Happy Thursday?

Michele, Temar and Francesca

Sometimes you don’t need a reason
Not a birthday
Not a holiday
Just celebrating the day that is
The friends that are
New and old
And the music that makes it all
Allright….
Or as poet Lucille Clifton writes:

come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

So, Happy Thursday to all of you who were here in body and spirit last night at Toukouleur.

Music by Buyu Ambroise and his quartet & special guest Chude Mondlane

With singer Chude Mondlane from Mozambique

With guitar player Obed Jean-Louis

With story-teller Tammy Hall

With saxophonist Buyu Ambroise and story teller Tammy Hall

Lou Rainone on piano

Michael Vitali on drums

Bobby Raymond on bass

The Maestro himself on tenor sax

Guest drummer Brian Humblestone from Nassau

Vocalist Chude Mondlane

Relaxing after the show:
Chude, Buyu, Michele and Michael

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Oct 17, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Pleasure

I was oh, perhaps 9? the very first time I heard the word Fuck. Emmanuel, the school hunk, had cornered Caterina by the back stairs of Union School and said I want to fuck you. Fuck… Fuck… Fuck. I didn’t know what it meant but the intensity with which it was said stirred something in me that led me to ransack bookshelves with some urgency in search of that open-sesame word. Does anyone else remember when we had to read books to get the information we sought? Before the Internet and the general media made everything so accessible? Am I the only one with fond remembrances of The Medical Encyclopedia’s Human Body pages, worn beyond reason? I memorized page numbers from dictionaries and could recite entire definitions of any word with the prefix sex. I’ve memories of a schoolgirl self, with restless stirrings and yearnings, searching feverishly through books for these entrancing words. I riffled through pages, looking for sentences or passages that steamed, while I strummed and hummed…. Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s complaint became a favorite as I read and re-read the masturbation scene. Candy, the heroine of the similarly named novel who ceaselessly wriggled out of her panties, became a familiar night-time companion after lights-out. I have forgotten the characters in The Harrad Experiment, but its dog-eared pages and underlined paragraphs were proof that I had been a meticulous note-taker. These were however merely titillating readings which didn’t teach me much, and I only discovered the Kama Sutra after I had started college. I have not yet overcome the regret of this delayed knowledge (precious time wasted I feel – as it should have been required reading material – followed by pop quizzes and hands-on examinations-) Here for example is a section on Foreplay. Necessary knowledge,wouldn’t you say, for both sexes?

“In the pleasure room, decorated with flowers, and fragrant with perfumes, attended by his friends and servants, the citizen should receive the woman, who will come bathed and dressed, and will invite her to take refreshment and to drink freely. He should then seat her on his left side, and holding her hair, and touching also the end and knot of her garment, he should gently embrace her with his right arm. They should then carry on an amusing conversation on various subjects, and may also talk suggestively of things which would be considered as coarse, or not to be mentioned generally in society. They may then sing, either with or without gesticulations, and play on musical instruments, talk about the arts, and persuade each other to drink. At last when the woman is overcome with love and desire, the citizen should dismiss the people that may be with him, giving them flowers, ointments, and betel leaves, and when the two are left alone, only then should they proceed to sexual union.”

According to ancient Indian texts, man had 3 main goals in life – Dharma (duty and responsibility for your actions), Arta (gaining power through politics and wealth) and Kama (pleasure). Kama Sutra, the world’s most renowned ancient sacred text is about the art of living, the art of sensual pleasure and love, marriage and spirituality . Over 800 years of Hindu wisdom writings about social norms and love-customs were connected, compiled, and commented on by the fourth-century editor Vatsyayana. Not a lover’s guide for the masses, the Kama Sutra was written for the wealthy male city-dweller in patriarchal Northern India. It was an attempt to show how enjoyment of sexual loving could enhance one’s quality of life and to relate that to established traditions. Using a structured approach mixed with sensual poetry, Vatsyayana explained techniques of love-making in diverse situations.

