Bio: Alexandre Ferrere lives in Cherbourg, France. After a Master's degree in Library Sciences and a Master's degree in English Literature, he is now working on a Ph.D. on American poetry and little magazines. His essays, fictions, interviews and poems have appeared in dozens of magazines online and in print. His first chapbook, handmade by artist Sara Lefsyk, is entitled mono / stitches and available at Ethel Press.
I wish you’d rest in peace, past— the eye cuts open the barbed wires better than any government’s pliers. The spicy scents of Lebanon, drenched by the sea, die on the beaches crowded with ghosts of sailors sailing exotic boats, now sitting still btw rocks & weeds, invisible to eyeballs, sighing at a night “too prompt to fall”, lurking on universal wounded loves. —eternal dream of watering skies— & Cyprus floats there, hanging btw shades of blue, full of thin cats sleeping through consecutive heatwaves, lost among modern ruins— they smile through the bullet holes & stuff them with hope. The bright mouths of lonesome faces crack open a multilingual laugh in thorny evenings. & the children, they keep on dancing with the kittens, against the dusty light unaware of traditional fears sweating through oranges & walls— & the moon—is it really the same that had seen through the bloody veil of mankind before it rained to cover the cries? The Orthodox bells—the Muslim chants at dawn, echoing down the heart of Nicosia where a hurt flame of hope wanders among the échoppes of time.
Scènes Attachantes et Détachées
Into cities, btw walls, into bedrooms, btw unbroken bodies or shattered souls, Certitudes are abducted, for a while— hopes are welcomed through branches through breaches of muddled arms. Je vis à mort in the nightly community. Listen, those are the sounds of waves; becoming the music of sleeping vocabs— Lost, in the mist of a jungle; words are climbing plants on the walls of imagination— But the thoughts, are being born & are dying too fast, all at once. You said: “to say is to seize”. & no matter if it’s too late or too early, an absent wind pushes behind, & now we have to run. & tomorrow, & tomorrow, we will have to doze under a lazy, thick sun. “Do you remember the tale?” A man, & a woman, on the Pangaea felt the harsh soil cracking, their children heard the ground tearing a/part & another line, astounded, slowly drifted on the now imagined Panthalassa: far, far from original links far far from the first ties far far from the idea of bridges further & further through space in time further & further, heading towards here. & now they’re all crying in buses without any apparent reason, hurrying to dive deep in beds waiting for a Christ, alone at billions of windows contemplating outer skies in minds where the noisy shyness of a sole land is finally heard— Let’s take off— The lost Pangaea is only known of ignorant stars.
-Light. A Day
so blue it loses any interest. Knowledge disappears: nature, elements grow by chance here, there, so perfect it’s unreal. Fields of green to cross (bent blades) towards new colors but find none. I thought of Agamben ( “L’enjambement n’est pas pensable dans le dernier vers d’un poème” ), & wrote : Sometimes flesh feels like a turned-off flash-
A Scream( )Underwater
Glimpse of a drab slender figure crossing a silver plate exhibited behind a dusty antiquarian window— near empty gloves lost on the shelf; (No one knew how nothing was felt when a “missing” poster was removed from the bakery’s counter once the body was found) Two centuries melted & a dog barked at the wind spreading across the deserted avenue. (I tried to remember the first time an eyelash fell into the green of my eyes but could not, but could not) A quick turn around & the figure swiftly hid to laugh at the lack of tools available to sculpt my will.
A Leak in the Dam Surrounding the International Waters of Imagination
Someone becomes wind. Though still the sea crawls to die at my foot. & now: a thought, which buzzes erratically— ) lonesome fly in the saddest house of the neighborhood where I sit in vain.I understood you existed; something moved within the blackness of the turned-off T.V.; it must be you, someone I know— but it’s only me believing too loud before the screen goes bright again with sun & you disappear in an éclat de verre & le sol s’ouvre sous mes pieds.