Download Oréalité by Robert Dickson PDF

By Robert Dickson

Ces « discours émotifs » parlent, à leur manière, de l. a. difficulté et de l. a. joie de vivre dans le Nouvel-Ontario.

Tous les poèmes de cette assortment ont été dits et chantés en public lors des « apparitions » de « los angeles food de l. a. poésie » à Sudbury, Sturgeon Falls, Hearst, Timmins et Ottawa.

Si au départ, l’idée « los angeles food de l. a. poésie » était de sortir los angeles poésie des livres, de rendre los angeles parole available aux gens d’ici, Prise de parole considère nécessaire de « fixer » ces textes par écrits, et de les rendre disponibles au public.

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Extra info for Oréalité

Example text

We came here for the ripening light, the silence of the enormous sky; to exult in the shy jewels of sea glass polished by the tides of the wind, in the forlorn shrieks and chortling cries of gulls rising and falling between their world and ours. To be where it was lush, lonely and secret enough. At the edge of things, in the shimmering spray and flawless sparkle of seashells, under the lonely momentum of clouds lugging their mysterious cargoes all the way to the horizon and back, each a wish, a gift that must be returned.

That's when the wave of her voluptuous warmth infringed upon my suffering. When it was time to go I just sat there, on the stretcher, a poor white dog in heat. 11 One year ago last September, in the psych ward of Saint Vincent's, before they goosed me with a lightning jolt of reality, I enjoyed many excellent lunches: chicken with red cabbage, marvelous vanilla ice cream, a damn good leg of something— Yes, asked baby-faced Dr. O, why didn't I have a family, a job or pension plan, belong to anything, why did I claim I believed only in Dogism, was spoiled goods, a scrap of volatile fragility?

I like being appropriate but not all the time. I could continue with more examples but I'd rather give too few than too many. The thought of no one listening anymore— I like that least of all. Blunt I hate the idea of being asked to bow down before something in whose name millions have been sacrificed. I want nothing to do with a soul. I hate its crenulated edges and bottomless pockets, its guileless, eyeless stare. I hate the idea of paradise, where the souls of Socrates and Machiavelli are made to live side by side.

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