“The Embrace”

Here is an excerpt of a translation by Sir Richard Burton, of one of the subjects which treats of sexual union: The embrace.

The embrace which indicates the mutual love of a man and woman who have come together is of four kinds:
Touching – Rubbing – Piercing – Pressing

The action in each case is denoted by the meaning of the word which stands for it:

When a man under some pretext or other goes in front or alongside of a woman and touches her body with his own, it is called the `touching embrace’.

When a woman in a lonely place bends down, as if to pick up something, and pierces, as it were, a man sitting or standing, with her breasts, and the man in return takes hold of them, it is called a `piercing embrace’.

(The above two kinds of embrace take place only between persons who do not, as yet, speak freely with each other.)

When two lovers are walking slowly together, either in the dark, or in a place of public resort, or in a lonely place, and rub their bodies against each other, it is called a `rubbing embrace’.

When on the above occasion one of them presses the other’s body forcibly against a wall or pillar, it is called a `pressing embrace’.

(These two last embraces are particular to those who know the intentions of each other.)

Burton goes on to describe some of the embraces used. The descriptions bear names that are both poetic and explicit and one can visualize the intimacy suggested:
The twisting of a vine.
Climbing a tree.
The mixture of sesame seed with rice.
The milk and water embrace.

Wishing you moments of inspired readings!

Sources:
Spiritual Sex – Nik Douglas
Kama Sutra – Sir Richard Burton

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Sep 28, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | 1 Comment »

my dear friends

My brother Leslie once came back from Brazil with a gift for me. A cassette tape. Remember these relics of another age? Remember that flimsy brown strip of magnetic tape that would melt in the summer, snap in the winter and unravel when in a bad mood? To save our music, we learned the now obsolete skill of repairing broken tapes. We became experts in the art of splicing, of rolling pencils in the tape wheel, of using paper clips to smooth the wrinkles caused by the snags…Let no one tell you otherwise: no surgeon coming out of medical school had a more precise and delicate touch than a music lover repairing a cassette tape. Of course, none of this is of any importance today as no one listens to cassettes anymore, and no one needs them repaired. All these precious moments spent… I should have learned Japanese instead. Of course, ever the romantic, when I took a language course in college, I chose Russian because I wanted to read Maiakovski’s poems in the original. (After a couple of semesters and an inseparable dictionary -memento kept as sign of my folly- I managed to decipher PRAVDA’s subtitles and to write my name before I gave up that pursuit.) But forgive my rambling. The brazilian cassette? It was by Chico Buarque, a singer I had never heard of before. Although I have visited Brazil several times, Eu Não Falo Português.. Oh, as a fluent Spanish speaker, I get along fine in an idiom I invented, a bizarre mélange of both (but isn’t language a living entity ever evolving, ever changing? No?) So, although I didn’t speak Portuguese, I loved the music and I loved his voice. Chico Buarque sang about people struggling, street kids, prostitutes, about love in times of trouble, about censorship. .. which brings me back to that cassette tape, as one of my favorite Buarque songs is Meu caro amigo (My dear friend).

Written in 1976 while Brazil was still under the rule of an oppressive military dictatorship, the song takes the form of a letter sent by cassette tape (from Buarque to his friend Augusto Boal, a playwright and director in exile.) The lyrics describe the difficult political and economic situation in Brazil at the time. During the 70’s, opponents to the regime were incarcerated, exiled or eliminated. The media was heavily censored. Newspapers and magazines had to submit their articles to the official censors before they were released to the public. Classic poetry often replaced censored articles in the newspapers. It was in that political climate that Chico Buarque, already a music legend in Brazil, released Meus Caros Amigos, considered to be one of his best recordings. Although Buarque was critical of the military government, he was aware he could not openly voice his opposition in his lyrics—some of his songs had been banned by the government—instead, he relied on clever wordplay that escaped censors’ scrutiny but was clearly understood by his fans. Here is a a rough English translation of this chorihno (a happy tune with sad lyrics):

My dear friend, please forgive me, if I can’t pay you a visit, but since I found someone to carry a message, I’m sending you news on this tape. Here we play soccer, there’s lots of samba, lots of choro and rock’n'roll. Some days it rains, some days it’s sunny but I want to tell you that things here are pretty dark. Here, we’re wheeling and dealing for survival, and we’re only surviving because we’re stubborn. And everyone’s drinking because without cachaça, nobody survives this squeeze.

