Poem 2 – Carole Ranaivo

the street of my childhood
is full of street lamps and dead trees
my parents live at the same number
for a long time already
the ocean lives further away
there is no pier or boat to get there
and the noise of the motorcycles imitates very badly
the noise of the waves
a stranger recognizes me, my face is however pale
he calls me, what have you become he asks me
he is old, he wears a coat of dead skin
I surely look suspicious in his eyes
but he too is tired he doesn’t really have the head
to talk, let alone to keep quiet
I give the change but very quickly I launch a wish
and my body does an exemplary job
to transport my whole spirit upstairs
and into the apartment of my childhood
I lie down, rereading poems by you
your poems are always wonderful places
where I can hide
poems where the coral suns
suns of coral of vast seas
green bars blue clouds
poems where beings and things
decide by promise and by love
I read and even the cold and windy day
is in love, jealous of me
the eye glued to the window
he dreams of reading you too
February is comatose
he longs to be March
what do you become, the old one hammers
in my room of my childhood where I returned
to escape the armed hordes of hell
the ghosts of my animals prowl affectionately
I gave them an appointment
in the sixth line of one of your poems
what have we become
the question is rather where we come from
you I know, you come
from those stamps stolen for your friend
from the pure conversations of your adolescence
from that magic alphabet for which you traded your life
and the boy of your dreams finally answered you
a connection is always a connection (I’m reassured)
and the bond between two people is a real iron chain
that needs to be held tight like a rudder
(and by the way, a hint: what you see beautiful in him
only comes from what is beautiful in you)
and no, don’t apologize for talking too much about yourself
I don’t say much but to you I could tell
secrets as big as houses
all the details of my life before
my years of depression
and if black stars come one day in a troop behind me
I know I could hide in one of your poems
a sheriff at the entrance will stop the bullets of time
he will take me away in a luminous convoy
a high-speed train
to a refuge where everything has been carefully preserved
a place without hard angles, without pretense
a poem like
an endless summer
a museum without tourists
and while I forget to swim and breathe in the poem
the tender ghost of my cat gently pulls me out
he tells me that nothing matters
that everything will be fine
and behind the window
the motorcycles fall back
I hear the ocean nearby
a raven is walking around
his friend parades near him, they are two
my mother taught me that this is a signal to say
that seven years of happiness await me
and the ocean goes nowhere
it is there, it brays unperturbed
that everything is a chance
he slaps his chest
to convince me of it
chance chance, he repeats
your poetry luck, meet you luck
and February is feverish
but the temperature is rising
the things of the life give me suddenly desire
to cry with laughter fly shines

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