Posts Tagged ‘English’


When John walks at night

29 janvier 2012

Read the rest of this entry ?


The sky is on fire (don’t get a hose it’s beautiful)

12 septembre 2011

As most people know I usually write stories here, in French or in English as inspiration goes.

Tonight I simply wanted to share a few pictures with you. Fall (or autumn as the Brits have it) is slowly spreading and it sure makes for some beautiful sights… especially with the help of a few very cool iapps. ;-)

(plus, I'm in love with cranes)

I hope you enjoy them :)



The tale of the dance of the Sun and the Moon

4 août 2011

Same Mistake by James Blunt
Listen on Posterous

Once upon a time there was a Sun and a Moon, and there was the Sky amidst which they danced..

Today, still, the two turn again and again around our heads and we look from East to West, we keep our heads raised towards the heights for a glimpse of their game.

Since yesteryears they’ve been searching for each other, the Sun erupting and raging, the Sun alive in its burning call for its sister and lover. And in silence, the Moon keeps one face towards the light and the heat, and another hidden in the glacial darkness, crying frozen tears, for there’s the dead Moon and the living Sun and the Earth in between.

Forever they chase the other, they wink and they bow and always they dance, always so close and yet never enough to be able to touch and smell and bathe in each other.

The Moon teases with a thousand different images : she’s like a woman with a limitless wardrobe, she’s whole, she’s half, she’s none… sometimes she’s huge and white, and other times red and sinking in the horizon at the far end of the Sea. At her feet, poets. Men singing sonnets or playing the flute, melancholic brides searching for answers, mothers holding their babes and witches smiling in recognition. The Moon breeds faeries and legends, she smiles mysteriously as the unseen thrives. With her rises the tide and she playfully receives and deflects the Sun’s light as she wishes.

That other planets play with her Sun, she doesn’t care. They are either too close and burned or too far and colder than she’ll ever be. But she’s afraid, sometimes, that her companion and best friend will stop his game, what if he refrained his rays, what if the Earth stopped spinning, what if the universe froze and there was the Sun on one side and her on the other, what if Big Bang changed his scenario, what then?

The Sun knows the scenario won’t change. His anger touches even the farthest of stars hidden in the beginnings of things. Once upon a time she and him were one, in the fraction of second just before the Big Bang. It was nothing and it was enough, and he doesn’t know why they aren’t one anymore, why out of them wasn’t a unique celestial being created, why they must run always.

Forever, he will reach out to the Moon. As the Earth turns and the Moon along with her, as the seasons change, he will keep on burning his heart towards his lost soul. Their dance used to be like a breathless waltz once, when the Earth took only 6 hours to spin around herself. Nowadays they have slowed down, like an old couple they don’t need to sing as much anymore.

Sometimes, the Moon crosses path with the Sun. A shiver descends on the Earth as the lovers drink each other’s light and darkness. For a few precious minutes, they are one inseparable radiant shadow as the Sea and the Earth and the Sky look on with envy, until they must separate, reluctantly and slowly, they let go of their embrace, they keep the dance going until the next time, the next wink, apprehending the next moonless day and the next solitary night.

They will meet again, their dance will go on forever, reminding us of the luck we have, what precious happiness it is, to be able to touch and to hold, to feel one’s warmth, to dance and to bathe in the other’s existence.


I wanted to merge the three images into one… if you have an iapp that can do that  please do let me know… :)

(jewel by Muriel Mansuy)


Sitting on a bench, looking at the sky

22 juin 2011

It’s been such a long forth week… You sit on the bench, too tired to go on, your body resting on the cold green wood, you close your eyes long enough to relax and at last you breathe. You are lost where you should be, it’s taken so long – your whole life – that a few more minutes or days even won’t matter.

It is all right

Maybe you’re going to stay there for a little while, in this foreign silent street you never knew existed. Just for a little while, just long enough to look up at the sky and dream with the clouds. When you were little, you thought they were made with sugar and that living there would be so exciting. To look down on the world, to travel from North to South as carefree as the wind…

The sky today is beautiful; maybe you could lie down and truly look at it. T'is the middle of the day and the street is empty, no one would see you – a man as old as you looking up at nothing, how silly. It is achingly whole and refuses to choose between the deep blue partly hiding behind white growing clouds. Far from spreading darkness, they are infusing light throughout and it is an odd breathtaking sight. And yet you breathe and it is your heart that’s requiring repairs.