My dear friend, I don’t want to bother you or make you homesick, but I can’t avoid telling you the news. Here, we’re hustling and dealing for our daily bread with spite and a bad taste in our mouths. And everybody’s smoking, because without a smoke, nobody survives this squeeze.

My dear friend, I wanted to call you, but the price of a call is nothing to laugh about. I’m distressed because I want you to know what’s going on. Here, there’s pushing and shoving and we have to swallow so many lies. And everybody’s loving, because without a little loving, nobody survives this squeeze.

My dear friend, I really wanted to write to you but the mail is a risky thing. But if this goes past them (the government), I’ll try to send fresh news on this tape… Marieta (Buarque’s wife) sends a kiss for you, a kiss for the family, for Cecilia, for the kids; Francisco (Buarque himself) also sends his regards. All the best and Goodbye…

So, there I was looking through some boxes this evening and I found all these cassettes, and among them was my Chico Buarque tape. I no longer have a cassette player and I can’t verify this but the last time I played this, it was hissing and would sometimes get stuck right in the last part of the song. It brought back so many memories and I thought I’d give you the gift my brother gave me 20 years ago. So for you, my dear friends, meus caros amigos, here’s

Chico Buarque.
May you enjoy him as much as I did:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPEPj3wpSb0

Other favorite Buarque songs:
Construção
Apesar de você
Calice
Funeral de um lavrador

Francisco Buarque de Hollanda

(born June 19, 1944 in Rio de Janeiro) is a Brazilian poet, singer, musician, songwriter and novelist who become famous for his music which comments on Brazil’s social, economic and cultural situation. His latest book, Budapeste, achieved great critical acclaim and won the Prêmio Jabuti, a brazilian award similar to The Booker Prize Award.

“I’m an amateur,” says the singer-songwriter turned bestselling novelist who turned 64 this June, “I’m not a professional. Yet somehow I manage to get away with it.” Modesty is a well-known Buarque trait. He is notoriously press-shy. To observe and write without exposing himself is what he has always sought for himself. Yet he is a man who has helped define Brazilian culture for the past four decades. In Brazil, he is nothing short of a national treasure. His lyrics are studied as part of the Portuguese BA curriculum and his songs are hummed and sung across the country.

‘Music kind of kidnapped me’ he says. Starting out composing songs in the Sixties, he went on to write hundreds of them. His gift as a social commentator was to inhabit the lives of Brazil’s disenfranchised. ‘Construcao’, a surrealist fantasy about a construction worker falling to his death became a popular classic, enamouring him to a public struggling with political repression under military rule. Exile is a recurrent theme in Buarque’s life and work. Buarque himself was jailed briefly and went into exile in Italy and France. He learnt the importance of words at a time when words were banned. Forced to submit his songs to government censors, nearly two-thirds of his material was rejected. “It was a challenge,” he says. ” I had to write 20 songs in order to get 2 past the censors.”
Playing ‘futebol’ with Bob Marley. Soccer is his earliest and most enduring passion. “I started playing soccer when I was four years old, and I still play every week.”
Meu caro amigo:
L’une des chansons les plus connues de Chico Buarque. Une lettre en forme de chanson adressée à Augusto Boal, exilé à ce moment-là.

(Augusto Boal est surtout connu pour avoir créé le Théâtre de l’Opprimé, un ensemble de techniques qui transforment le spectateur en protagoniste du spectacle, profondément engagé dans la trame de sa propre existence.)

