poème de Thomas Adam-Garnung


LES ORACLES INTERDITS



Les oracles se répondent

Dans un silence qui trop souvent pousse au chuchotement,

Alors s'animent des rêves

Sur la face des victimes :


Seules, sept lances plongées dans l'eau dormante et sans trace de sang.


Les aveugles dorment.

Moi, j'ai maintenu ma vie sur un fil, une ligne, pleine de ratures et de gribouillages.

Mais je préfère une goutte de sang à une feuille couverte d'encre.

Les membres rompus,

La bouche rongée par le goût de la rouille et du sel,

Je regarde les yeux : ni ouverts ni fermés,

Je chuchote à la bouche qui sans cesse essaie de parler,

Je soulève les pommettes qui ont percé la peau,

Je n'en peux plus.

Mes mains se perdent et me reviennent,

Mutilées.

Tant de choses ont défilé devant nos yeux,

Que nos yeux mêmes ont fini par ne rien voir.


Sur le sable passé,

La mer en fleurs

Et le temps prisonnier.

Si je m’arrête les roses viendront me cerner.


Ton sang à toi se glace quelquefois comme la lune.

Et tous nous sommes marins sans emploi,

Nous ne savons pas combien le port est amer quand tous les bateaux sont

Partis,

Nous voyons juste scintiller au loin

Des épaves brisées des voyages qui n'ont jamais pris fin,

Des corps qui ne savent plus comment aimer

Et qui murmurent en langues étrangères des miettes de pensées.


Penche-toi sur la mer obscure

Et sur ton dernier coquillage, écris.

Et ne laisse plus tes mains voyager.


A tâtons dans mes propres veines

Le fleuve ne coule plus,

Il a oublié la mer.


extraits et sources


texte de Marion Cole


You have no idea what you’re doing here. How you got here. What time it is. What happened.

Have you lost consciousness? Have you lost your mind? When was the last time you were in control of things? Did you actually choose to go out wearing this dress? You never wear dresses. Normally. Something here is not normal. What is normal anyway? Why are you not panicking? You should be panicking. But you’re not. They must have drugged you. And dressed you and locked you up in this strange beautiful apartment. Maybe you should just wait and see what happens. If anything ever does happen. Just sit down and relax. There’s a book on the coffee table. Why not read it?

As you move towards the armchair near the coffee table, you realise that the dress you are wearing is changing colour. You must be on some kind of drug. You sit down. You pick up the book. As you start reading it, all the text disappears. Now, it’s a blank book. Like a notebook. A pen has appeared in your right hand. Apparently you’re supposed to write something now. But what? What do people write in general when they doodle? Their name.

But what is your name? This is getting very strange indeed. But oddly, you’re not at all worried about not knowing your own name. Perhaps you never liked it anyway. Perhaps it’s some kind of Freudian parental rejection phase. Perhaps it’s time you had a new name. But choosing a name is no walk in the park.

You get up and walk to the window, not the park. You can’t see out of it. It’s just white and blurry. It looks like it is daytime outside. But perhaps there is just a lamp behind the window projecting daylight. Everything is very still. Put on hold. You are neither hungry, thirsty, tired or agitated. Surely you should be? They (whoever that may be) must have put you on something. Some kind of soothing drug. You feel fine. Actually you haven’t felt this good for ages.

You think you should panic. Normally thinking about panicking would make you hit the roof with panic. It would be panic central. But no. Actually thinking about panic, stress and anxiety make you relax. You are even more relaxed and at ease with yourself and the surroundings than before. Thinking about panic attacks helps you relax. You’re so relaxed. You’ve never been this unstressed. Are you normally quite nervous? Anxious? You start to think so but have no idea. This state of utter calm enveloping your body and mind has a very soothing effect on you. You start to nod off. In seconds, you’re fast asleep.


When you wake up, you feel the presence of other people in the room. You try to open your eyes but realise you’ve been blindfolded. This still does not upset you. Everything is normal. Well, no, but nothing seems unusual. You just accept things as they come. You wouldn’t normally, you think. Then again, how can you be sure? How can you ever be sure of anything?

You feel someone is sitting beside you. You feel someone is breathing down your neck too. There are at least two people in the room. You still don’t panic. You’re fine. You’re actually enjoying this state you’re in. Nobody says anything but it’s as if you’re in the middle of a conversation. A conversation without words or sounds. But you know you’re all speaking to each other. You can feel it when somebody interrupts you. You don’t take offence though. Sometimes several people speak at the same time. This surreal silent conversation is fascinating. You’re very interested. But still you have no idea what it’s about. But it’s very interesting, you think. Perhaps you should take notes. Perhaps you should record it. You feel the recorder in your hand. You are already recording it. It’s an old fashioned, heavy tape recorder. How long have you been recording? Has this recorder always been in your hand? Was it in the room before you fell asleep? How long were you asleep for?

You feel numb. Nothing affects you. Even all these strange questions don’t bother you at all. You are not in the slightest bit worried. Why should you be? You’re enjoying a conversation without words with people without faces. You’re still blindfolded, but not worried. You know everything is fine. Gradually, the conversation dies down. The other people get up and leave. You don’t feel anyone breathing down your neck anymore or sitting beside you. You’re alone in the room. They left without opening the door. Or at least without making a sound. You remove the blindfold.

Why didn’t you take it off before? You enjoyed having it there, over your eyes. You had an interesting conversation, which you recorded. You look down at your hand. It’s empty now. You glance around the room. There is no tape recorder. They must have taken it with them. Perhaps you should have taken notes. The notebook is still on the coffee table. You don’t want to open it.

You’re no longer wearing the dress. You’re wearing a man’s dinner jacket, a tuxedo in fact. You think you look quite smart, in an androgynous kind of way. You feel smart. There are no mirrors in the room and the window doesn’t reflect anything as it is all blurred. You’re wearing a suit for no occasion. You’re wearing cowboy boots too. Although it’s a strange combination, you feel good. In fact, you haven’t felt this good about how you look for years. If ever.

You don’t mind not doing anything. You aren’t bothered about this pointless situation. You aren’t worried about being here. Although you don’t know why you’re here, you feel you’re in the right place. You don’t think about leaving, or escaping. Because you don’t feel trapped or imprisoned. You aren’t expecting anything. Perhaps that’s why nothing affects you and why nothing surprises you. Nothing matters and everything is fine.

You fall asleep again.

You might never wake up.

You’re sleeping soundly, like a baby.