This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.
Showing posts with label French. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French. Show all posts

Friday, July 14, 2023

"Langage Rachidien" by Christopher Fox Graham

Paris

"Langage Rachidien" 

by Christopher Fox Graham

Donnez-moi un tatouage
plus profond que la peau
dans les os de ma colonne vertébrale
à la surface de chaque vertèbre
dans toutes les langues humaines
Tatouer votre mot pour « poésie »
afin qu’aucune langue ne se sente plus étrangère;
pour que chaque voix humaine
peut dire un mot en moi

que l’arabe et l’hébreu
Asseyez-vous côte à côte sans jeter de pierres
laisser les caractères cantonais et hindi
Joignez-vous les mains pour tenir les Swahili et les Hutu dans un hamac
Laissez les Basques et les Zoulous toucher enfin les lèvres vietnamiennes
tandis que Navajo pose sa tête sur l’épaule de Malay

Nous parlons six mille langues
Mais je supporterai la douleur et le temps
Donc, aucune voix humaine ne peut me parler.
sans être ressenti
à l’os

laisser les syllabes africaines
partager l’espace avec les articulations européennes,
Morphèmes asiatiques,
et la prononciation autochtone,

Alignez-les et gravez-les
comme un code-barres organique écrit en braille
lisible par les vers qui me reconvertiront un jour
à la religion de la poussière et de la cendre
en quoi nous avons cru une fois
avant ce culte de la chair et du sang
nous a fait sortir de l’argile
pour jouer de brefs personnages sous la pluie

Laissez-les goûter la saveur de nos mots
Laissez-les consommer de la poésie
et le rendre au sol
Pour que la terre puisse sentir le poids de nos paroles
et ne pas nous oublier
quand nous nous éteignons nous-mêmes
comme l’espèce avant nous

Graver le dernier mot
En code Morse
à la base de ma colonne vertébrale
pour que je puisse entendre le rythme de la parole
dans mes hanches quand je dors
.--. --- . - .-. -.--
Laissez les points et les tirets s’étendre
à travers tous mes os dans un virus de compréhension
Donc, si je perds ma voix
Je peux encore dire un mot
en tapotant mes doigts,
marteler un tambour
ou changer le rythme de mon rythme cardiaque
pour parler avec mon sang

imaginer

six mille langues
Jouer ma colonne vertébrale
en harmonie à 33 parties
Faire une symphonie de moi
avec une mélodie qui résonne
jusqu’à ma moelle épinière
résonner de plus en plus fort dans le tunnel
Amplifier la musique composée
jusqu’à la base de mon cerveau
où il explose
et résonne à l’intérieur de mon crâne
ricochage
Six mille nouvelles expressions
pour le même mot
avec les voix de six milliards de chanteurs
dans mes six trillions de pensées
jusqu’à ce que je ne puisse plus supporter le chaos
et leur chant explose de mes lèvres

Offrir au monde
Un moment de compréhension synchronisée
d’une chanson
d’une seule voix
d’un seul homme
pour un instant

Avant que le monde ne clignote
perd sa concentration
et écoute l’écho
s’estomper lentement

mais se souvient 
Le son 
de notre poésie

Sunday, February 20, 2011

"Canadian Dawn" by The Klute

Canadian Dawn
By The Klute

As per The Klute: "Persona piece. 'Red Dawn' meets the 'Joe Canada Rant' set in an alternate universe for some reason."

February 28, 2010
A date which will live in infamy.

We should have seen it coming,
When our boys in blue were beaten,
Before the eyes of the whole world,
At the game of ice hockey.
We all wept when Americans were forced to stand beneath that maple leaf,
Made to listen to someone else's national anthem for a change.
You could almost hear the collective licking of our northern neighbor's chops
As they realized America's one weakness:
We're not that good on the frozen pond.
So a cabal of generals of the Canadian Armed Forces hatched a plan.
Using an eco-friendly, green technology doomsday device,
They would erode our long-standing line of defense
Against Great White Northern agression.
They reversed global warming!
A new ice age was upon us.

