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 and more than 300 other publications. 

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Staring at the puzzle
​

​Running, chasing the ball,
he fell, tripped by the bully,
no taller, no better, and
certainly no smarter.
 
Shock in a little heart,
he sat in the classroom,
not handsome enough for
the crush of those days.
 
Wrench in hand, covered
in a grease that threatened him,
eating a prune, sole dessert,
surrounded by curses unknown.
 
The hallway of shame trapped
by soulless twins made of entrails,
gore, and broken faces grotesque,
looking down, not funny then.
 
Trying to care, wanting to love,
in front of a cold mirror reflecting
nothing, but the one he hoped
would give him a little breath.
 
Twice around, still searching,
spectator in a dull rehearsal
of a play, which will not be acted
on the great stage of the world.
 
No actor, no character, outsider,
round piece in a puzzle of jagged edges,
he can only look on, dream himself in,
ignored, invisible, he will remain
forever on the sidelines of his very life. 
 
 
 

Strange symphony
​

​Young Leonardo armed with a palette and
brushes made for a billionaire, laughs with
Michelangelo, his chisel broke once more.
 
Isadora incarnate in Alexandros’ Venus
finds the sands of southern Europe
exquisite, swirling like a mad dervish.
 
Little Wolfgang pounds on the harpsichord
while Salieri in awe of the prodigy wonders
whence such a foul mouth can possibly come.
 
Mr. Melies too picked up the colors, ignoring
two brothers warning of the costly work,
as with Verne, he took us to the moon.
 
All passers-by, given life in the mind of a poet,
seeking the way to build another tower in Babel,
together united in a fantastic tragedy of old.
 
Conducting the spectacle with a thin brush,
ballerinas, virtuosos, they obey the command,
on the philosopher’s lines, his eyes closed,
he re-creates a world long forgotten.
 
Architect, engineer, artist of each day,
making a symphony with the sounds of hammers,
transported by a timeless melody. 
 

The Amazon next door
​

​ 
On the edge of the universe, she stands firm
Tickled by the gusts of a last hurricane
Statuesque amazon presiding over the stars.
 
She dreams of a seat atop Mt. Blanc
In her loose garment of silk and diamonds
Ruler of all that is, calm in her wisdom
She knows no heat, nor icy weather.
 
Living at the foot of oceanic mountains
She needs not inhale the salty waters
Swimming with sharks and great whales.
 
In the arid deserts she is at her best
She resembles the tanned sands of millennia
Like them she always changes, and never ages
The universe is modeled after her simply.
 
Next door she awakens with the first light
To the gentle aroma of a morning brew
Walks to the gate though the tender grass in dew.
 
Neighbor, owner of a most normal existence
She opens her soul to the newest thoughts
Her body blossoms with renewed energy
And she glows like the sun, her astral sibling.
 

To the Illusory Hour
​

​Chasing fragments of most intricate kindness
a study of the old master of impressions
an infinity of particles hover above a tempting anchor
shades of a self in encompassing tones at play with the eternal.
 
Coy she seems a ghostly apparition in a mist
multicolored, humming symphony to reverberate
through strings travelling from a dimension of scent
to a realm filled with the taste of godly nectars.
 
Whole at unfathomable distances so subtle she appears
unattainable to the hunter armed with most gentle weapons
no net can capture the aura as it transcends all planes
no potion so powerful to materialize the statuesque muse.
 
She is the embrace enveloping mountains, meadows and vales
nurturing with the detached warmth she nourishes of a shallow breath
aloof, her gaze settles but for an indiscernible moment
so great a colossus that her image continues to fleet.
 
Disappearing at will as if made with the dust of the origins
her giddiness becomes a solid, the passion of that life a masterpiece
to be conquered in an unending quest to ensure her survival
the smile of her omniscience comforts if for an illusory hour.
 

Voices
​​

​Like colors, tastes, odors, and touches, they reek
sometimes.  A language and a sound and a stench,
all at once.  Nasal, deep, harsh or too sweet.
 
Speaking strange idioms, they spread a certain bile,
public as the diaries which would do better to remain secret;
sounds vibrating inside the deepest soul of the outsider;
 
they imprint stories on the wavy lines of pages that surround us,
making a prisoner of whoever happens to venture into
their world, a cage of barbed wire and booby traps.
 
Ghosts, they insist on persisting in the depths of the poor souls,
harsh they scratch at the inside of the skulls to pierce through;
rats, mice, roaches in the darkness they birth nightmares.
 
Yet these make the world, puzzle of all so many lives,
the chaos is the single structure we can call our own;
voices of the deep, they seal all the realms.