Meu caro amigo me perdoe, por favor
Mon cher ami tu m’excuses s’il te plait
Se eu não lhe faço uma visita
Si je ne te rends pas visite
Mas como agora apareceu um portador
Mais comme maintenant vient d’apparaître un messager
Mando notícias nessa fita
Je t’envoie des nouvelles sur cette cassette
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba beaucoup de choro et de rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
Muita mutreta pra levar a situação
Beaucoup de combines pour supporter la situation
Que a gente vai levando de teimoso e de pirraça
Qu’on supporte avec obstination et malice
E a gente vai tomando, que também, sem a cachaça
Et qu’on boit beaucoup, aussi, parce que sans la cachaça
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu não pretendo provocar
Mon cher ami je ne prétend pas provoquer
Nem atiçar suas saudades
Ni ranimer ta nostalgie
Mas acontece que não posso me furtar
Mais il se trouve que je ne peux me soustraire
A lhe contar as novidades
A te raconter les nouveautés
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba beaucoup de choro et de rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
É pirueta pra cavar o ganha-pão
Faire des pirouettes pour arracher son gagne-pain
Que a gente vai cavando só de birra, só de sarro
Qu’on arrache de têtu, de capricieux
E a gente vai fumando que, também, sem um cigarro
Et qu’on fume, aussi, parce que sans la cigarette
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu quis até telefonar
Mon cher ami j’ai même voulu téléphoner
Mas a tarifa não tem graça
Mais le coût n’a rien d’amusant
Eu ando aflito pra fazer você ficar
J’ai une envie folle de te mettre
A par de tudo que se passa
Au courant de ce qui se passe
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba, beaucoup de choro et rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
Muita careta pra engolir a transação
Des tas de grimaces pour avaler tous ces trucs
E a gente tá engolindo cada sapo no caminho
Et qu’on avale des couleuvres en chemin
E a gente vai se amando que, também, sem um carinho
Et qu’on s’aime, aussi, parce que sans la tendresse
Ninguém segura esse rojão
Personne ne supporte cette galère
Meu caro amigo eu bem queria lhe escrever
Mon cher ami j’ai bien voulu t’écrire
Mas o correio andou arisco
Mais on se fait difficile à la Poste
Se me permitem, vou tentar lhe remeter
Si on me le permet je vais te remettre
Notícias frescas nesse fita
Des nouvelles fraîches sur cette cassette
Aqui na terra ’tão jogando futebol
Ici au pays on joue au football
Tem muito samba, muito choro e rock’n’ roll
Il y a beaucoup de samba, beaucoup de choro et rock’n’roll
Uns dias chove, noutros dias bate sol
Des jours il pleut, d’autres le soleil cogne
Mas o que eu quero é lhe dizer que a coisa aqui ’tá preta
Mais ce que je veux dire c’est que les choses ici vont mal
A Marieta manda um beijo para os seus
Marieta envoie un bisou aux tiens
Um beijo na família, na Cecília e nas crianças
Un bisou à la famille, à Cécile et aux enfants
O Francis aproveita pra também mandar lembranças
Francis en profite pour également se rappeler à ton bon souvenir
A todo o pessoal
A tout le monde
Adeus
Au revoir
(Traduction de Dominique et Vagner du Forum Bossa-Nova)

Sources:
Ernest Barteldes
Jemima Hunt

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Sep 24, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Mon mal aviaire

Tous mes amis
Ne savent pas que j’ai la grippe
Cette chanson
Mon mal aviaire en temps d’oiseaux
Si je la chante
C’est pour livrer ma voix au vent

Je la reprends

Le cœur enroué de trop aimer
Je me fais tondre
Sous le gazon d’une voisine
Ma peur est bleue
Sous le ciel grand de mon pays

