Sunday, October 17, 2010

Lazy Cakes Relaxation Brownies

Resist the night (1) Exile

Jean-Marc La Frenière was born in 1949 in Beloeil and writing ever since. It was first discovered in France by Editions Chemins de plume finally to be published in Quebec by Editions Sabord The Art of Three Rivers in 2010. His book of poetic prose Fire haunts me is a pure delight which earned him the price of the book fair Three Rivers in 2010 (vote up).
Jean-Marc Lafreniere is a major voice in Quebec. He lives in St. Ferdinand de Halifax in the Bois-Francs where he writes every day, straight ahead, never read.

Paths Publishing Plume us part Nice part of the passage of Quebec Jean-Marc Lafreniere. This poet provider of raw energy, revealed in France by Editions Plume Paths who published his first three books of prose poetry "The other side ", "Because " and " Manquablement ", this year received the honorary New Voices Prize in Literature in Canada for his book: "A fire haunts me ", published by Editions Art scuttle it. Plume Paths Publishing are pleased to honor him by radio, television, signatures and lectures on his work before he left for Paris. You will find below the invitation to benefits which may be spent:

Thursday 2I October 2010 to 17 h at 30 the Library Louis Nucera , (1, avenue Saint Jean-Baptiste - 06364 Nice)
Jean-Marc Lafreniere , Price New Voices in Literature 2010 to Canada, will present his work

Thursday 2I October 2010 to 20 h at 30 Baha'i Center (24, Rue Maréchal Joffre - Nice)
Literary meeting Franco-Québécoise
Jean-Marc Lafreniere talk about his work and answer questions from the public
presentation followed by a poetry open mic with friends poets
Musical accompaniment and rustic snack
Free admission

Saturday, October 23 at 15h , Book " Draft Culture (23 rue Hotel des Postes - Nice)
Victor Varjac author receives Quebec pa ssage in France

Information: 04 92 09 89 22

" When I'm not writing, I like a hollow stomach, an ear that will not listen, an eye that closes the window. The sentences are transformed into roads, streams, mountains. I touch the end of the world on the tip of a pencil. I walk in the ditches like a rock in front of beef. I left the highway to gravel roads, supermarkets for trout streams, the studded tracks for crawler-haired, parking meters for the deer parks. I tune the dew in the early hours of the morning. I listen to his infinite ranges in water, mourning doves make circles in the air, clouds paint the rainbow sky. We must treat the trees as you touch the violin, put flowers in pots away merchants, keeping sheep for the night, dreaming for the day, honey for the heart, words of love for everyone. " Jean-Marc Lafreniere in" The Language is my country "(Éditions Trois-Pistoles, 2010)

by Jean-Michel Sananès , editor Jean-Marc Lafreniere France (Publishing Pathways Feathers, Nice):

Messiah is a credit card

The world calls us to shiner his coffin. The worst problem is the money man is his gods. The real faith does not need a church. The minarets and steeples subjugate believers. While the clergy all Franco praises of the world, the Pope repudiated the red priests in South America. He who loves does not need to fuss or salaams, face turned towards Mecca, worn out knees on a prie-dieu. When a sower spit in our hands, the perspiration is his only prayer to the future harvest. In a world of profit, the goodness of man became a vice. You're too good. You're too hottie. You think too much to others. The man prefers his car to his dog, his cell phone to the neighbor, the pub in reality, the names of actors and effects Special to the film's story and his hockey game to the voice of children. The old wall of the world is smeared posters. Poverty is hidden behind the neon. Who is right? Who is fake? All slogans cancel out in the spray of waves. The blood on the screens anesthesia shame. Our brothers are killing each other
prayers and money. The Blackshirts return disguised as bankers, cash for Fuhrer. The smile, the briefcase on his arm, they sold the corpses and spit on the heart. Hatred unites the taste of profit. People slaughter each other in beliefs contrary. Each currency exchange us away for life. Each prophet howling killing his neighbor. Neither Visa nor MasterCard! Neither Allah nor Vishna! Or Euro or Dollar! Neither arm of the past nor do feed kiss the sky hope. Time is running today. Even despair birth by Caesarean section. The souls that we lost under the skin. The sentences are written on the finest sand. It is not enough to remove the nails from the hands of a crucified for an angel appears. Simply extending a hand to other hands, a palm extended to accommodate the wind, pollen, rain, a small child's finger heals the night, a voice in the silence declaring his love.

