No 1 - Mouvement
Automne 2023 ++
- Élise Ares Poliquin
- Jonathan Stack
- Noa Blanche Beschorner
- Mariana Chajon
- Josephine « Jo » Campbell Lashuk
- Gabriel Barbeau
- Joss D’Alton
- Clémentine Landry
- Gia Lamothe
- Camille Ares Poliquin
- Pablo Antonio Vargas Venegas
- Yann Pariot
- Dennis Belopolsky
No 2 - Passages
Printemps 2024 ++
1. Jérémy Gagnon
2. Ashton Diduck
3. Romane Pilote
4. Justine Lacoste
5. Filémon Brault-Archambeault
6. Noa Blanche Beschorner
7. Emma Roufs
8. Samy Benammar
9. Mary-Kim Caron
10. Neltje Green
11. Jonathan Stack
12. Jacob Mahfoud
13. Samuel Terry Pitre
14. Loup Gauvin-Dufresne
15. Ribs Beauchamp
16. Camille Ares Poliquin
17. Pablo Antonio Vargas Venegas
Gia Lamothe
Whilst the eastern hemisphere sleeps,
This gelatin heat hurting in my head awakens,
Please shut off, leave me to the sheep,
They wait, but I won’t make it to them.
For now, my company is but a molten sheet of
ooze produced by the moon,
At least her shine is peaceful, quiet,
I truly hope that same glow finds me soon.
With some movement deliberate,
The ooze on its back starts to speak,
At first, gentle, whispers to me slippery and slow,
Slimy words of doubt so sleek,
They slip between the cracks of woe,
Just enough to shake the warm duvet,
Which kept my eyes afloat,
Exploring the safe none tumultuous possibilities that may,
Changing the angered waters which fill my throat,
I start to gargle something rather thicker,
A slow-choke, half burning, takes its time,
While the voice grows quicker,
From my eyes flows a fizzling slime,
As its hasty resonance reverberates,
Louder and louder producing a haze,
Which discomfort, in its sound, creates,
The ooze conjures, from the ground, a series of walls, such a maze,
Enclosures of mouths shouting, spewing, spluttering words,
Which canonically pull at my hearts ear drums,
Their draws, more deafening than swords,
And further disorienting are their hums,
I lose all balance and misstep,
Falling into a circular tunnel,
In this chute I attempt,
To grasp, take hold of anything but I’m pummeled,
Cement cold, face down,
In silence now, the ooze opens these eyes of mine,
They unlatch to discover it is but the ground,
My aching stopped by the breath of thyme.
While the voice grows quicker,
From my eyes flows a fizzling slime,
As its hasty resonance reverberates,
Louder and louder producing a haze,
Which discomfort, in its sound, creates,
The ooze conjures, from the ground, a series of walls, such a maze,
Enclosures of mouths shouting, spewing, spluttering words,
Which canonically pull at my hearts ear drums,
Their draws, more deafening than swords,
And further disorienting are their hums,
I lose all balance and misstep,
Falling into a circular tunnel,
In this chute I attempt,
To grasp, take hold of anything but I’m pummeled,
Cement cold, face down,
In silence now, the ooze opens these eyes of mine,
They unlatch to discover it is but the ground,
My aching stopped by the breath of thyme.
My version of a fable
2023 | Poème | Québec, Canada