Regardez bien

Ce qu’en a fait la fin du monde

Un mal aviaire
Seule la mer sait si je divague
Comme j’ai la grippe
Un grain de sel sous ma langue
Me donnera
Le goût entier de toute une vie

Le cœur enroué

Je chante faux pour ma voisine
Qui m’a tondu
La raison courte des cheveux
Tous mes amis
Ne savent pas que j’ai la grippe

Cette chanson
Mon mal aviaire en temps d’oiseaux

James Noël

Cœuritoire
http://james-noel.hautetfort.com/

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Sep 21, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Love and Defiance

“Bedil, weep not for your losses
this party that is life
is after all held in a glassmaker’s shop”

AHMAD FARAZ enjoys a near cult status in the pantheon of revolutionary poets. Of him, Faiz Ahmad Faiz (the greatest Urdu poet of the last century) had said: “He protests against injustice as passionately as he professes his love.”

Dreams do not die
Dreams are not hearts nor eyes or breath
Which shattered will scatter
Or die with the death of the body

His poetry was considered so subversive in Pakistan that he was blind-folded, thrown into solitary confinement and exiled. His verses captured the sentiments of an oppressed generation and he became the voice of those living in poverty under military rule in Pakistan and beyond. Widely read, his poems were set to music and sung during evening gatherings across Pakistan, and he enjoyed a popularity similar to that of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwich.

My enemy has sent a missive
That his soldiers are thronged around me
On every corner, every minaret of the city
With stretched strings are waiting his archers
Tell him he has already lost
If to fight me he must send an army…

Although he became a symbol for the struggle, Faraz was unapologetic about his ghazals (love poems) written in the Sufi vein, seeking the eternal beloved. Their bittersweet verses about unrequited love and desire are deeply touching:

Come back, even if just to hurt the heart again
Come back, even if just to leave me again….
Still, the deluded heart has a few hopes
Come back, if only to blow out this last faint light
Even if there is anguish, come still, to torment my heart
Come, even if to leave me again
If we part this time, we may meet in a dream
Like dried flowers found in the pages of old books
…………………………………………

They say she has an affinity for her sufferers
Let me then destroy myself, and see
They say she hosts pain in the arc of her eyebrows
Let me then pass through that curve, and see
They say she too has an indulgence for verse
Let me then try the miracles of art, and see
………………………………………….

The world of love is so good.
Who has created the problem of separation?
What now for the poet?
Should I stay or move ahead?
Faraz go, stars are looking at the dawn….
Faraz left this August. He was 77.
Maybe he is looking at the stars….

She said: listen
Don’t come back if
you think it is
to fulfill your promise.
People with obligations are
either compelled or
are tired of separations.
Go and fulfill others’ desires
and fall in love with other women.
I will not call you.
But when you burn inside
with the blaze of wanting me,
needing me,
and your heart weeps,
you can then
come back to me.

Ahmad Faraz (January 14, 1931 – August 25, 2008)

“IT IS TIME WRITERS REPLACED THE INK OF THEIR PENS WITH BLOOD”
FARAZ

* Urdu, the national language of Pakistan is an Indo-Aryan language with about 104 million speakers, including those who speak it as a second language.

Sources:
The New York Times (9/1/08)
International Herald Tribune (9/1/08)

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Sep 17, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

plain talk

i have carried you everywhere
you are there
on the tip of my tongue
i speak
and in the word
you appear
and flow through my mouth

so many words
you say
for a question so simple
so much wine for little thirst

don’t be misled by the laughter
hope surpasses the question
although i have sewn you to my soul
love unravels
and i am at the end of the thread
as you are
at the tip of my tongue

michele voltaire marcelin

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Sep 14, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Bourgeoisie?

