Before we are called poets,
we are, at first, masochists.
Before working on words,
we struggle all in our minds.
A pen on the ear,
sometimes in the mouth,
even when it’s in our hand, spinning,
as fast as our thoughts.
Do you see, ever
my pen roaming freely
on a flatland called “Paper”?
No! You will never
see them roaming freely,
because of my “queen” –
the Éditeur.
Éditeur the first said,
“How dare you!
Your words have made
A town called Cliché.
Don’t come back, for
punishment you shall take!”
A poet! Exiled from his land
ashamed but it did happen.
But he has taken a stand,
to write down his own heaven.
his childhood kite, with
all his dreams written
high above commoners’ reach,
in the far blue, well-hidden.
So my new poems, together with
those miserable tribulations
finally made a return,
facing Éditeur the second.
She pointed at my verse,
“I honored you the pen,
but erotica and sex?
I gave you no permission!”
I followed her marks —
and shock bounded my head —
“Enlarge the umbrella”,
caused a ridiculous rejection.
On my way home,
It rained sheep and cows.
But I cannot hide,
Because: “Umbrella is forbidden.”
Hopeless, I reach out for the sky,
“Forgive me God, for I have sinned!”
Don’t you call me a poet anymore,
for a burden so big I can’t afford.
I am simply the word’s slave,
too much for inspiration to offer.
How can I praise a fancy vision –
not even seeing it somewhere before,
writing empty verses about love,
that I have never experienced?
Take a pride in the poet no more,
you are preaching to the choir:
I cannot write fantasy nor amour;
every drop of my ink imprints nature.
If that is not what you look for,
wipe me out, and say no more.
So I’ll leave for what I adore,
a place beyond, a world yonder.
I should remain just what I am,
even a masochist has his pride.
To those who reign this land,
leave if you know not how.
Come forth, all writers,
to regain a land of ours,
Even a masochist can be a hero,
roaming freely once more.
So call me not a poet anymore,
I am simply a humble writer.
No more cuffs, free from torture,
Plant my heart a land I admire.
But such an occasion it is,
I’d like you to meet my mentor:
From a world in a drop of water,
to a sky of stars, to gaze and ponder.
And you, too, my dear reader,
for every piece of advice
brings me farther and higher.