Ivan de Monbrison | 2 Poems​

A Ghost

The earth is bleeding it’s not you who’s speaking there are fruits in the branches of the tree there is a silhouette sleeping in the shade of the tree and which is still unnamed for the moment because you I can’t tell if this silhouette is the. One of an animal or of a human being but it’s the same thing in the end although you prefer animals to humans you prefer the beasts of the forest to them because they are less dangerous i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry that your father has just died the art studio is empty now the ceremony just took place the body of the father will be burned then his ashes will be scattered on the grave of the mother your mother died so long ago Nadia i’m so sorry for you the sky is so blue but the night is so dark and the road goes and goes into the dark without ever stopping we have to follow the road we must never stop we mustn’t look back don’t cry don’t think don’t try to remember and to understand do not remember the future neither because the future is already behind us there are fruits on the tree round and luminous fruits like suns and the same silhouette is still asleep under this tree and you cannot tell yet if this is the silhouette of a human being or of an animal so you get a little closer you approach it to see and to know since the sky is blue and the birds sing in the trees of the forest very close and you can hear the songs in the distance of the peasants who work on the land and after five or six steps and once close enough you see that this form was indeed quite that of a human being and not that of a beast altogether then you say something softly as if to wake it up and hearing you the face lifts up slowly and at that moment it’s yourself that you see as if in a mirror because this silhouette is indeed yours somehow half a beast and half human and you finally understand that the one who has called you and who has woke you up is but a memory already gone away the memory of the future and the voice of your own dead father.

The Walk

Early in the morning you wake up you get out of bed you put a little freezing water on your face you quickly eat a piece of bread you put on your clothes without washing it doesn’t matter anymore to be dirty or clean to you you look at yourself in the small broken mirror your beard has turned white now with the years you no longer have hair and your teeth are yellow you open the wooden door of your place you get out of your cabin you walk along the wall you take a path that goes to the forest you are tired of your night because you slept badly but you continue on the path despite everything it is lined with a few trees there are no more leaves on the branches because winter has come recently the sky is gray the clouds are low it’s raining a little on the plain you hear almost no noise at the beginning of your walk you only walk without really thinking about anything and you listen to the sound of your shoes on the ground you don’t remember nothing from your past after a while you see a small village on your left a little further away but you decide not to cross it you also see in the distance the silhouettes of people leaving their homes to go to work who get into their cars so ugly in your eyes one of the cars is already leaving it is taking the road it is moving away quickly soon it has disappeared in the distance you continue on your way other cars are passing by on the same road you hear like the echo of their noise like the echo of human life but you are not interested in it human life is nothing to you anymore with its pathetic pleasures you prefer the forest so you turn right you walk into the forest there are no leaves on the trees but you still hear the sound of some small birds trying to survive through the winter winter will be long it’s raining still a little the earth is wet your shoes sink into the earth as you walk there are dead leaves on the ground there are also mushrooms growing here or there you take at random a white mushroom you eat it you don’t know if it will make you sick if it will kill you or if it will simply feed you but finally all of these things today are but one and the same for you.  

Ivan de Monbrison is a schizoid writer from France born in 1969 and affected by various types of mental disorders, he has published some poems in the past, he’s mostly an autodidact. 

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