mardi matin (tuesday morning)

Debout face à moi, Miguel, les bras croisés, porte son regard au-delà de moi. Que fixe-t-il ? Voudrait-on lui voler son droit au bonheur ? Je lis la lettre tandis que Miguel ne détache pas son regard du rideau fleuri, derrière moi.
 « Dans la rumeur de la rue parisienne, j’entends ta voix comme si tu étais près de moi. Tremper les doigts dans l’eau froide de la Seine, c’était frôler tes cheveux. Tu me parles tout bas. Combien de temps a passé ? J’aperçois un bateau éclairé qui descend le fleuve. Je t’ai toujours aimée, car j’ai toujours su que t’aimer était pour moi un besoin. Jamais mon amour n’a altéré la magie de ton être. Tout au début, je t’ai gardée telle que tu étais, contemplée de loin, de crainte de parcourir seul, par delà le temps, le chemin frayé par toi dans mon âme. Plus tard… Je te voyais encore tripoter une marionnette dans ce magasin en Rue de Vaugirard. En ce temps, tes paroles n’arrivaient pas jusqu’à moi. Mais je me sentais attiré vers toi par un fil invisible et, une fois entré dans le jeu, ma raison chavirait : étais-je la marionnette animée par ta main ou bien la main caressant le chaud velours de ta robe ? … Les bateaux remontent et redescendent la Seine…Jacques.»
“If things were always what they seemed, how impoverished would be the imagination of man!” Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar.   

Aléxandros ho Mégas (Alexander the Great)

My body roped

In chains of memory

My soul all clad

In gray resounding pain

I feel like Aléxandros ho Mégas

Before he died at thirty-three

Regretting that he created

His own astounding legacy.


Grayish phantoms of past lovers

Lost centuries ago in heavy battles

Are whispering the same unnecessary story.

Oh, how I need my long forgotten sonneteer

To tell me how not to succumb

To the old pain of earthly glory.


Photo Credit:, image labeled for reuse



Guinevere: The Power of Water (rewritten)

A velvety evening sky was settling over us. Angelo and I sat in beach chairs overlooking the water. Miguel was lying at my feet, sand in his hair, his face still, glistening in the dusk.  A shy breeze was coming from the south.

Angelo turned his piercing eyes toward me, and broke the silence:

“Here is where you went wrong, Guinevere.”

Oh no! What sense was there in going again and again over the past? Didn’t the three of us talk ten thousand times about what happened? Didn’t we resurrect ghosts night after night, only to bury them, deep down in our memories, at the first sign of dawn?

Angelo did not stop.

“Guinevere, you have always mistaken reality for your imagination. Funny, when one thinks that most people mistake their imagination for reality. But not you, Guinevere, not you!”

I recoiled. It sounded like a judgment, and Angelo was never judgmental to me. My muscles tensed, my sight blurred. I said nothing.

Angelo continued:

“First, it was that small shop on Rue de Vaugirard: the marionette shop. It was there where Jacques first touched your thigh covered by that black silky skirt of yours, Guinevere. I know you think that that never happened. Yet, at a certain level, you must have known that Jacques was falling in love with you, but you decided that it was just your imagination. You convinced yourself that you imagined everything.”

In one second I was on my feet trembling. Was I screaming?

“You two, I have no idea what you are talking about! That touch never happened! I said it ten thousand times. Jacques never touched me. Jacques never wrote to me the letter that you got, god knows from where. I have no idea who wrote it! It wasn’t him. Jacques and I were never in that hotel room! I’ve never seen that hotel room! That night Jacques was not coming to see me! I never called him! It’s not me that I am imagining things, it’s you! And you Miguel, if you believed that Jacques….”

I stopped. For a second, all of us remained still. Slowly Miguel rose from the sand. He open his arms to embrace me. It was too late. I was already thrown into my memories, chained again to my past, tortured by its unbearable painful voices.

I ran toward the ocean. The salty water glued my dress to my body, caressed my burning thighs, wiped my century-old tears.  In the dark, I went deeper and deeper looking for the bottom. Few seconds, and I felt Miguel’s body wrapping around mine. His arms were pulling me up.

I started coughing. The night air was penetrating my burning lungs.  I was back on the beach: Miguel’s hands caressing my wet hair, Angelo’s distraught face above me.

Miguel whispered: “It never happened Guinevere, it never happened, my love.”

And yet something terrible must have happened, before Jacques left Paris, something that was deeply buried in my memory, something that I was refusing to acknowledge. Was Jacques coming to see me that ghastly night? Was he?

A horrifying thought came to me. I started shivering. Miguel, Angelo, and I would not be put in different heavens or hells. We were going to the same place, so we can continue to obsess over and over about Jacques’ imagined love for me, and that dreadful fated night that changed our lives forever!