“I need my memories. They are my documents.”
Louise Bourgeois with her phallic sculpture Fillette

I want to be like Louise Bourgeois when I grow up. At 96 years old and still working, bruised, battle-scarred Bourgeois is at once fragile and strong like the materials she uses to work: soft latex, fabrics, glass, wood, marble and metal. Provocative, emotionally intense, and very, very sexual, her sculptures are disquieting, definitely unpretty but unmistakably beautiful. I would meet her on Dean street in the building where my cousins Patrick and Marie-Ange lived in the late 1980’s and where she had her studio. I was intimidated by her and never said anything other than Bonjour and even that, with misgivings. How I wish I had been bolder then…

“Spiders have nerves of steel. So did my mother…”

I first became fascinated by her when I saw her Maman sculpture. A huge spider with long, spindly legs, it both attracted and repelled me. As I am deathly afraid of spiders (tarentulas abounded in my childhood landscape and these hairy creatures can still provoke nightmares in broad daylight) I projected my own emotions on the work and the title. But where I saw menace, Bourgeois meant protection. Her mother was a spinner, a weaver, skilled in the craft of intricate tapestry repair and for her, the spider signifies a mother’s labor, generosity and foresight.

Things fall apart, life unravels…Maman repairs the fragile threads by weaving hers…

“My childhood never lost its magic, never lost its mystery, and never lost its drama.” Bourgeois’ childhood drama was the loss of her innocence when she discovered her father and her live-in governess were carrying on a passionate love affair which her mother pretended not to notice. There are none so blind…. “There is one story and one story only that will prove worth your telling” says the poet. The trauma inflicted by her father’s infidelity has fueled Bourgeois’ work so much that she seems a willing captive of this emotional damage, tirelessly using her relationship with her parents and the role sex played in her family life as the vocabulary in which to understand and re-create that story.
Clearly one of the most influential artists alive today (gender notwithstanding- “There are inequities in our society between men and women, but they have never kept me from saying or doing what I want” she’s said), her life might have followed the path her name pointed to, but decidedly unbourgeois Louise left France at 27 (she was born in 1911), settled in New York, had three children, and worked. Restless and inventive she created drawings, etchings, moldings, carvings in stone, castings in metal, wood constructions and walk-in assemblages. She has said that she works in response to emotions: fury at the past and fear of the present among them. Not so much breathing through the pain but working through the pain so you can breathe, is the lesson I learned from her life and work.

Michele Voltaire Marcelin

“Art guarantees sanity” Louise Bourgeois
“Certain artists inspire by formal example, other by giving permission. Ms. Bourgeois is a permission-giver. Your daily life is propelled by fear? Draw fear. You can. Impossible to sleep at night? Make night your studio, the cloth you embroider with needs and dreams. The past is an obsession you can neither embrace nor release? Make an image of obsession, any image will do. And you’ll feel better for a while.” (Holland Cotter)

Come into my parlor, said the spider…
So run, don’t walk to the Guggenheim to see the retrospective of Louise Bourgeois as the exhibit (over a hundred pieces), lasts only until the end of September.

Spider Couple will greet you in the atrium before you discover other personal favorites: sculptures whose tactile beauty is so seductive, it will be hard to refrain from touching them….

The Destruction of the Father

Defiance

The blind leading the blind

Arch of hysteria
Sleep
Cell-Choisy (guillotine hanging over her childhood home)
“I work with the eternal, universal and ever-present emotions. Especially the emotions of violence, jealousy and fear. I believe in resurrection in the morning. There is a withdrawal, but it is temporary. You lose your self-esteem, but you pull yourself up again. This is about survival… about the will to survive.”

