Donatien Moisdon

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,
...

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
...

Wind and rain batter the ivy and stone
of giant and dead Norman monasteries.

In days now blurry from the spray of time
...

You didn’t show up.
You were afraid.
You wanted to, and yet
you knew we’d never meet again.
...

I dream of a welcoming house
with old-fashioned, wood-shiny floors,
with hyacinths on window sills
indoors
...

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
...