For years your heart bled for a train you never took, everyday for eleven months you didn’t take that train, over and over, and when you looked back you had regrets and realized this was worse than feeling remorse.

One day, who knows why, you did stop overthinking and followed your instincts, but it was too late. Her patience had worn thin, she was gone. There was no one waiting for you at the end of your journey. Perhaps she didn’t love you enough, you thought bitterly, but you knew you were wrong.

Since then, never again, you forgot to be afraid and you lived. You took risks and you won, you travelled from North to South as carefree as the wind, you never looked back and nevermore had regrets, and even forgot about remorse. Of course what you built lacked stability, how could you on thin air, and what was the point. There was an eventual wife, children, women on the side, some thriving business ventures you sold when you grew restless as you always do.

Until two weeks ago and an envelope in the mail.

It looked as all mail does, uninteresting, and yet after reading it you didn’t know whether to feel drowned or saved. You learned of this street you never knew existed, you learned of silent words that had never reached you. There is hope you think, decisions to be made. You have a few days before you, enough time to think, to take the time. You probably already have the answers – for when did you not?

You look at the sky again… The wind is changing.

At last you get up and you walk away: you will come back tomorrow.



Slow Down my Beating Heart – texte bilingue français-anglais (!blonde au volant)

7 mai 2011


Aujourdhui une blonde derrière un volant et un texte écrit simultanément en français et en anglais.

Today, a blond chick behind the weel and a story written simultaneously in English and in French (the spellcheck imploded)

Bonne lecture ! / Enjoy ! J 


La voiture ne lui appartient pas. Elle est basse, si rapide, elle colle presque à la route.

 La musique vibre ses tympans, U2 tourne autour delle dans cet engin de cuir et métal qui vole presque sous ses doigts crispés sur le volant.

La vitesse, elle aime ça.

Il ne reste plus de mot pour les émotions qui étaient si présentes en elle il y a à peine un instant : elle est immergée dans le présent. Comment elle a eu ces clés na pas dimportance, ou du moins elle  tente de sen persuader.

La voiture ne lui appartient pas et elle sen sert et elle se sent en vie, elle est plus quelle-même, elle est devenue lengin, elle a déployé ses ailes sur lautoroute et est prête  pour tout, pour ce que vous voudrez.

La voiture ne lui appartient pas. Pourtant, pour une raison quelle nexplique pas, elle est devenue sienne, quoiquelle ne soit pas de nature voleuse, elle sy est installée, les clés en main, elle a caressé le cuir des sièges, senti lodeur laissée par loccupant précédent. Un parfum intriguant et étrange imprégnant encore lintérieur du véhicule.

Pourtant, malgré l’étrangeté de la situation, tout était bien.

Ivre de sensation, elle sest enfuie sur les routes. Elle ne se souvient pas de ce quelle fuie, elle ignore vers quoi elle va. Rester immobile n’était plus possible.

Cette voiture est incroyable  Cette voiture, cest elle, elle ne veut plus en sortir, jamais, elle ne veut pas la rendre, elle ne veut pas se souvenir quelle nen est pas la propriétaire. Parce qui sait, vous savez, peut-être quelle pourrait le devenir.

Peut-être. Lespoir fait vivre.

En attendant, Elle conduit de plus en plus vite alors que la musique enfle et que le monde sestompe.

Du doigt, elle pousse un bouton qui libère le ciel. Le vent sengouffre dans ses cheveux blonds, un sourire illumine son visage. Ceci, tout le reste, tout ira bien.

La voiture ne lui appartient pas. Le monde ralenti alors quelle accélère, bras tendus sur le volant, pédale au pied, elle accélère sur une ligne droite, sur la route vide et large et immense et pourtant étroite, encore quelques notes, Bono au micro et the Edge à la guitare Elle aimerait senvoler réellement, tendre corps et âme vers le ciel et sy fondre. 

Elle ferme les yeux.

The car isnt hers. Its low on the ground, and oh so fast.

 Music vibrates within her ears, U2 twirls around her in this machine made of leather and metal. Its almost flying under her fingers clenched on the weel.

Speed She likes that.

There are no words left for the feelings that were so much alive right before : as of now shes lost in the moment.

How she got the keys its not important, or at least she wants to think so.