An eternal scent? How could I not love an artist who says:”The most eternal present is a perfume by Guerlain”?
Sources

Curators and art critics:
Katherine Brinson
Robert Storr
Paulo Herkenholf
Holland Cutter

Photographers:
Robert Mapplethorpe
Raimon Ramis
Annie Leibovitz
Peter Bellamy

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Sep 12, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Hanna

le bruit court sous la pluie
et en un quart d’orange
la terre fait le tour de la rumeur

le bruit court que le vent
a soufflé tellement fort
que le cyclone
larme à l’œil
a crié sur la ville
un chant de cygne
signe d’aile cynique de fin du monde

le bruit court que le vent
a enlevé le chapeau
circonflexe de l’ile

tous les vents mauvais
en boucle se défilent

la mort en bouche sur notre terre

James Noël

“Depuis le 26 août, Haïti subi les assauts répétés d’ouragans, de tempêtes tropicales, qui aujourd’hui laissent le pays dans un état de désolation absolue. Mais ce n’est pas terminé et d’autres pourraient frapper de nouveau le pays. La population dans son ensemble et celle des Gonaïves, en particulier est extrêmement fragilisée. On dénombre à ce jour près de 600 morts, des centaines de milliers de sans abris, sans nourriture. Les hôpitaux de la ville ont été inondés et l’acheminement de vivres est rendu extrêmement difficile en raison des inondations. Les Nations Unies, la Croix Rouge et la Protection Civile haïtienne sont à pied d’œuvre et ont besoin d’aide urgente”:

http://www.collectif2004images.org/

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Sep 10, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

La muse du poète

Nâzim Hikmet a écrit la plus grande partie de ses poèmes en prison. Une large partie d’entre eux ont été inspirés par sa femme Piraye. Ces textes lyriques, il les a appellé “poèmes de 21 à 22 heures” puisque chaque soir il lui écrivait des poèmes. Une manière pour lui de partager sa vie à travers les barreaux avec sa bien aimée; une manière de garder l’espoir….Un poète a toujours besoin d’une muse.

Tout ce que j’ai écrit sur nous est mensonge
Ce n’est pas ce qui a été entre nous mais ce que j’aurais voulu qui soit
C’étaient mes nostalgies posées sur des branches inaccessibles
C’était ma soif tirée du puits de mes rêves
C’étaient des images que je traçais sur la clarté

Tout ce que j’ai écrit sur nous est vrai
Ta beauté
C’est-à-dire une corbeille de fruits
ou un festin sur une table champêtre
Mon manque de toi
C’est-à-dire moi dernier lampion du dernier coin de la ville
Ma jalousie
C’est-à-dire ma course les yeux bandés la nuit parmi les trains
Mon bonheur
C’est-à-dire le fleuve ensoleillé rompant ses digues

Tout ce que j’ai écrit sur nous est mensonge
Tout est vrai de ce que j’ai écrit sur nous.

(9 septembre 1960)

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Aug 27, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

august evening

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Aug 23, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Maestro!

Le Maestro

Issa El Saieh (22/02/1919 ~ 02/02/2005)

« L’âge d’or de “l’Orchestre Issa El Saieh” se situe entre 1947 et 1952. Sa formation se produisait alors généralement les samedis soirs à Cabane Choucoune, à Pétion-Ville et, de temps en temps, dans d’autres boîtes de nuit », commentent Louis Carl Saint Jean et Mats Lundahl.

Etant toujours prêt à venir en aide à ses pairs et ayant toujours rêvé de faire connaître la musique haïtienne à travers le monde, Issa a été un mécène musical, aidant à l’acquisition d’instruments pour diverses formations musicales et gravant des vinyles qu’il distribuait gratuitement à ses clients, selon Ed Rainer Sainvil.

Après avoir consacré près d’une vingtaine d’années de sa vie à la musique, au milieu des années 1950, Issa El Saieh s’adonnera à l’acquisition de la peinture, et deviendra plus tard un galeriste renommé.  Il est mort à Port-au-Prince le 2 février 2005, à l’âge de 85 ans.

