Donatien Moisdon

Yesterday, Summer house amused in a tempest,
Now a ruin, Annie, Irene or Emily.

Yesterday smart vessel riding a frosty crest
...

On the moors where shiver the white manes of the dead
slowly proceeds a frail and dishevelled old man.

Having walked to the shore where his childhood awoke
...

Grey skeletons of trees, grey countryside,
crows' acidic and painful cries,
shiny, flooded meadows.
...

Let me drink from all your rivers,
ideal creature, now my new vision.

Have we ever fled, galloping away,
...

Hans von Brunnfengrongen smokes a tiny cigar
as he listens to a CD of J.S.Bach.

Sitting in a leather armchair, he looks out of
...

We come from the true Dark Ages
and look around like savages
for the blood of forgotten crimes.
...

Forced marches in grass, leaves and mud
with a dog's patter next to me.

Dark circuits at dawn and at night
...

Dark green meadows tumbling, rumbling in the foothills.
Stench of rotting corpses sweating out of grey walls,
wafting over landscapes strobic with blinding barks
of lightning
...

…for already, the first light of Autumn
among the dusty foliage is creeping.

It brings along a damp, surprising calm
...

Flaunted nudity moving in spotlights,
arched body offered to riveted looks...

Hope-strung dancer, you know that ugliness
...

Lost in foliage where gold from Heaven sinks
move, search and stare cold, calculating eyes.

A beast unknown landed from outer space
...

As life is drained away from me, and heart-beat
weakens with every day, and as reality
collapses in a heap,
a worn out tune will try to bring back memories
...

Quercy, "Big Sky Country",
holiday memory.

Under frozen stars,
...

With its snow and its howling wind
my forest bites me to the bone.

My house creaks with its every beam.
...

So I shall have to leave this old village
half hidden in the haze of a pink aurora.

Last cool breath of the night before a scorching day.
...

Brown and green, skinny stalks,
poplars, infinity...
Far away and fragile,
shimmering, hazy light.
...

Steel voices rape the air,
shake spires and crack stones
till, dreamily, do some
fall on crowded plazas
...

In echoing metallic emptiness
of international air terminals
I often saw her, hurrying,
incredibly pretty, impossible
...

Dirt roads and rotting fallen leaves
glisten and grizzle underfoot.

Grey nights, icy tears of rain
...

Suddenly, all efforts spanning grey afternoons,
through taut fingers seem worthwhile, at long last,
and slaughter Indifference.
...