Excerpt from the manuscript “Haunted Lovers.” Post first published under the title “Clara: The Power of Water.” 



autumn reverie

Dead leaves are flowing from your eyes

Van Gogh’s sunflowers vanished in the frost

The trees are sighing symbolist(ic) poetry

It’s autumn in the Northern Hemisphere

It’s spring in Rio de la Plata.


Your heart ferments in reddish spicy rhythms

The glassy luscious skin of grapes is broken

Rejected lovers sunk in neuroses

It’s autumn in the Northern Hemisphere

It’s spring in Rio de la Plata.


I met a poet who once said

I want to die unknown in Rio de la Plata

I thought I’d give my heart to him

When estuary thunders vetoed me

The night we drunk the wine in Rio de la Plata.



tropical love



The tropic dangling its shiny earnings

During its febrile summer nights

You opening the windows of the bedroom

Inviting in its luscious thighs.


Trade winds are playing the piano

Hibiscuses are rushing in the bed

Your hands are looking for my body

Clad in the moons’ prodigious red.


The mattress under us grows fragranced roots

Vivid hibiscuses entangle in my hair

Green ocean waters rushing from above

Caught in tropic’s thunderstorm of love.



the art of love

The emerald sound of the solitary ocean imprints in my soul red petals of inquietude. It rains love in the universe. I gather delicate drops into my palms.  I can see the contour of your body in each drop.  In the humid air, calcified waves design amorphous temples embellished with forbidden geometrical mysteries. Coming from distant constellations your voice spirals around each wave:


“Our love metamorphosed the altar of the day into the altar of the night. And the altar of the night into the altar of the day. It changed rain drops into yellow drops of perfumed wax, now trickling eternally at the feet of mythical saints. The morning star, dethroned by your ethereal glow, became a vague lyrical memory. Millions of suns were pushed by the blaze of our love toward the margins of the universe.

The movements of your body against mine give birth to new universes. Your touches cloak my skin into new zodiac signs.  Your kisses form new violet maps on my lips.  Caressing your delicate ankles, I am listening to Shiva’s cosmic dance. I am watching you. You are taming lions. You are awakening fairies. The god of war lies wounded at your feet. Stella Polaris is shining in your eyes.

I was a neophyte when it came to love. You transfigured me into the King of Love.”


A slightly modified version was published in The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch.


the deluge


Candles blown by your own tears

Scents of lilac in the bloom

Books resting silently unopened

Icons whispering into the room.


The poet of the city long forgotten

The beauty of the temple savagely chopped

The ghastly time of the deluge has come

The ancient clocks now fatally have stopped.


What? You’re not crying anymore?

You are confusing me and poor Noah in his ark

Please cry another minute for I want

To kiss your tears dancing en avant.






we’re burning we’re falling

We’re burning

We’re falling

Through eons of time

No matter the pain

You’re holding me tight.


We’re burning

We’re falling

What god fated us

Forever to burn

Forever to love.


We’re burning

We’re falling

Mermaids in your way

No matter the chant

You’re holding me tight.


We’re floating

We’re rising

From eons of time

No matter the ending

You’re holding me tight.



Love spell

I’ll mix a quarter of the moon

With scents of azaleas bloom

I’ll kiss your skin with cosmic sand

From Milky Way’s majestic land.

I’ll add a quarter of your heart

And mix it with a tarot card

Think nights of passion soaked in sin

Redemption mornings filled with gleam.

Imagine her immersed in ocean spumes

Her eyes embellished into Spanish moons

A chubby cupid pointing arrows at her chest

Galactic winds now dancing on her breasts.

Why is your handsome face turning so red?

You made volcanic rocks from Krakatoa fell.

Oh, no, you’re not supposed to fall in love with me

Mistakenly or not I murmured the wrong spell.



don’t wait for me please find another lover


Don’t wait for me

Please find another lover

I’m riding camels with the Bedouins

Watching the orange sunset coiling

Like Cleopatra’s snake over the desert

We’ll enter Alexandria by morning

The day Mark Anthony committed suicide.


Don’t wait for me

Please find another lover

I’m in the Île de la Cité on Friday the thirteenth

The Friday which forever will be feared

The smell of burning flesh is choking me

The Knights Templar are shedding tears.


Don’t wait for me

Please find another lover

To dress your heart in Gaultier perfumes

The ghosts of your ethereal caresses

Will murmur melancholic poems in the fumes

Rising eternally in spirals

On the forgotten lover’s tomb.



All paintings featured on this blog belong to me. I hope you enjoy some of them.