon corps
lune galvaudée au premier trottoir venu
on n’écrit pas avec les entrailles
elles forment des phrases trop lourdes pour nos petits carnets
c’est toujours aux mots qu’on fait payer le fracas
une fois l’horizon peuplé de silences
on songe aux langues qu’on a pas appris à parler
quand on tranche une gorge
vous voyez sans doute son langage déborder comme un soleil trop mûr
ce n’est pas tant les soupirs qui épuisent
c’est la nuit qui envahit le cri
il suffit de mon visage pour composer le récit du sang
le nom paré de blessures je n’étais pas poète
jour muet forêt brûlée j’avais les mains cachées derrière le vide
et le cœur endormi dans une laverie automatique
et je passais mes rêves en examen
et je repassais ma fièvre à chaque levée crépusculaire
l’ardeur crevée dans la marmite urbaine
les bagages abandonnés aux ciels morts
le nombril scellé au néant le plus abouti
et je grimpais le seuil clinique de la désolation
j’étais frais tel le pain qu’on désire
triste comme la croûte qu’on se retient de casser
je n’étais pas poète
j’étais l’acacia violé
l’oiseau piégé au nord d’un arbre-poison appelé modernité
j’étais cette soif huée à même le fleuve
que firent pourtant jaillir les bras de mes ancêtres
j’étais cette faim
humiliée comme une chair traînée dans un combat à la hache
ma phrase s’en allait sous les semelles
et on m’invitait à écouter la vie dans les discours officiels
le corps traversé par des miroirs
je contemplais par-ci des opacités me ravager
par-là un désert me travailler jusqu’à éclore des songes amers
je n’étais pas poète
je laissais les fleurs pousser en moi
et l’éclair battait ma porte à la minute
éternelle ma rage
le sang facile et le chant opaque face à l’obscur
j’avais l’âge de la pierre légère
et l’esprit taillé contre le front fixe
je n’étais pas poète
je n’avais dans le sac qu’une prose
entourée de cadavres
POET NO THANKS
I wasn’t a poet
I was a man and I was a woman
I was acid rain and dry wood
the bitemarks the chunk the loss were mine
and my pearls were my crooked hip my broken shoulder
my bones were panic my iron fizzed with it
I wasn’t a poet
all I had was this mouth turned inside out
a machinegun born fired and suns ready for shipping
face facedown in the gutter
chapel or doormat I watched life move along
always bringing the night to me in thick globs
I wasn’t a poet
I was clod and dust
red water and wild phlegm
breached caravel retracing a sea furious with dailiness
my bare chest sweeping the streets
of every town no dawn knows how to run
I’d love a volcanized eye but I wasn’t a poet
I strode straight through a tide of beasts
their teeth ripping my speech from me
and plastic clogging every vein in my body
a moon stained by the first sidewalk it falls on
you don’t write with your viscera
they cast sentences too heavy for our little notebooks
you always have to pay for words with clamor
when silences inhabit the horizon
then we can dream of languages we haven’t learned to speak
when you cut a throat
what you see overflow from it like an overripe sun is its language
it’s not so much the sighs draining out
as it is the night invading its howl
all my face needs to do is produce the recipe for blood
the name endowed with injuries I wasn’t a poet
speechless day charred forest my hands were hidden behind the void
and my heart was asleep in a laundromat
and I passed the exams my dreams laid out
and I surpassed my fever whenever dusk rose
ardor burst in the city’s stockpot
luggage abandoned to the lifeless skies
navel embedded in the most accomplished oblivion
and I climbed to sorrow’s clinic’s door
I was as fresh as bread everyone wants
sad as the crust one resists cracking
I wasn’t a poet
I was the defiled acacia
the bird trapped in the north by a poisoned tree called modernity
I was this thirst jeered at by the river
that had once made the arms of my ancestors sprout
I was this hunger
humiliated as meat dangling after an ax fight
my sentence disappeared under bootprints
and I was invited to listen to life and its official orations
body crossed by mirrors
in which I contemplated here the murks scourging me
and there a desert kneading me to hatch its sour dreams
I wasn’t a poet
I let the flowers grow in me
and the lightning beat at my door throughout the minute
eternity of my rage
the easy blood and the murky song facing the dark
I was as old as a lightweight stone
and a mind trimmed to fit a set face
I wasn’t a poet
all I had in my bag was this prose
surrounded by cadavers
POET NO THANKS
I wasn’t a poet
I was a man and I was a woman
I was acid rain and dry wood
the bitemarks the chunk the loss were mine
and my pearls were my crooked hip my broken shoulder
my bones were panic my iron fizzed with it
I wasn’t a poet
all I had was this mouth turned inside out
a machinegun born fired and suns ready for shipping
face facedown in the gutter
chapel or doormat I watched life move along
always bringing the night to me in thick globs
I wasn’t a poet
I was clod and dust
red water and wild phlegm
breached caravel retracing a sea furious with dailiness
my bare chest sweeping the streets
of every town no dawn knows how to run
I’d love a volcanized eye but I wasn’t a poet
I strode straight through a tide of beasts
their teeth ripping my speech from me
and plastic clogging every vein in my body
a moon stained by the first sidewalk it falls on
you don’t write with your viscera
they cast sentences too heavy for our little notebooks
you always have to pay for words with clamor
when silences inhabit the horizon
then we can dream of languages we haven’t learned to speak
when you cut a throat
what you see overflow from it like an overripe sun is its language
it’s not so much the sighs draining out
as it is the night invading its howl
all my face needs to do is produce the recipe for blood
the name endowed with injuries I wasn’t a poet
speechless day charred forest my hands were hidden behind the void
and my heart was asleep in a laundromat
and I passed the exams my dreams laid out
and I surpassed my fever whenever dusk rose
ardor burst in the city’s stockpot
luggage abandoned to the lifeless skies
navel embedded in the most accomplished oblivion
and I climbed to sorrow’s clinic’s door
I was as fresh as bread everyone wants
sad as the crust one resists cracking
I wasn’t a poet
I was the defiled acacia
the bird trapped in the north by a poisoned tree called modernity
I was this thirst jeered at by the river
that had once made the arms of my ancestors sprout
I was this hunger
humiliated as meat dangling after an ax fight
my sentence disappeared under bootprints
and I was invited to listen to life and its official orations
body crossed by mirrors
in which I contemplated here the murks scourging me
and there a desert kneading me to hatch its sour dreams
I wasn’t a poet
I let the flowers grow in me
and the lightning beat at my door throughout the minute
eternity of my rage
the easy blood and the murky song facing the dark
I was as old as a lightweight stone
and a mind trimmed to fit a set face
I wasn’t a poet
all I had in my bag was this prose
surrounded by cadavers
Sponsors
