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.
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.
(Ed. THREE-PISTOLES, 2010)
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
Fire haunts me, The Art Editions Port, Three Rivers
See also the website of Paths Pen :
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