Friday, November 19, 2010

South Park Ipod Online


Goodbye - said the barefoot voice
pain Tired of having your crying baby herbs
to bury his memories
And sudden resurrection
has no face but not an oil canvas stalking. Love music theory
unexplored body magnolias
And your skin is a goldfinch.
pain is invincible love, it is no longer torment
melody but renamed
love the world.


Point du jour

Adieu - douleur dit d'une voix the
déchaussée Fatiguée of souffre, elle ses Boit Pleurs
Ensevelit parmi ses souvenirs et les herbes
, Soudaine résurrection, elle n'a pas de face
guette N'est qu'un qui l'huile toile . L'amour
solf his body undiscovered
And Magnolias of her skin are goldfinches.
Pain is invincible love,
It is no longer torment but melody
Love renames the world.

In " 0rage (Ed. BOD, 2010)


Meeting with poetic Cristina Castello , Argentine poet, on the occasion of the publication of his art book Shadow / Sombra
On Monday, December 6, 2010 at 18:30

Shadow / Sombra
is published by Editions frames, designed to from two poems by Cristina Castello, enhanced three original prints of the poet, engraver and printmaker Gerard Truilhas.
The evening will be hosted by Pascal Perrot (Poet, writer, performer and art critic).
At this meeting, Cristina Castello will read poems Shadow / Sombra, book translated from English-Argentina by Pedro Vianna . Poets and comedians who will accompany his poems say appeared in various poetry magazines ( Passage ink , Other Voice, The Citadels , As poetry , Women of the Earth , The Notebooks Eucharis ...)

at the House of Latin America
217, boulevard Saint-Germain PARIS VII
Metro: Solferino / Rue Bac
RER: Musée d'Orsay
BUS: 63, 68, 69, 73, 83, 84, 94

Shadow / Sombra
Cristina CASTELLO - Gerard Truilhas
41 copies on Arches, signed and numbered with 3 engravings by Gerard Truilhas (size: 25 x 18.5 cm at -32 pages in Italian sheets) .- Frames Publishing, 2010

Order: HERE

At the end of the evening, the poet André Chenet present the poetry journal " Other Voice" which he founded in 2004. Cristina Castello read his poems published in the latest issue.

- (Editions Frames)
- http://www.brouillons-de-culture
- console-Love-perhaps-of-both-of-shadow-60879267.html

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Biorad Gradient Temperature Calculator

Resist the night (2)

From "The language is my country," the latest book Jean-Marc Lafreniere :

Language is my country

Language is my country. I die and I saw each phrase.
Dead wood in the fireplace brings to life the flame. Just one word to open a door. Just a poem to cheer. Just a pattern in the filings of the magnet and the snow crystals to find his way. Just a kiss to erase the hate. Just an insect in the desert to find the oasis. Just a look in the middle of the night find the light. The sky is emerging on a feather, the ocean on a wave. Just a stone the size of a fingernail to bring the River.

Language is my country. Just a flute from the sounds of strings to find hope. Color slide under the crepe of mourning. Just smile at the pariah of the street. His heart beats faster as its share of rags. Just a simple flapping wings to reach the sky, a look, a word, a simple piece of bread, a glass of water on the table. Just a corner chair for hapiness. Alternately you the dowser, the shepherd, the orchard. Just a bee to find the apple. Just a crack to cross the wall, dress for rain weather the storm.

Language is my country. I have no use for a name, role, status. I mixed the blood of animals, dew days, the desert sand, the wings of birds, the bark of trees, the sunshine. It only takes one punch to contain his rage, a flower to laugh. Just a look to see the light on the paintings of painters. I seek goodness, beauty, modesty. I am mixed with leaves beset with weeds and laughter of children. Half the time I'm like the wave of the sea, the ebb tide, the undertow of words. Just a hug to complete the hand.

Language is my country. I do not care about boundaries, codes, a costume. The heart of blue cloth dress my word. I do not need a code, a salary, a goal. I sign the path name of my steps. Lost in the world I found my way among the vowels. I found the kernel in the hull of the words, the source of the page. When the light flickers, I rekindled a sentence. I open the door to the task of love to the beats of the heart, the garden pictures. Just one flower to find pollen.

Language is my country. Words can laugh and cry. They do not retain the lessons of the school but the wounds of time, large and small joys, the caress of fingers, the bite of flowers. They can not count but sometimes sing. They pick up the sun on the edge of the trees. They throw on the world a hint of justice, a spark, fire, pieces of life that are lacking. They look for the trees we picked fruit. The urge to write comes to me without knowing why.

Language is my country. I pick up the pencil something that glitters, pearl, crystal shard, a little bit of rain. What distinguishes sentences, vowels are the laundry, the jingling syllables. When I say infinity, I have only six letters to define the space. In the kitchen of the words, there is always a chair where nobody sits. That's where I write. When the mouth is more than a poorly extinguished cigarette butt, just a poem into a volcano. When the world is limited to the horizon of the eyes, the mouth enlarges infinite paths. The language of saliva glues together the broken floor.


I love you always already

Your smile is like water on sand too hot. In the churches of my dream, your breasts have replaced the saints. There are words that mix with the air, your pictures pollinate my eyes. You arrive in the heart of me, in this target explodes in me when the abyss. The wind rises and the sea caressing rain heightens the foliage. My hand is no longer blind. His lifeline to sprout again. Once, long before being born, I loved you already. I offer prayers to the infinite world.

It's always a miracle when two bodies are mixed and along the absolute. The arms are shelter which protects the heart. Behind every word, every step, every word I speak to you. The lower image is a small plant that I water for you. If my arms are too short, j'enlacerai words either side of you. If time is too long, pluck day on the calendar. Where the waves stop, I'll sand. I'd hill at the end of the valley. I would cloud the horizon beyond. I undress in my sentences to sleep with you.

I've never tasted my flavor before you. You taste my word. My two hands salute you. They cover each finger a bundle of hugs. My you extend both arms. Your eyes open for me new pictures. Your name is for me the meaning of life. I love you always have.


Jean-Marc Lafreniere & Andre Chenet
in Nice October 21, 2010
(Photo: Cristina Castello )

3 poems Jean-Marc Lafreniere expressed by the author at the bookstore Draft Culture "Wilson place in Nice, France, October 23, 2010:
Some works of La Frenière : "The Other side " "Because ", " Manquablement" , Paths to editions of the pen, Nice, France.
Fire haunts me, The Art Editions Port, Three Rivers

See also the website of Paths Pen :