(Sources: www.nostalgiefm.com/culture/issa-el-saieh)

Issa et son petit-fils Victor, ca.1991. photo © Bill Bollendorf 1991

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Aug 17, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Le poète vagabond

Jean-Claude Pirotte
“Cet éternel colporteur de mélancolie sur les chemins perdus de la poésie…”
Christophe Mahy

Mine de rien, sur un air de ce n’est rien, pudiquement et sans mystère, ce petit poème d’une tonalité nostalgique dit le mal de vivre et célèbre avec ferveur un moment d’enchantement.

la poésie c’est bon
pour les oisons les oiseux les oisifs
disait mon père et tu ferais
mieux d’apprendre le code civil
moi j’apprenais le tango la biguine
à dire je t’aime en catalan
en croate en turc en polonais
aujourd’hui je ne dis plus jamais
je t’aime à personne en aucune
langue je suis là vieillissant
dans la bicoque du faubourg
frappée aussi d’alignement

sans doute le bonheur est-il farouche ainsi
que la brebis dont enfant tu voulais caresser la laine
en longeant l’étroit pré en pente oublié
sur le chemin de l’école maternelle, ne te réveille pas encore et que ta main palpe cette toison dont elle ne connaît qu’une tiédeur confuse,
les yeux clos gardent le trésor doucement
humide et recueille une dernière fois
la chanson du toucher sur tes paumes ravinées

Jean-Claude Pirotte

Ah, moi aussi, Jean-Claude, moi aussi je cherche l’éclat de beauté qui me consolera de la petitesse inouïe de l’existence quotidienne…

Jean-Claude Pirotte (1939-) :
Poète, romancier, peintre né à Namur, en Belgique. Avocat de 1964 à 1975, il est rayé du barreau pour avoir favorisé la tentative d’évasion d’un de ses clients (acte qu’il a toujours nié), et condamné à un emprisonnement auquel il se soustrait en vivant clandestinement jusqu’à la péremption de sa peine en 1981. Son écriture nous entraîne dans les plis du quotidien et les courbes des vignobles, “au fond des chais obscurs et du secret lumineux du paysage”
“Il y a longtemps, le namurois Jean-Claude Pirotte est entré en résistance. Contre la bêtise, les puritains, les pisse-vinaigre. Qui sont aussi les naufrageurs du vin, les fossoyeurs de la culture…”
Jacques Perrin

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Jul 10, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Amitiés nostalgiques

J’ai trois amis très chers,
et dont la qualité n’est plus depuis longtemps
discutée par personne.
Depuis bientôt trente ans,
on ne s’est pas quittés.
Ils n’ont pas la radio,
n’ont pas le téléphone,
mais j’ai de leurs nouvelles
à peu près tous les jours.
Ils aiment raconter des histoires, et des bonnes.
Ils viennent me distraire un peu, chacun leur tour.
On m’a dit qu’Honoré me ressemblait un peu.
En un mot que j’avais la gueule balzacienne.
J’ai quelque fois rêvé que j’étais son neveu,
et la chère Eugénie, ma cousine germaine.
J’ai souhaité bien souvent les connaître un peu mieux.
Apprendre d’eux comment on devient admirable.
Déchiffrer peu à peu des secrets dans leurs yeux,
un soir, où par hasard, je serais à leurs tables.
Ce que j’aurais aimé, c’est aller chez Victor,
Place des Vosges au coin, je connais bien l’addresse.
Lui dire: Il fait soleil, viens faire un tour dehors.
Jean Valjean peut attendre, après tout, rien ne presse.
Nous aurions tous les deux arpenté pas à pas le boulevard Beaumarchais,
en songeant qu’Alexandre préparait pour ce soir un superbe repas,
et que ces choses là sont toujours bonnes à prendre.
Pour me venger un peu de l’époque où je vis,
j’ai pour meilleurs amis, ces trois grands mousquetaires.
Il est assez mal vu, de nos jours par ici,
d’avoir pour compagnons des gens qui sont sous terre.
Si le monde a raison , c’est bien doux d’avoir tort.
Et je sais, croyez-moi, ce qu’on appelle un homme.
Quand parmi les vivants, je n’aurai plus personne,
il me reste Honoré, Alexandre, et Victor.

Bernard Dimay

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Jul 03, 2008 | Categories: musings | Tags: Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »