Tuesday, 10 July 2018

Civilisé, un an après




Trois poèmes extraits du recueil Civilisé (Urtica, 2017) lus par Cathy Garcia sur sa chaîne YouTube "Donner de la voix"

Toujours de Cathy Garcia, une note de lecture publiée sur le site La cause littéraire.

Et à retrouver sur le blog "Poésie chronique ta malle", une note de lecture de Patrice Maltaverne.

Des extraits de ce recueil peuvent être consultés dans différentes revues dont Le capital des mots et Revue Méninge

Saturday, 7 July 2018

Névralgies

John and His Dogs & Other Poems, Revised Version

Writing in English as a Second Language

first published in Magnapoets July 2010 issue. Revised for The Gypsy Art Show Blog, 2012

English has always been a language I felt acquainted with, even before I could actually speak it fluently. My parents had lived over seven years in California and I had been kept amazed in this atmosphere of souvenirs from a dreamed America, stuck in the late 50s, early 60s, with my parents twenty or thirty years younger, and my big brother in nappies or shorts.

All these images on super-8 films and photographs never made me jealous nor did they make me sad not to have been part of the experience – I was not born yet. They just filled me with wonder and encouraged me to know more about English and all the countries and cultures related to it.

It took over another decade for me to be able to live my dream and go abroad, just across the English Channel. Bath, Cirencester, Manchester – three cities I have lived in. Three cities in which I got used to not only speak English and put aside my mother tongue for a while but to start dreaming and writing in English.

As far as I can remember, the starting point was when Dr. Teresinka Pereira – a teacher at Bluffton College, Ohio – sent me her poems and suggested I translated them into French. Soon, her words on paper and the life I was living then pulled me towards an exercise I would not have thought be ready for: putting my own words on paper in a language which had just been a topic of study and a useful vehicle of needs and services.

English had suddenly taken the shape of a language to transpose my thoughts, emotions, feelings, frights, joys, phantasms, desires, repulsion, dreams and nightmares on paper.

The funny thing is that writing in English is less exhausting, less draining, asks less efforts from me than writing in French.

I could not explain it really, but I am so fond of English and American literature, always read, watch and listen more works from artists of English culture that I guess words in English come more naturally to me than French words do.

In the late 1990s, Teresinka Pereira was the first editor to trust me with English and published two small booklets with short collections of poetry of mine.

Then, I came back to France, had to fulfill my military duties  – they still existed at the time – during which I wrote a collection of poems entitled Hospital of the Armies and which was written the way poets such as Harry R. Wilkens, Erich von Neff or Pradip Chouduri, all English-speaking poets from various parts of the globe, write poems themselves.

I also used English to write this collection in order to hide all the negative thoughts I expressed against the French navy and the waste of time and ludicrousness this period implied. It was also to hide the rather crude sexual images inside it. I could not be sure these pages would not be read by one of my superiors or one of the “crew members”. It was writing in English as the most debased way to write: under a mask or doing auto censure.

I then got several part-time jobs, went back to University, carried on writing – too little – and publishing mgversion2>datura (ex-Mauvaise graine), stopped to concentrate on my new job as a TESL (Teacher of English as a Second Language), moved places several times and English came back slowly as a means to write poetry and fiction.

The thrill had come back to me and has not ceased since then. Over the last seven years, I have had the opportunity to meet more and more English-speaking poets, writers and artists, translate their works, publish them, and be able to publish my own poems in various magazines.

Each time I receive a positive answer to my submissions, I am filled with pride and amazement. Pride because you are never totally accustomed to being published even after fifteen years or so of relationship with editors and magazines – well, I am not. Amazement because it took me less than five years to be published quite widely in English, American, Canadian... blogs and magazines – whether with translations of my own works or with original English material – when it had taken me over a decade to be recognized as a poet on the French-speaking scene.

It took me just a few weeks to have my first genuine collection of poetry in English – De Maore (From Mayotte) – accepted by Lapwing Publishing (Belfast, Northern-Ireland) when I am still struggling to have another one written in French accepted by any French publishers. I guess even my early works is filled with images and symbols that have more impact and are more meaningful to English-speaking readers than French-speaking ones. This I suppose is one of the other reasons why I chose to write in English, even sometimes translating my earlier poems in this language

I discovered the Anglo-American culture at school first and plunged into it when I sat at University. This language is useful in everyday life and to discover the world, it is a language you cannot do without. It has allowed me not only to communicate with many people all around the globe, and probably still will, but also to discover my own world, my inside world, all the abilities beyond my knowledge. Discover yet another part of my own conscience.

Sexwebvideos

publié dans Microbe, janvier 2009. Extrait du recueil Civilisé (Urtica, 2017)

Tu aimes les voir jouir
sur ton écran
sous une lumière blafarde
dans ton bureau monacal
avec le sexe dans la main.

Il te fait mal des fois
il te fait souffrir
et tu souffres encore plus
de ne pouvoir être avec eux.

Friday, 6 July 2018

Bons baisers d'Euphor | With Love from Euphor

first published in French in Le Capital des mots, 2009. Published in Civilisé (Urtica, 2017). English version first published in Poetry Super Highway, 2010 | Version française publiée dans Le capital des mots, 2009. Publié dans Civilisé (Urtica, 2017)Version anglaise publiée dans Poetry Super Highway, 2010.

Sur le pavé, je voyais des formes étranges apparaître.
La tête de Spartacus
ou celle, plus enivrante, plus moderne aussi,
d'Actarus.

Les princes
qu'ils viennent de Thrace ou d'Euphor
ont toujours hanté mes matinées glacées,
mes nuits chavirées.

Plus tard
- beaucoup plus tard -
c'est par leurs rires que je me suis senti le plus entamé.

Les princes ont toujours eu la gorge ouverte
et les yeux ébahis
au lit.

Je voyais leurs ailes grandir
au même rythme que leurs sexes
qui s'étalaient autour de moi
un peu partout
en moi
sur moi
dans mes yeux et dans les nuages.

Je m'envolais aussi
loin de ce nid
pour rejoindre
en rêve
dans la salle de bain
les coloriages imaginés,
les petits graviers incrustés,
aux formes des princes bienheureux,

aux formes de princes ténébreux.


On the tiled floor, I saw strange forms appearing.
The head of Spartacus
or that, more exciting, more modern also, of Actarus.

Princes
whether they come from Thrace or Euphor
always haunted my frozen mornings,
my capsized nights.

Later
- much later - 
it is by their laughter that I was started the most.

The princes always had an open throat
and amazed eyes
in bed.

I saw their wings growing
at the same rate as their sexes
who were spread out around me
everywhere
in me
on me
in my eyes and the clouds.

I flew away too
far from this nest
to join
in dream
in the bathroom
unreal colorings,
small encrusted gravels,
in the shape of happy princes,
in the shape of dark princes.

Bath

first published in Aesthetica Magazine in July 2008Republished in Caught in the Net, The Poetry Kit, October 2011.

by Nicolas Postiglioni


She wanted to lie down next to me.
She did.
I said she ought to know there were no chances;
she took hers.

I remember this silent night
in my flat
up there
up the Plantation Shop
Bath
Nineteen
Ninety-six

Fanny
was her name
she once met the Native
and shared his wrath
against the wall
of uncertainties
that went up
between us.

Andy and Paul
were cutting plants,
tidying the shop,
clearing things,
counting money.
When she went downstairs
she helped herself with a cup of coffee
the smell of it filled up the kitchen.

I let her go
I had to
she had to go
and there were no
other ways.
The Native would come back shortly after.
He had been out all night.
Staring at the sky,
talking to the moon,
to the stars,
his fingers touching the darkest patch of the ethereal net
up there.

He entered the room
I was still lying on my bed.
He lied next to me.
The wine vapours still lingered in his hair,
on his clothes, on his pale skin.
I touched his back.
He said I ought to know there were no chances;
I got up
and went to work.