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.

(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:

- http://www.youtube.com / watch? v =- ExLPnft8lo & feature = related

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 :

- http://editionscheminsdeplume.over-blog.com/

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)

Bits 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
paper
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
misery
plowing light

Sources:
- http://lafreniere.over-blog. net /
- http://editionscheminsdeplume.over-blog.com/
- http://chevalfou.over-blog.net/
- http://francais.agonia.net/index. php/author/0011087/Jean-Marc% 20The% 20Freniere # bio

Resumes In Manual Testing For Freshers

of poetry

Excerpts from "Exile of Poetry" (2010), unpublished collection of Andre Chenet :



Before sleeping

There are no poets
the ball rolling
little suns
within words

a concentrated space
returns and our silences

truth is that all that questions?


humans struggling to push to grow
daylight

the blind as night
makes them fearful loneliness


edge of death
loneliness
fairy injured

there is no
poets in books or magic

no return of love





; I tell you


I tell you from inside my lip on the edge
blood
I tell you

with filaments and bits of fire
I told you
sacraments
creating
I tell you

beats every moment I tell you

fork winds
language lovers
I tell you what just

far and dear to my heart I tell you

the following dreams
crimes
time I say something
insatiable
of oblivion and sand
I tell you
Islands
ephemeral words of yesterday
I tell you
stammering
the white nights of my
I tell you what

ends and what begins
I
say that almost nothing
of syllables and sounds





The immortal

Tell me the heart and silence

I came to sing
the joy and beauty

your arms wet your hands and your legs
love in the tall grass
I came to you in
uncrossing all
paths through my voice
your eyes saw my pain
already you light up my poems
I came from a country that does violence

where everyone carries his cross
dark beliefs
I spent borders
bristling
suffering Tell me life and embrace infinite

his music and his breath
I came to sing love
and fragility
your mouth red spring
your breasts with salt and equinoxes
and immortality.





Memories of legendary times

A Toothy
the embers of an alphabet disappeared
o Fire
fruit that split to the goddesses
falcon heads

ancient times where we danced naked among the myriad

spiral of the Milky Way
time initiations
virile and solstices

wild feasts when we went to places where nocturnal
reborn
light on the banks of sacred rivers
we climbed from
Finistères
paths through
shifting sands and waves of dream in these times
haloed mystery
peoples obscure signs tattooed purple
Us Currencies
on the wire with
water snakes of the infinite
we have not forgotten how to speak the language
green trees
nor the mockingbirds and
wind made us wings to fly the hippogriff

magnetic storms at this time of moons
prophecies and our wives had huge eyes shone like
where a constellation of mother of pearl beads
creating





Passwords Cristina
Read these suns
fluctuating
on edge
where foraging birds fairy


break any
gap between us and our breaths
with perfumes rare
of loneliness panting


vermilion seal the pact of our eyes
lost wax on our ardent
blinding Hugs

accompany life
to nest at night and we

off in a whirlwind of crazy stars.





The fire of desire

I lived for Sundays sad
tocsins of purple and stormy nights
How to distinguish outside and in? The hem
sleep relaxes
pass between my lips where silences
I have no reason to exist if the world withers
ignorance
I should wander freely through
groves and
fields of country as the seasons turn
I age my desires are rain or shine
age of love, where hordes quench their thirst of life
Only the ashes which the fire resistant bites.





Litteris

We will open new

galaxies at the forefront of our poems

We will open our exiles to
nightlife lights of the earth We will open

what dreams
seal in the enclosures of reason

We will open gestures of prophets
countries destroyed

We will open on the cliffs of gypsum
a road height desires

We will open fire which makes wood
and that water does not tell us

We will discover the major issues
in our deepest sleep

All literature is a theater of signs
between what is thought and accomplished.





Psalm

He does not know that lightning breath
that sticks to the glass like an old dream

within reach Morning


He listens more than stone cold
when you took the time
and he no longer understands

It crosses
things and uses few words to achieve this share

forgetting that swells

It changes the silence in a psalm
absence
and burns to the eyes
distant fires.


Andre Chenet

Nutritional Value Of Homemade Pizza

Poets in the streets of Paris (2)

And the cops fired a bitter attack on the black flag ...


