Donatien Moisdon Poems

This is to Klinck, my dog,
loving without question
and forgiving without an afterthought.
...

Sleepy landscapes, clear in front of me!

Absence of lawnmowers and children’s wails.
...

She may hold me tight in her arms
but, like an arctic wolf, I wander through the cold.

She may hold me dear in her heart
...

Mad look in the eyes of the god,
when his spread out and wounded limbs
drip blood on our frightened world...
...

Suckle on rocky shore, beloved Atlantic,
bellow through ghostly fog at tipsy fishermen,
howl for hours on gorse and broom and heathered cliffs.
...

In the fog
a black dog
on the white,
frosty grass
...

I can feel in myself a monster wielding knives
and a few black curtains shielding insanity.

There dwells a murderer gloating on sufferings,
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A leopard lying on a tiger rug
Sends out a subtle, jungle, feline scent.

As the giant cat breathes in and out,
...

A Savage and a missionary were talking.
The Savage was saying that some men can, sometimes,
turn themselves into crocodiles.
And the Missionary that a man-God was born of a virgin.
...

I wait for cold weather to cure our leprosy
and freeze, of all insects, the black, demonic eyes.

When its breath, reddening mountain flanks and valleys
...