The car isnt hers and shes using it and shes alive, shes more than herself, shes become the machine, shes spread her wings in the highway, shes ready for anything, whatever you want.

The car isnt hers. Yet it became hers for a reason she cant explain, althought shes not a thief by heart she settled inside, keys in her hands, her fingers caressed the leather seats, she smelled the perfume left by the previous occupant, a strange intriguing fragrance still lingering within the vehicule.

Yet, withstanding the foreigness of things, she was home.

Drunk on sensations, she flew away on the roads. She cant remember what shes running from, she doesnt know what shes driving towards. Standing still wasnt an option anymore.

This car is amazing This car is her, she doesnt want to get out, ever, she doesnt to give it back, she doesnt want to remember that it isnt her.

Because, who knows, perhaps it could, you know, become hers.

Maybe. We all live in hope. (whatever works J)

In the meantime, shes driving faster and faster as the music goes louder and as the world blurs.

By a push on a button, her fingers free the sky above her head. Wind engulfs in her blond hair, a smile lights up her face. This, everything, its all going to be OK.

The car isnt hers. The world slows down as she goes faster, arms straight on the weel, foot on the pedal, she goes faster on a straight line, on the empty and large and immense and nevertheless narrow road ; there are only a few notes left, Bono on the mike and The Edge on the guitar… She wishes she could fly for real and merge with the sky, soul and body.

She closes her eyes.


Old Love Letter

28 avril 2011

January 12th, 1917
My beloved,

I walked along the shores this morning with your letter in my hand, as a new day’s light shyly spread over the sleeping sea.

A new day without you yet again.

I didn’t want to be reminded of your absence, of the past and the awaiting solitary hours : it doesn't matter anymore. Your "dead status" was officially cancelled yesterday, with the arrival of both your letter and an announcement from the Army.
I watched the boats floating still, I looked for the non existent wind. My bare feet on the fresh grass, my eyes on the water, grey as the sky and so quiet, like a dormant dream. I held my happiness silently against my heart… There are so many women who are waiting to know, and so many more who cry, confronted with the harsh certainty that their son, their brother, their husband won't come back. 
I was so afraid that perhaps I was wrong in thinking that you would. 
I waited. Here in France, in your country. They said so much blood was shed that the soil turned red, somewhere called Verdun, and that you had very probably died there too. I looked at the map to see where it was. That you could be gone was simply impossible… it felt untrue but none of the locals here would believe a stranger’s heart. They almost sent me home, and they would have, had travelling not been so difficult!
With you gone, there was nothing for me left in the village they thought, for I was nothing but the promise of a wife, of a life with you, for you. I am twice a foreigner here, once for not being born within half a day’s walking distance, and twice for not being French. And yet I am a cousin too, the Irish blood in my vein speaks to their heart and memories.
Your words were faintly written but nonetheless strong and filled with such love and hopes, and pain and sadness too. I fear this war has aged you beyond what I could expect… Yet I trust that you will still be the man that left – that the soulmate I love so dearly will be the same underneath the scars. I cried for the agony you had to endure, for the pain that must be yours still and the mutilation this ongoing war inflicted on your body. But the tears on my face were also of relief: you are alive, you will soon be close to me again.

Yes, today I did not want to be reminded of your absence, even though I’ll count the days. I simply wanted to follow our walks by the sea and bathe in the thought that soon you will be home. You may not be whole again, I cannot imagine what it is to be without a limb, but we will walk slowly my love, you and I, together.



Noreen’s poem of Hopelessness

17 mars 2011


Hope is a thing there's less and less of

As the rude world falls apart

But a blue tit built a nest to sing

It was Spring in his birdy heart

And the poet wrote another note

Of hope that springs in human breast *

Have I lost my humanity

Or am I just weary?

Weary like Rutebeuf,

Whose friends were few and scattered far

Maybe a bird would be hopeless if it hopped less

Should I change my step, some other thing?

My hair, my face, maybe my car,

Or, be like birdie and learn to sing? 

Noreen V 
 * “Hope springs eternal in the human breast” Alexander Pope

Noreen and I have been sharing our love for words for the past eleven years (we were teenagers then, obviously ;) ). It's been my privilege and honor to have read her and to have been read by her through the years. This poem comes from an assignment half jokingly given to her in the comments of this post, and she was kind enough not only to oblige but to also let me share it with you.

I hope you enjoyed it. 

Thanks Noreen!