Haiku

I wish cards
Would still be to
Play for us

Irène Corso, Celles, 3 de Noviembre

Barcelonas

Barcelona sits in front of me
It sits on my train
How weird is this?
You take a train that
Ought take you away
And you sit in front of it
That train contains
Other trains, where
You hoped, smiled,
Despaired, cried,
Feared
There are also there
All those other trains
You dreamt about
Stealing away
These you never
Admitted to love
Until it was too late
Barcelona looks at me
White on black
As if hiding the secrets I conceal
The city stalks me
I swear I saw it in
The comic book shop today
And in my friend talking
About books
We might wish to forget
But we can only go along
The flow
On roads, trains, planes
Life is cluttered with Barcelonas
Mine sits
On the side of the Vlatva
Underneath the shadows
Of the Sagrada Familia
And under the loving guardship
Of Knightsbridge
I do not know
What your Barcelona is
But I wish you loved it
That is the least
We can do
After all
Either you love
Either you don't

Irène Corso, Namur & Celles, 3 de Noviembre

On Love

Beckett tells me
Either you love
Either you don't
Where the hell am I?


Irène Corso, Celles, 3 de Noviembre 2007

Haiku

Night or day,
I am lost
On the tracks


Irène Corso, Namur, 2 de Noviembre 2007

The Train of Life

Night has fallen
And the clouds hide
The sky under curtains of grey
Depriving trees
Of warm legendary lights
It is Friday night
And I am sitting
Waiting
Waiting for old days
To pop on the metallic seat
Next to me and say hello
I am waiting
For the train of life
That will surely
Take me away
Towards elder times
Lights are dim
After all this is a train station
I hope they stay so
Past and future cannot
Be divorced
Like
Black and white
Death and life
Tarot and plans
Madness and reason
Two sides of the walls and coins of
The castle of destinies above
A train tells me
Goodbye that
Sounds like Good Day
Another tells me
Good Day
And I hear the
Train of Death
Ringing the local church
Night has fallen
On the platform
And I cry for the
Pains of yesterday
I recall old days
And call for the new ones
Of tomorrow
I am waiting
Yet
I have to go
It is almost day
My train has
Landed on my platform
My bitter days have entered me
And I am allowed
A ticket for my next station


Irène Corso, Namur & Celles, 2 de Noviembre 2007

Pinches

I cross the bridge
It is a border
Between
Old and new
Awake and tired
My left shows off
Fogs voluntarily hiding
Exhausts of
Burning dirt in the sky
Even bridges have forgotten
To grow
For it is too sad
To connect dirt with dirt
My right bears the
Scars of well-thinking
Righteous bourgeois
There bridges flourish
Maybe too much because
We forget
What nice clothing often entails
It is Sunday and the market of the poor
Even
Dares spreading close to
The beautiful castle
One side
Marriage of picturesque stones with
Hand-made roofing
Other side
Divorce of the ugliness of
Common concrete with unemotional slates
I am on the bridge
And the cars deafen my ears
The wind burns my nose
And my head hurts
I belong to this bridge
To this conspicuous border
From where I admire
The ancient and the modern
I wear old clothes
I cannot renew
And yet work with
Royal blue blood
Opposites pinch me
And I refuse to
Choose my camp
Maybe I should not stay
And return to this home
I have not found yet

Irène Corso, Namur, 22/10/2007

Pluie

Ce matin, j’ai quitté la pluie sous les nuages et mon regard s’est échappé par delà les brumes et l’opacité des gouttes d’une ville grise et translucide. J’observe. Il pleut toujours et ma voiture se trompe de voie pour rouler dans des flaques qui s’apprêtent à la couvrir d’un manteau de perles La voiture fait chanter une flaque, la suivante crée le rythme et le bus qui les dépasse amorce des mélodies étranges toutes de moments non écoutés de répercussions solitaires. Les flaques deviennent enluminures sur les chapeaux noirs trop grands que les passants retiennent à bouts de bâtons repliables grotesques. D’autres ont oublié leurs chapeaux et se recroquevillent vers des chaussures trop petites et béantes sous le ciel. Les lacets se pressent. La pluie ne s’arrête jamais vraiment, ou pour un bref instant seulement. Elle s’interrompt dans des silences émouvants de lumière qui allume les gris, nuance les nuages écrasés de perles de pluie, écrase les chapeaux noirs qui se replient et cachent les bâtons grotesques qui soutenaient les nuages trop lourds.

Mais la pluie reprend, toujours, et la terre soupire de saveurs profondes de sec ressentiment. Les toits reluisent de nouveau et les nuages se voilent. La rue fredonne de l’intérieur sous les pas des passants et les roues des véhicules qui se pressent de nouveau. Les voix se taisent sous les chapeaux qui transitent de pub en pub, de parvis à parvis, de bus à train et de train à taxi. La ville grisonne sous un parapluie sombre de gouttes pesantes et translucides qui la couvrent. Les chapeaux jouent de nouveau, s’amusent à dissimuler et déployer leurs bras mécaniques et humains grotesques qui sortent de chaussures humides d’où les mains pointent vers le ciel sans jamais le regarder vraiment. J’ai alors retrouvé la pluie car j’ai vu mon bras s’étendre entre mes chaussures et mon chapeau noir qui soutenait le ciel.

Irène Corso

Manchester, 18 de junio 2001