Their advance,
Like Quebecois tourists driving in the fast lane,
Was slow and methodical.
With no NHL team to defend it, Seattle was the first city to fall.
We tried to fight back, but it was no use.
Flocks of suicide geese grounded the Air Force.
Our Navy was crippled by strategically-placed icebergs.
The Army? Let's just say you don't bring a machine gun to a polar bear fight.
When they blasted George Washington's face off of Mt. Rushmore
And replaced it with Gordie Howe,
The resistance collapsed.
Panicked American refugees began to pour over the Mexican border,
The Red Maple now waving over the White House.

We survived in the United American Provinces of Lower Canada,
But they began to change us.
We were more polite,
Less eager to wave around a loaded handgun shouting "Who wants some!?! Who Wants some!?!".
Distances were measured in meters,
Temperatures reported in centigrade.
No one knew what the fuck was going on.
They denied our God-given right to die in a gutter,
Broke and penniless, Of an easily treatable illness.
I remember when my father was taken away...
On a government-mandated two-week holiday,
Clutching the plane tickets to Aruba in his hand, he shouted "AVENGE ME!!!"
We tried, Papa, but we were too busy getting drunk on Labatt's Blue
And planning our next trip to the Edmonton Folk Festival...
I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

Now, due to the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, I must begin this poem over in French:

Nous devrions l'avoir vu venir.
Quand nos garçons dans le bleu ont été battus,
Avant les yeux du monde entier ...

No! This is a bridge I will not cross.
They cannot make me speak in French!
I will resist,
Proudly dipping my freedom fries in ketchup, and not poutine,
Replacing my tuque with a foam-dome filled with two cans of shitty American beer
And I will not let them change everything about us, from A to Z -
Because it is "Z", Not Zed, Z!!!
We will drive you syrup drinkers back across the 49th parallel north,
Raise Old Glory once again,
Take away everyone's health care,
Give the upper-class a tax cut, then really stick it to the poor,
Like we used to do when were still remembered what it meant to be American!
So let me say it so you can understand it, O Canada:

Je n'ai pas encore commencé à combattre,
I have not yet begun to fight!

Copyright 2010 © Bernard "The Klute" Schober



Klute, The: A rare breed of Southern Arizona slam poet, originally raised in Southern Florida (however, he's not a native Floridian - rumors trace his origin back to Illinois).

Abhors use of rhyme schemes in poetry, writes almost exclusively in free verse. Frequent targets: the goth subculture, neoconservativism (especially Dick Cheney), and crass-commercialism. Member of the 2002, 2003, 2005, and 2006 Mesa National Slam teams (Mesa's 2005 slam champion), and 2008's Phoenix Slam Team. SlamMaster of the Mesa Poetry Slam. Has released three chapbooks of his work: 2002's "Escape Velocity", 2005's "Look at What America Has Done to Me", and 2008's "My American Journey". Ask him nicely and he might send you a copy. Primary habitat considered to be raves (especially desert parties), goth clubs, and dimly lit dive bars. Prefers vodka, rum, and absinthe when drinking. Is considered friendly, but when cornered, lashes out with a fury not seen since last Thursday. He's totally smitten with his girlfriend, Teresa - so don't ask him to dance. Feel free to buy him a drink, but remember, he's not putting out. No matter how much you beg.

People are talking about The Klute!

AZSlim, Espresso Pundit poster: Don't argue with The Klute. His hyperventilating and pure hypocrisy shown in these (and many other) posts makes reasoning with a two-year old who didn't get the popsicle he wanted seem tame by comparison.

Phoenix 944 Magazine says: Despite the heat, [The Klute] wears a black trench coat almost everywhere he goes and if the setting permits, he’ll blast through enough slanderous commentary to make Andrew Dice Clay blush. [He] admits he started slam poetry out of arrogance. He saw a performance and figured he could do better, after which he also admits he failed miserably. Today, his addiction for getting in front of the microphone and spitting out everything from a Dick Cheney haiku to a long-winded prose on race car driving to the late Hunter S. Thompson is as strong as his love for vodka and absinthe. If anyone’s seen “The Klute” in action, they’d know it. If they haven’t, they must.

Jerome duBois, The Tears of Things: You have one of the blackest hearts I've ever had the misfortune to glimpse.

The Klute on LiveJournal

Photo of The Klute by Jessica Mason-Paull