Showing posts with label shadows. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shadows. Show all posts

Monday, October 19, 2020

Moe Seager | I, October

I, October


Fire, color, syrup sweet, dripping vines
Grand, my consummate embrace of passion
Ablaze, my glorious variations
Radiant, defiant my stand in the throes of encroaching shadows
Triumphant, for a spellbinding moment
Misty haze aromatic, my perfumes scent the harvest
Take me, intoxicate, dine at my table, drink me to your fill
Excite with me, spread your limbs free
My winds, swirl, whirl, rustle you open
Beautiful, naked, flight of the leaves
Night owl hoots, field mouse dances
A distant train passing in the night
It’s lazy cadence beckons you dream
As it shuffles by gently, a faint lullaby
Passed, the plentitude of mother spring’s seeds ripened,
Passed, the bounty of father summer’s fallen fruits
Take me, la grande dame, yours, encore et encore
November soon to strip me to the raw
December to bury me in his white shroud cover of snow
I, October, last grand consummate embrace of passion
Bittersweet, before the silence


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Moe Seager, poet, vocalist (jazz & blues), and recording artist with two jazz-poetry CDs, sings his poems in Paris, New York, and elsewhere. Seager is the founder and host of the Paris-based Angora Poets World Caffé, organizer of 100TPC (100 Thousand Poets for Change) festival in  Paris, and one of the coordinators for La Fédération des Poètes. Internationally published (USA, UK, France, and Egypt), his nine books of  poetry include the most recent: Moe Seager (International Peace and Art Center, 2020) and I Want to Make to Jazz to You (Onslaught Press, 2016), and two in translation: One World (Cairo Press, 2004) in Arabic and We Want Everything (Le Temps des Cerises, Paris, 1994) in French. The French Ministry of Culture released his debut collection Dream Bearers in 1990. Seager has won a Golden Quill Award (USA) for investigative journalism (1989) and received an International Human Rights award from University of Pittsburgh - Zepp Foundation (1990).

Saturday, October 3, 2020

Isabelle Lorion | Yellow Mood

 Thammapa Supamas’s Yellow Cat

Yellow Mood


A yellow cat is miaowing
He’s calling for the love of the stars
His yellow eyes are glimmering
Among the shadows of the night
He’s jumping in a meadow of daffodils
His growl turns into a song
You might hear him during hot summer nights
And never forget
Yellow is the color of the sun
When I rise in the morning
Yellow is the color of my mind
When I wonder
How do I fight
For my rights
He passes at the end of the streets
With a hat of melancholy
On his head
And a coat of solitude
He holds tight
Against his pale chest.
She gratifies him with a yellow smile
When he leaves her behind
The cat opens his maw
And yawns
He puts his paw on her cheek
And gently caresses it
To console her
For the loss of her lover
She holds him tight
In the silk of the night
And rocks his dreams
Singing softly an old lullaby
For yesterday and tomorrow
The young man dozes in the tenderness of her love
She borrows a yellow fish
At the market of miracles
And lets it swim
In the hollow of their secret garden
A young fellow is sleeping
In a rocking chair made of purple willow
His mouth is open
And his dreams are chaotic
His flesh is trembling
With the variation of his thought
And the weeping willow wobbles
Over his scared shaking face
When he opens his eyes
He draws a sad smile
On the yellow sand
Of the remote beach
And the light of the sun
Plays through the yellow foliage of the fall
After they’ve gone
Only yellow memories
Mark the places
Where they once loved each other
Mellow yellow memories
Melt in the shallows of lost hopes
He follows her again
And howls his sorrow
Through the window of the past
For yesterday and for tomorrow
He sews her a dress
With the golden thread of his love
She wears it
And she dances
In the shadows of the night
A yellow cat is miaowing
In the heart of the night
They borrow the marrow of happiness
For yesterday and for tomorrow
To follow the direction of their dreams
To grow
Toward the slow show of the cows
On desolation row


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I was born in the mid-1950s in the suburbs of Paris.
I ran away. I traveled. And I wrote and played music.
I love walking.
I’ve been working with children.
I go to poetry scenes.
I love horses. And all animals.
I am an anarchist.