The rotten I am telling you watch these
Tronches these reds these facies
Spaniards Italians Croats Bulgarians
The gooks
Some niggers shit
There are even some who wear hats
and tie like the bourgeois

The rotten I am telling you
dogs hungry for blood Savages
brutes who kill father and mother that
is seen in their wild eyes
A
their fists to their mouths twisted by hatred of honest people


In the street the child hungry
contemplate the dregs of the earth
He said nothing He stubbornly silent
He grits his teeth and he was taught
since the first day

The street whores
pasted on the walls and throw roses
kisses to the insurgents
Ravens obscure distress and derision
religiously deposit their droppings on the statues
Heroes of the Republic

Renée-Maria Little Match
cries and blows his nose in his fingers
lorgnées the corner of his eye by a Mr.
smelling cologne

Renee Maria bite her hand till the blood
not to scream

In the street the sound of hunting humiliated far
; before it leaves
October
Ah! god! it is beautiful!
whispers Renee Maria watching the lead in that

a handsome young man dressed as a carpenter A beard
blonde and carefully combed
fingers thin and very pale

Should all align along a wall that's me
; telling you
a priest whispers in the ear of Master Corporal
Should all thrown into the fiery furnace
said the consumptive seamstress awaiting Prince Charming
Should all taken to the gates of the Champs-Elysees
triumphantly proclaims a former Versailles
converted in the slave trade

In the streets of babies wailing foreseeing the tragedy
Lanterns off
A bearing ascending from the Pont Louis-Philippe
Another replied rolling across the Pantheon
We hear feet pounding the pavement around the gardens
; Luxembourg's

In the street they walk like silences serious armed
; countless courage
They walk like crowds arisen from a dark hole where rats
; They compete for space
walk like oceans united by the blood sweat
; and tears
They walk like swords
As processions of famines and pain, oldest
than older trees
In the streets they walk like despair dressed in rough cloth
as mutilated bodies
as voice broken by emotion

In the street the child looks dumb hungry

curled up on its squalor
He trembles
He's afraid he
cold

But his eyes are those of a son of man has long been an orphan


The street still looks timid
means forging hoarse breasts
In the suburbs the sun shredded
collapses in the midst of gardens distressing

Whoever comes forward head has no love
It has never had time
and whoever follows him has only friend

wind nights
of homeland

He who walks in mind is as beautiful as
;
an archangel and one that
follows a gentle face of a king-mage

Should every swing to the lions
babies wave their little arms sensing
A banker drama
fat and bald so check his portfolio
; is always where it should

they walk in the street without saying a word without fever

They walk at a steady
convinced they are of all races and all
follies

On the street where the whores quick remake

their makeup to be beautiful
On the street where the child hungry
cradles a rag doll
which has only one leg

They walk behind the drums banners lifted high
they walk obscure silent
helmeted figures they walk kicks iron helmets
They march in ranks
They They walk hundreds and thousands walk the walk as always
armed

many minutes they watched each
In Long minutes
And the cops fired lashing out at the black flag ...
The advancing front erupted in mind reddens sidewalk
And he followed that fell with slow shattering
And the child was suddenly hungry tons

white bread in the hollow of your palms.
Late at night when they were on
remained only whores
who sang hymns and psalms divine.


André Laude
In "The Paris Imagination" by Jean Lebedeff
(Ed TV, 1979)

Andre Laude This poem is exceptional for several reasons: firstly because he joined the incurable delusion of Rimbaud after the Commune had been crushed, and the other May 68 and it evokes the desperate years of sporadic fighting that continued to be offered for nearly a decade. The Communists' sectarisés "- Maoists, Stalinists, Lambert and other militarized factions trostkystes ... - The slave trade unions tomorrow and forever disenchanted, a little later, the hypocritical party mitterrand (Which had a name of socialist electoral controlled at the expense of a people in the process of surrender) broke all the dreams of the revolutionary utopia. For this poet who lived in his furious flesh breakup of major insurgent movements inaugurated by the French Revolution, " poetry and revolution were one and the same thing ", he understood that poetry "as accompaniment the social and human development towards justice and more freedom possible ". André Laude, who had never inserts, had predicted early on destructive policies and segregation that we suffer today. For him, the Socialist Party of Fabius, Jospin, Lang, Strauss Kahn, Delors and others ... was no doubt that a relay of capitalism triumphant. Anarchist Marxist and stood there, (He explained in this very precisely in the early nineties came ten in the magazine NOT PLAY Jean-Michel Fossey), he lived poetry as a necessary conflict with a reality ; completely deranged and terrifying. He wanted to end the "little man" cowardly and cruel to invent another language " is not that people condemned to think only to survival, to bear the terrible hours of work in factories, when the savage capitalism develops .. . "Son of a proletarian, he said that poetry was written" with the world to show solidarity . "In 1982, he declared:" Poetry might have a chance in the context of a large historical and social upheaval "but he did not want to add with a touch of icy lucidity which characterizes all who have crossed the abyss of human hope," that under the current, I not think that poetry has a chance. She will always remain I'm afraid, the ghetto in which are found those who are different, those who do not work like the others, and then also ... it will remain that little extra something that presents itself in some quarters a little money or we love poets while fucking completely the message of the poem . AC

Biography and publications of André Laude :

- http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/André_Laude

Biography and work of Jean Lebedev, engraver and painter;
- http://militants-anarchistes.info/spip.php?article3181