FABRICE POUSSIN - POEMS

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications. 

​On the Walls of the Old Fort

​Kaki shorts may not suffice
to make the dream of a war complete.

Toy guns shaped of fallen oak limbs
and popping sounds from the mouths of babes.

Distant images of boys and girls at play
on a battlefield once of crimson rivers.

Pondering the last days of a scorching summer
an aged visitor leans upon a curvy stick.

Scanning an endless panorama eyes closed
the old warrior recalls confused memories.

Summer dresses, sandals with flowery giggles
and the surprise of a gentle fall in blades of grass.

Stumbling with a deathly thump into a muddy pool
surrounded by the darkness of many a running mate.

Still on the prairie, the flaneur feels a teasing breeze as
tears explode upon the face where once peace had a home.

Child again, child at last, innocent of a genderless youth
cries for the hours of ecstasy on the tragedies 
still echoing within the walls of the old fort. 

Going Home
​

Pushing onto the womb again until it bleeds
a frail fist asks for the chance to another life

She moans in sounds of incomprehensible confusion
keeping the alien warmth at bay as she can.

It is the final line of a terminal affront
arched back she resists the pleas for clemency.

The fertile land must remain barren once again
soft as the vast ocean, so distant from the snowy peaks.

Bruised knuckles soon will withdraw in defeat
bathed in the red nectar of devastated dreams.

Little eyes wet with the chagrin of his destiny
he slips back into the endless sleep outside his time. 

​

​Safe

Murmurs of a hundred souls saunter behind pillars
there she aims to make a home safe to the flesh
a ghost in the dark corridors of a willed oblivion.

Within, lies the immense wealth of a bequeathed heart
speaking in tongues only the divine can fathom
she creates impenetrable cyphers in the air.

Not a whisper nor a resounding cry will slow her pace
as the waves of her floating form fade with her surroundings
she flees carefree into the secure dimension of her desires.

Soon beyond the sharp walls of the somber fortress
the adventure must continue as she recites her vows
to be, unaltered in her new estate, alone with her words.  

​

The Fall of a Lifetime
​

Upon a midnight stroll
braving elements sought after
daring death to come on its frigid chariot
in a long coat he ventured out as if a ghost.

Under the icy rains of solid blue
hoping for the embrace of a last instant
braced within the rags of misery 
a tremble seemed to resonate through the city walls.

Caressing streets of purplish asphalt
the surface was as satin to the innocent touch
he stopped to fathom the most mysterious scape
comforted for now in a welcoming truce.

the atmosphere was warm with stony daggers
to open a crevasse before his uneasy gait
a flash of light blinded the wanderer 
who continued uncertain a step forward. 

Destiny awaited on the traitorous path
a steamy edge under the weary passenger
for him to disappear as he collapsed into the glow
a gaping welcome to the fortress so long unattainable. 

The city returned to its common fury
its mouth satiated once again yet unaware
that the lone wonderer was safe
in the arms of his own fancy. 

​

The Old Place
​

The old city is no more
now buried under cartoons.

How sad it is
to know of the genius gone.

In the cemeteries
I hear many of the famed ones,
rolling and tossing in their ground.

The old city is no more
but a pile of rusty memories
reaped by wars and riots
and the latest obscenities.

It is no more, and they weep,
as I find their ghosts with each step.

The old city has gone,
and only the carcasses 
of a glory frozen in another time
corpse of what once was,
only that remains.

But make no mistake,
If the old city is gone,
as I walk its streets today
I am surrounded by
the ghosts of those
who sired our time.

Today, as they mourn an old friend,
we must apologize for humanity
to the lost, the forgotten,
for having let you down.

Now we know why
Papa you could no longer bear it!
Papa, you could have sired Paris.

​