Tuesday 22 November 2022

Five Poems by Fabrice B. Poussin


In Search of the word


A conductor’s apprentice he seeks the strings of the cosmos

plucking at the occasional breeze through leaves of his thoughts.


Dreaming of Chopin on a shore of pebbles complex as the last snow

he gently taps an index as he searches for the darkest ivories.


Perhaps the rhythm of an Africa he lost long ago will animate his soul

drumming through the spheres a message sweet as a heavenly nectar.


Breath fresh as that of a new born in the early morning mist

he calls to the depths of space with the melody of the reed.


Musician he knows the immaterial orchestra surrounds his presence

child in the first lessons of the metronome he remains silent.


Twirling drunken artist desperate for expression he stumbles

still and forever unable to capture in the air a sound to make up a sign.





Six AM on the hill as

fog settles upon the antlers

of deer frolicking unaware of

the troubles festering below

trains clamour in the dense night

in a chain of unending defeats.


Seconds would flow slowly if they could

groggy too from a peaceful slumber

but the silence is too much for man

as he reasserts his dominion upon the trees

roaring at the wheel of his infernal machines

trumpets blaring his only token to existence.


And they scream those children of inconsiderate days

needless maleness affirming obscenities

into the ears of the innocent quadrupeds

puzzled by the sirens of the dying

when fires burn across town

and teenagers set the alarms of prized heaps of oil and gasoline.


Six AM still and I would rather awaken in the jungle

with the laughter of hungry hyenas

the groan of an old crownless king

the uncertainty of another day

than to live among the wild

humans deprived of the souls we once loved.




Forgotten in a frigid room of tile and ice water

a counter as cold as the stone of his recent slumber

the fragrant aroma lives in every pore

companion to a cream and the freshness of the blade.


Morning ritual never bypassed, the tools now rest

silent, covered in the memories of their soul

thin rays of a noble sun attempt to break this death

rejoicing in what may still remain.


He lives, they scream; in another world they too survive

it only takes a moment of quietude to hear again

the soft touch of the razor to the dying hair

under the sharp gaze of those unfailing greys.


The old cologne, the razor and the delicate suds

in awe of what he once was dare not make a slight move

they will wait until it is time to journey to oblivion

dust, on the mantel by the abyss of the mirror.



Little Thing


She looked at the giant a million miles above

attempting to escape on all six in the dirt

it had not been a moment as she thought

since she had devoured a particle of dust.


The monstrosity continued on its merry way

moving mountains at the bottom of a sole

infinite in its blind power to achieve oblivion

upon a world suspect only to its gentle kin.


A tremor soon shakes their home like a quake

so strong to swallow all things, redemption

the killer has collapsed under an unseen thumb

pressing on a life so feeble in its illusion of invincibility.


Within the carcass a little thing crawls

warm in the home of these shrinking entrails

it seeks a place to raise its immense family

food aplenty in the bounty of this fleshy planet.


Tomorrow will see another light

a dimming sun will become supernova

victim to its own appetite for eternal strength

it may even beg for a respite.


Sitting atop the cozy enclave of a palace

he contemplates the cadaver of a brother

stabbed in the heart by such a little thing

another sun’s life shuddered by a tiny moon.




In the thick darkness of his den

composer of many sonatas he sits

blank music sheets waiting for his hand.


He gave up the drink long ago

finding the void a greater inspiration

enveloped in the shroud of upcoming ecstasy.


He drew the spots and let them dance

on the sheet where he once dreamed of her

falling back into a sleepy mood in her embrace.


In a dreary afternoon surrounded by icy mists

a gentle hearth brought life to the air

staring through a dark glass her image came to.


An evening like so many more and a sigh

inviting the apparition to come into his chambers

so life came to the notes in a fantastic symphony.


Another dusk would set onto the adorned parchment

quiet among the creatures of his night

under a crescent moon scarred with her pains.


For a while he was whole again in the desert

of an existence made of mere illusions of an oasis

living with her who yet was unaware of the gift.

Fabrice B. Poussinteaches French and English at a university in Georgia, USA. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other publications worldwide. His collections “In Absentia,” and “If I Had a Gun,” were published by Silver Bow in 2021 and 2022. 



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