Blood no longer knows the way to the heart. Like little Tom Thumb, fingers memory lets out crumbs. The holy water is found at the end of the sewer. A rat in a church is the only pray. Men pretend to talk to the statues. The capital murder. His work is never that laziness of the heart. Man is more than a monkey driving a car. Would it be possible to once again become human? I am looking for a file in a roll to escape the vacuum. I will remain faithful to the dead wood, flesh, earth, stars. I defend against the infinity banknotes. I plug the holes with soft words. I serve as poetry serves the soup. I set the instruments in the light shade. I crush the seeds in the bottom of the vowels. I pull the spark of a handful of ashes. A fork moves me to the equal of a loaf. I expect something or someone in ink on the page. A question arises or not, just no response to the child. I want a grammar where the verb does not live conditional. I do not expect that the buds are drunk, that the branches are crazy, the leaves are host to talk to birds. They throw on their top flight of small grains that bloom in heaven. My heart took refuge among the angels and chickadees, dahlias and roses. Love the lips and anger in the guts, I climb on the words to capture lightning in a mess of shadows.

In the course of the creek

Snow apple trees soaking the valley. Forgetting his stones, his marbles, his treasure, the child continues to eye the flight of a butterfly. It's not like the miser weighting its not filling with pockets. Feet light wind caressing the grass. The river flows into the sea, carrying her death. I walk on the shore where each tree is a salvation. The essence of the experience ignores appearances. The gods are dead under the weight of the coins. The language of passion is reduced to nonsense letters on the heart. Politicians, shady businessmen, bradeurs countries, snuffers of hope, people of ill-gotten share the world. We are here to kneel before the stock prices, the altarpiece of banks in prayer TTY. Indifferent to the things of commerce, I base my speech on the course of streams, the balance of the rain water with its figures, grammar trees combining roots. I do not care profits, poverty is a way of life. What you lose in foil enriched goodness.

The history of man has written on the blade of a knife, the butt of a gun, a tear of a child, a drop of blood. The world is shrinking at the speed of the aircraft but the slow turtle lends even a soul. What strange animals have become men. I contemplate a flower in the middle of the pack. I listen to a song bird amid the din. Stretch the words in the sentence to see the stars. Tenderness continues to dissipate overnight. Before learning how to decipher the silence, I endured the noise. I leave little pieces of paper flowers on the pavement. The clouds burst into tears for the thirsty flowers. The birds sing for their brothers the trees. The forest is reflected in the brilliance of a leaf. Hunger gives his bread, cold clothes. But the men, their pupils blinded by the brightness of the dollar, does not see babies buried under the ruins. They faded dream of the old Marx and denied their souls. Childhood changed during the night of the objects. The sound of tills replaced Mozart. But there are other men who believe in goodness. They say fools, poets, dreamers, dreamers, when they want to hand the embers of survival. They bring a violin to cities without music, peace, salt words, the beauty of a star among the black snow.

Three poems chosen by Andre Chenet :

We were all stolen

We were all stolen
Treasure Island for a false map
skin animals for mirrors toc,
river water and the bark of trees for poles and
the peace pipe for water that crazy,
soul every thing for a God crucified.

We were all stolen
our language, our songs and the meaning of dreams
for false promises and smoke screens,
our salmon rivers and our bark canoes,
the race for hares rabbits battery,
land that is all for the plots of evil,
gold fever for paper currency,
sweetgrass for hints of petrol.

We were all stolen
crystals of snow for stars glass
slow speed wood iron bed
grass and leaves for a hospital bed,
plants that cure for a morphine pump,
colors for the face of Rimmel toxic odors
the book for a single missal.

We were all stolen
smoke signals for a postcard,
heat of fire to electricity,
the key of dreams for a keyring
our memory, our children, our ancestors.
everything is alive.

horns burst eardrum and deer
Huskies lose in the sense of smell.
In the dark night of the white men
even our shadows are lamps.
I say this without hatred as they strip her heart.
My hand looking for a hand that is not a glove.

I listen to the first sounds of the world,
the call of the wolves and the opening buds.
My soul takes the form of everything I see,
the flight of a bird, the tips of tall grass, the circle of teepees
open to infinity.

I do not expect what ends. I'm still waiting
what begins.
I do not want a bridge, but teach you to swim.

Robin and ash

A Rose in the ashes
distributes its fragrance.
A source in the stone
hints at his lips.
A shadow in the night
preserves its light.
One dead in his grave
Finds its cradle.

In a hole of hope
A white bird busy
To hide her eggs.

The Labour

I live on credit
on the arm on the love
my table of contents available to the four winds

the dream always
stretched above his strength and soul

clambering over its means

When I die in the hole
without a sub without a dime
I wear my life like a butt
plowing light

- http://lafreniere.over-blog. net /
- php/author/0011087/Jean-Marc% 20The% 20Freniere # bio


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