Articles Tagués ‘poème’

Le circuit est de cuivre

Publié: 26 novembre 2014 par jmenti dans uncategorized

Le circuit est de cuivre
De l’œil vient la douleur
Violent instrument de peur
Cette en tête qu’il aime à nous suivre

A celui qui note la trace
Des personnage inexistant
Des fantôme prédominant
Sache que le monde est une farce

D’apparence beau et théâtral
Aux réalité tragique souvent banal
Le questionnement tue l’ivresse

Rêves, cauchemars ou fiction
Respire mieux dans la passion
Venus en chemin est Déesse.


Oliphaunt & Mewlips

Publié: 25 septembre 2014 par L'épicène dans en anglais, Lis.tes.ratures
Tags:, , , , , ,

Fort célèbre pour ses romans, Tolkien a aussi écrit quelques poèmes qui me touchent beaucoup plus.


Grey as a mouse,
Big as a house,
Nose like a snake,
I make the earth shake,
As I tramp through the grass;
Trees crack as I pass.
With horns in my mouth
I walk in the South,
Flapping big ears.
Beyond count of years

I stump round and round,
Never lie on the ground,
Not even to die.
Oliphaunt am I,
Biggest of all,
Huge, old, and tall.
If ever you’d met me
You wouldn’t forget me.
If you never do,
You won’t think I’m true;
But old Oliphaunt am I,
And I never lie.

The Mewlips

The Shadows where the Mewlips dwell
Are dark and wet as ink,
And slow and softly rings their bell,
As in the slime you sink.

You sink into the slime, who dare
To knock upon their door,
While down the grinning gargoyles stare
And noisome waters pour.

Beside the rotting river-strand
The drooping willows weep,
And gloomily the gorcrows stand
Croaking in their sleep.

Over the Merlock Mountains a long and weary way,
In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,
By a dark pool’s borders without wind or tide,
Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.

The cellars where the Mewlips sit
Are deep and dank and cold
With single sickly candle lit;
And there they count their gold.

Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;
Their feet upon the floor
Go softly with a squish-flap-flip,
As they sidle to the door.

They peep out slyly; through a crack
Their feeling fingers creep,
And when they’ve finished, in a sack
Your bones they take to keep.

Beyond the Merlock Mountains, a long and lonely road,
Through the spider-shadows and the marsh of Tode,
And through the wood of hanging trees and gallows-weed,
You go to find the Mewlips – and the Mewlips feed.