Alice "darty31"
05-14-2017, 04:59 AM
Hello !!!
So I hesitate to post it in English, but I think I will leave you the texts in French; I admit I am curious to see what my texts look like in English! ^^ '
I hope you like French poets, generally people like Rimbaud above all ^^ ', it makes us crazy ... We almost fight to be OR not be !!!
I always preferred Nerval for his tenderness and Lautreamont for pure style: grandiloquand, protestor, dense and pictorial.
Afterwards, if I had to advise you, I would direct you to Hugo, likewise for the grandeur of style, and then much like Pessoa, Rikle, Aragon; I like Mallarmé too ...
I'll stop there!
And just one for days OK ; I'm a big big troll but I want to be a good girl !
Dont castout me like the other please, love me and help the princess !
:cornut:
Lol bisous !!!!
Mouvement régressif
Mon cœur, toi qui de tes gorges, se meurs
Fais-toi champ blanc où cendres
Demi-écloses, de quelques amandiers
Sous la lune, prune, où vous preniez l’éclat
Seuil curieux, jadis jardin d’étoiles
Et floppé d’oiseaux romantiques.
Etait-il facilité de n’en dire les acouphènes*?
L’oiselure donnait des plumes
Le temps passa
Sur son cœur valant le poids d’une dune
Dans un bleu d’aout enfermés jusqu’au repos
Poli de nos ventres.
J’attendais le dé-regard cher à moi-même
Appuyée à ma chaise, puisque l’étude du romantisme m’exaspérait
J’obtins cécité et les pleurs du peuple sous chaque palmier
Comme un choisir flingué et accepté de la signification, un temps seulement
Renonçant au toucher, la découverte n’est plus que sensation
Plaisir que nous défaisions, prenant de larges raies et l’inclinaison d’un soleil
Sur nos croix archétypales au rythme effréné de nos paroles salves.
[google traduction]
Regressive movement
My heart, you who from your throats, die
Make yourself white field where ashes
Half-hatched, some almond trees
Under the moon, plum, where you take the shine
Threshold curious, formerly a garden of stars
And flopped with romantic birds.
Was it easy to tell the tinnitus?
The birds gave feathers
The time passed
On his heart worth the weight of a dune
In a blue of August enclosed until the rest
Polished our bellies.
I was waiting for the de-gaze dear to myself
Leaning in my flesh, since the study of romanticism exasperated me
I obtained blindness and the tears of the people under each palm tree
As one chooses flamed and accepted meaning, a time only
Renouncing to the touch, the discovery is nothing but sensation
Pleasure we untie, taking wide stripes and the inclination of a sun
On our archetypal crosses to the frantic rhythm of our salvo words.
So I hesitate to post it in English, but I think I will leave you the texts in French; I admit I am curious to see what my texts look like in English! ^^ '
I hope you like French poets, generally people like Rimbaud above all ^^ ', it makes us crazy ... We almost fight to be OR not be !!!
I always preferred Nerval for his tenderness and Lautreamont for pure style: grandiloquand, protestor, dense and pictorial.
Afterwards, if I had to advise you, I would direct you to Hugo, likewise for the grandeur of style, and then much like Pessoa, Rikle, Aragon; I like Mallarmé too ...
I'll stop there!
And just one for days OK ; I'm a big big troll but I want to be a good girl !
Dont castout me like the other please, love me and help the princess !
:cornut:
Lol bisous !!!!
Mouvement régressif
Mon cœur, toi qui de tes gorges, se meurs
Fais-toi champ blanc où cendres
Demi-écloses, de quelques amandiers
Sous la lune, prune, où vous preniez l’éclat
Seuil curieux, jadis jardin d’étoiles
Et floppé d’oiseaux romantiques.
Etait-il facilité de n’en dire les acouphènes*?
L’oiselure donnait des plumes
Le temps passa
Sur son cœur valant le poids d’une dune
Dans un bleu d’aout enfermés jusqu’au repos
Poli de nos ventres.
J’attendais le dé-regard cher à moi-même
Appuyée à ma chaise, puisque l’étude du romantisme m’exaspérait
J’obtins cécité et les pleurs du peuple sous chaque palmier
Comme un choisir flingué et accepté de la signification, un temps seulement
Renonçant au toucher, la découverte n’est plus que sensation
Plaisir que nous défaisions, prenant de larges raies et l’inclinaison d’un soleil
Sur nos croix archétypales au rythme effréné de nos paroles salves.
[google traduction]
Regressive movement
My heart, you who from your throats, die
Make yourself white field where ashes
Half-hatched, some almond trees
Under the moon, plum, where you take the shine
Threshold curious, formerly a garden of stars
And flopped with romantic birds.
Was it easy to tell the tinnitus?
The birds gave feathers
The time passed
On his heart worth the weight of a dune
In a blue of August enclosed until the rest
Polished our bellies.
I was waiting for the de-gaze dear to myself
Leaning in my flesh, since the study of romanticism exasperated me
I obtained blindness and the tears of the people under each palm tree
As one chooses flamed and accepted meaning, a time only
Renouncing to the touch, the discovery is nothing but sensation
Pleasure we untie, taking wide stripes and the inclination of a sun
On our archetypal crosses to the frantic rhythm of our salvo words.