This morning a man was sleeping behind the wheel of his car parked in front of a hotel of Boulevard Suchet. During the whole night he had been waiting for his lady Melisande of 16th district, having beside him a bunch of lily with stamen neatly cut and exotic birds. His gloves were ready for the after crime, still white. But the bitch was not at home, her mute shutters remained pulled down, inhospitable.

The man was dreaming about all kinds of murders and sighed, his head on the steering wheel of his new Twingo which ranked him as a respectable middle class manager. He did not know that he was watched, who knows, and that the hands of Melisande wearing white gloves, were squeezing tightly his neck, so tenderly.

But a working man wearing a hard hat, his ears protected, woke him up abruptly with his hammer drill, at the doorstep of the sounding Hell.

What kind of love is it, to be able to read in these junk shops and acknowledge in this mental chaos the ancient and majestic human memory?

Sun at noon : with foliage arms and golden lungs, legs covered with cobblestone, I look with all my doors, I breathe with all my gardens. This is the dance of a wave under a Chinese lantern, a Pierid settles on the shoulder of a child. Called by its enchanted flight other butterflies are surrounding the young life with a shawl of lace floating in the wind.

Mirror of absence
The sob of a fountain
Between the electric dots

 

Marteau Piqueur

Ce matin un homme dormait au volant de sa voiture arrêtée devant un hôtel du boulevard Suchet. Toute la nuit il avait attendu Mélisande du l6ème avec son bouquet de lys et ses oiseaux exotiques. Ses gants étaient prêts, encore blancs, pour l’après crime, mais la garce n’était pas là, sa fenêtre muette montrait ses lourds volets, revêche.

L’homme rêvait de tous les meurtres et soupirait, la tête sur le volant de sa R16 qui le classait cadre moyen, bourgeoisie honnête. Il ne savait pas qu’on l’observait, qui sait, et que les mains de Mélisande, gantées de blanc, entouraient son cou en serrant bien fort, si tendrement.

Mais un ouvrier portant casque, aux oreilles protégées, le réveilla brusquement aux portes de l’enfer sonore.

Voici le soleil de midi. Mes bras sont de feuillage et mes poumons d’or, mes jambes se couvrent de pavés, je regarde de toutes mes portes, je respire de tous mes jardins. Voici la danse d’une vague sous un lampion, la piéride des porcelaines s’est posée sur le dos d’un enfant, elle appelle d’un vol enchanté les autres papillons si bien que la petite vie se couvre de dentelles d’où le vent se lève.

Miroir des absences
Les sanglots d’une vasque
Entre le pointillé électrique
D’une cité fantôme

 

Rebecca Behar

Rebecca Behar

Rebecca Behar is a French poet, currently active as a Slam performer in Paris. She was involved in alternative movements such as free radios, murals, poetry manifestoes. She has published children stories (Quatre Gamins dans le Cosmos – Mon petit éditeur ; Bulle d’Ozer et l’Enchanteur – Altramenta), short stories (La Vie de Bohème – Edilivre) and a book of literary criticism (Conférences et articles – Altramenta). Her CDs of poetry and music are downloadable in Jamendo. She keeps a blog about traveling and her last CD can be accessed from En guise de passeport.

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