If there are several paths to poetry, there are also different ways to approach the art of fugue.
In this text which could be an ode to joy, an interior travel diary or a composition by Johann Sebastian Bach, the fugues are constructed like the musical genre of the same name, on the principle of counterpoint: themes continue, repeat and respond to each other without ever managing to catch up, to form a melodious story which nevertheless integrates dissonance, sucks us in and carries us away as in a tube, that of a wave, not of a song (although).
The one whose contours are gradually revealed is above all a voice, the echo of a thought which dissects a daily life from which the narrator tries to escape while playing to take possession of it. The fruit of her observations gives rise to a collection of unusual chronicles, words that she sometimes whispers in our ear, with gentleness, mischief and subtlety, or which reach us as if shouted from the next room, with passion and a fully assumed insolence.
In this diary of a woman of our time, who works, lives in a house, loves a man whose presence we can guess, raises children, grows vegetables while cultivating herself, we come across the reminiscences of 'a childhood that could be ours, characters from films or novels, domestic and other wild animals, song lyrics, exotic cuisine recipes, Latin formulas, notions of psychoanalysis that revolve around father, slips of the tongue and tongue, dreams of a cathedral, a snowy beach and lemon juice…
I like people who have managed to find a name for themselves. I've looked several times but mine must be well hidden.
I never wear a bathrobe because it's hard to pronounce and my language says pied-noir . It's heavy
blackfoot on the back.
Three weeks ago, I milked a goat for the first time in my life and then drank the lukewarm milk. I told myself that I had never tasted mine.
For a long time I believed that taking a nasty nap meant sleeping like a log .
When I was little, I stuck my boogers on my bedroom wall covered with flowers, right in the pistil!
I don't have any lasting memories.
For 5 years, I have always cut my hair as soon as it is long even though it doesn't suit me at all.
Tonight, dream of the reduction of one
At 5 years old, I realized my age without remembering the 5 years that had preceded.
Genre : poetry
Collection : Echoes / No. 1
Cover artwork : © Françoise Pétrovitch – Mask (lithograph, MEL Publisher Editions, 2017)
Book format: 12 cm x 18.5 cm – 180 pages