Forest
"Man and the nightingale were in the most favorable position for imagining: in the forest, they had a perfect guide for dreams," wrote Max Ernst. Thus, the forest is the place of dreams, of the unconscious, of suspended time, of lost enchanters... The forest of Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte (Manche, France) has been repeatedly devastated by storms in recent years. Yet, tirelessly, the trees continue to grow, fulfilling their duty to their ecosystem, seeking a verticality that is sometimes improbable where our world seems to abandon its own. Without seeking meaning and without a why, like the rose of Angelus Silesius. Through this intimate landscape, I try to draw inspiration from their quest.
Dreams, dreams, dreams
At the edge of the abraded reflections
Foggy with bark
Lost in the forest
Bushy Light pierces
At the bottom of the trunk
Maybe
Later
I would like to become a
Oak
Indecipherable
I listen and touch
Slowness that ages
There are loves
Whose meaning escapes us
But who recognize each other
To the sound of rain
To the devotion of insects
Trees crack
Birds listen
Grass hesitates
Branch falls
Dulls
Verticality
Being the only one of his kind
Still standing
To give the entrance to the path
Say nothing
There is a Golgotha
For the exhausted trees
In the storm
At the edge of the abraded reflections
Foggy with bark
Lost in the forest
Bushy Light pierces
At the bottom of the trunk
Maybe
Later
I would like to become a
Oak
Indecipherable
I listen and touch
Slowness that ages
There are loves
Whose meaning escapes us
But who recognize each other
To the sound of rain
To the devotion of insects
Trees crack
Birds listen
Grass hesitates
Branch falls
Dulls
Verticality
Being the only one of his kind
Still standing
To give the entrance to the path
Say nothing
There is a Golgotha
For the exhausted trees
In the storm
There is also a Hope
Anchored in the simple grass
And the smell of the sun
Everything is dense
And built
Even the mess
A chirping sound
I'm the intruder
But all of them talk to me
Even the bramble stretched out towards me
Which flutters in the wind
I resume the dense path
Upside down
I don't find the same things there
It is not given to everyone
To retrace his steps
Anchored in the simple grass
And the smell of the sun
Everything is dense
And built
Even the mess
A chirping sound
I'm the intruder
But all of them talk to me
Even the bramble stretched out towards me
Which flutters in the wind
I resume the dense path
Upside down
I don't find the same things there
It is not given to everyone
To retrace his steps
Today the light
Does not fall
The sun sends a sign
In the heart of the thicket
The Soul of the forest
The Invisible Union
Does not fall
The sun sends a sign
In the heart of the thicket
The Soul of the forest
The Invisible Union
(All the poems translated from French by the Author)