What Telugu poems do you like

Pierre Lartigue

Is the joke enough down to the fingertips?
Open your mouth: the words tremble.
They are too light, there is no trace.
Autumn slopes. There is a meadow to be seen
With poppies, red as flames,
Beans, ox blood! Memory unfurled

Scripture before our eyes. It's rolling
The surf, like milk the sea at your fingertips.
He wants to describe it, goes away with the flames,
The waves, the roses, despite the tremors
And dizziness and ridicule: “The reunion
One would have to wait: the heart with a thousandfold trace

There will be water under the stone. ”I draw the trail
Following the brook. Rolls like a dice
Every stanza used: saliva, play, see profit
(He would like to have so many things between his fingertips!)
You only have your tongue! You may tremble there
As the last flames gradually die out,

Sink down into the shadows, feel the breath like flames
Hot on the throat, understand how seldom the trace
Each letter, elder bushes tremble
Black in the night, like ink unrolled
The sentence inside us, crushes the mud, the tips
The bushes, the slate. So many things in the long-

Addicts voice! Slowly look up. Like arsenic
The lemonades, and mild stars, twitching flames.
Where do your fingertips move in the dark:
"Only the tongue," you said, "mouth without a trace,
Not sure of himself even when screaming. ”Unrolled there
The sheet of paper written on without any trembling!

Poem, written on paper from the trembling
The poplar, so clean, did not leave a stain
Ige hand. The drafts are unrolled first,
Then into the flames with envelopes and stamps
Thrown, and everyone obliterates the slightest trace
What you didn't want to hold between your fingertips.

Matches, held with pointed fingers, tremble
The wish that the trace, the written one, should disappear. To see
Is how the little flame curls up once more ...

(This sestine is the last text of the now out of print, published in 1984
Book Ce que je vous dis trois fois est vrai (What I tell you three times is

Transferred from R. Fischer

© Printemps des Poètes