If Truth Be Told – how then discern –





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If Truth Be Told 
	- how then discern -
If truth be told
Will it yet reach,
Its vision worthy
Of ether entreat,
Not bent in guile
Of vitiate deceit, 
Yet who’s to say 
Man didn’t teach,
The gods’ sly way
Thus so to breach,
How then discern
Of which we speak,
Thus be held truth 
Or but failed preach,
Aimed credible to hold
Tho history has its doubt,
If man’s veiled truth be told!
						        © Jean-Jacques Fournier
						      
					inspired from the poem Truth be Xenophanes 
					          Greek philosopher, theologian, poet
						  for timeless words of wisdom!
Imagery - Public & Personal ...
Music - Whose There by Peter Sandberg ...
Audio Recital - Jean-Jacques Fournier ...

re-written in Sweetsburg
March 26, 2021

Overload – the poem –

         

Overload

          – the poem –





We now have a world

Fixed as a solace trap,





Well hidden in disguise

Its flow of pollution sap,





Be default of awareness

For humans’ endurance,





Of distribution overload

In a lethargic sufferance,





The while its viewed extent

Be our deteriorating sanity,





By the hands of greedy bent

Of indifferent mental apathy,





Is overloading man’s capacity!





                         © Jean-Jacques Fournier

Ode to a long-time friend, Dr. Michel Gagnon …

Pictures – Private & Public collection …

Music – Excerpt of, If I should Lose You , by Chet Baker …

written in Sweetsburg

December 4, 2020





“ A Hyphenated World ” – held fitting guise –

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“ A Hyphenated World ”

                   – held fitting guise –

‘Tis a fitting guise

A hyphenated world,

Of hyphenated people

Barely joined together,

By shortest of lines

Save in desperate times,

If but to stay alive

Until next apprise,

Holds indefinite man

If he is to survive,

Until discord subsides

Tho wanting to encage

He’ll once more fractionize,

By manipulating stage…





In a language to divide

That largely means create

A hyphenated bide,

Trusted so to populate

Heedless of unwise,

Words fixed to engage

By language brigade,

Who spreads confusion

Among the lesser wise,

Maximize demand

To maintain disguise,

Of the hyphenated men

Who power world divides!

                                               © Jean-Jacques Fournier

Photos – by Marianne D. & private collection –
Music – excerpt from Leaving, by Chet Baker –

Of God Creating Man – be but myth, or a fact –

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“ Of God Creating Man

                      – be but myth, or a fact –

Held ‘twas day seven

Be man’s world born,

From laudable quest

Thus task was borne,

Yet transcends guess

Of god creating man,

Be but myth or a fact

Or tool in mans chest,

Versus god manmade

Now needed to wrest,

For his seamless rule

Said fulfil man’s goal,

As tergiversator tool

God of manner bold,

Crafted so as to fool

Diktat of world whole

The creation to claim,

That so fixed by man

Wouldst forever reign…

 

Now mans fated state,

Be as credulous mortal

Bent so will hold stake,

In his virtual existence

Derived from a dictate,

Saved for chosen few

Who’ll share the spoils

Gleaned by adept issue,

From godly like control

Thus as ever since when,

Probes birth of fairytale told

Had alleged a god created men!                

                                                      © Jean-Jacques Fournier

          A reflection on man made religions, and held myth of a god creating man…

Images & art- personal collection

Music – exerpt from, Bach – Cello Suite No.1- Sarabande, by Mischa Maisky    

“ A Snowflake ” – at the bottom lies –

photo 1 2

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“ A Snowflake ”

            – at the bottom lies –

Holds reason wonder,

About the others

Who first arrived,

And now held under,

Tho manage to survive,

While on the surface

The more materialize,

Layer upon layer

The scale expands,

Thus be no error

They find hold hands,

Supporting each other

To bear the strain,

Makes need to shoulder

Until snowflakes turn to rain…

 

A snowflake

At the bottom lies,

Hence be others

That too will smother,

Yet given druthers

Reach to save those left,

Spared not of shelter

From mans foulness,

However not in vain

As natures fate egresses,

Destined suffer it’s to blame

Alas until snowflakes turn to rain!

 

                                       © Jean-Jacques Fournier

                                                                                                                                                                Music – Winter Night Jazz , BGM…

Photos – Personal collection …

“ Faces ” – that be traceless –

jheronimus_bosch_or_follower_001

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“ Faces ”

       – that be traceless –

I see faces

In all places,

That be sad

Virulent cases,

At risk clad

Be complacent,

Soon but mad

Past indifferent,

Of no matter

Part of current,

Fitting this façade…

 

Empty faces

That be traceless,

Yet embraces

Find expression,

As in a painting

Of a landscape,

Speaks despair

Rather tainted,

Tho not quite bare…

 

Be mortal faces

Seeking refuge,

From raw places

Found in refuse,

A world so faces

In human deluge,

Held insensate

Of fellow sapiens,

They just people

Failed by bane,

Seek seen real

Despite blame,

Of slanted feel

Said man extant,

Made world surreal      

Bent be he an unrepentant!  

 

                           ode to fellow beings of virulent woes…

                                                        © Jean-Jacques Fournier

   Art, by Picasso, Modigliani, Odilon Redon,

           Jheronimus Bosh, Maurice Denis, Erich Heckel.

                          Music, Now – by Vexento – v2 New music, and recital

 

“ Stop The World ” – I want to get off – revisited –

IMG_0803

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“ Stop The World ”

            – I want to get off –

Stop the world,

I want to get off,

Its lethal whirl

I’ve had enough,

Held toxic while

Man efforts cure,

To anew beguile

Alters not lure,

Of endless excess

Or denied blame,

Nor will it redress

Its damage insane,

Man culls confess

Of liable fed game,

To play you along

Be without shame,

Of what suits best

For his world cast,

That yet but infests

So increasingly fast,

And gives not a rest

Despite beg antics daft,

With now barely time left!

                                           Ode to voices of empty rhetoric

                                                                    © Jean-Jacques Fournier

                                                                                         July 10, 2020

             Music – Stravinsky’s, The Rite of Spring

 

 

“ My Bibliotheca ” – from old scribes, to new books –

images-1

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Picture, Benedictine Monastery library founded in 1074.

Music, Book The Rental With It, by Rage

“ My Bibliotheca ”

                  – from old scribes,

                                to new books –

I’ve a library

Overflows,

With books

I’ve read,

While some

Want doze,

Tho be tale

Old that flows,

To ones soul

And so wait,

For old eyes

To be fed,

A said read

Afore avid dies…

 

I’ve books

In my veins,

That beg

Till it pains,

To be written

In stead,

Of poems

I’ve bled,

Would imbue

Near all said,

Tells it true

Of held books,

Be page anew

From birth,

Reaching out

Fated to end,

In man’s final berth!

             ode per se, to books held in one’s library…

                                           © Jean-Jacques Fournier

“ The Child In Me ” – held shades of used to be –

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The Child In Me

           – held shades of used to be –

Though many say

He’s but a shadow,

Held shades

Of used to be,

I play their game

But truly feel,

He’s still the same

The child in me…

 

Some even doubt

He still be there,

And more maintain

I am for naught,

The child is gone,

My hopes are fraught

With dreams

Of used to be…

 

But I say not,

I know the child

Yet lives in me,

And always must

As part of man,

From birth

Until that day

We turn to dust…

 

It matters not,

Though but a shade

Of used to be,

I know it’s him,

And so insist

He still exists

The child in me!

                                          written in Vence, Fr.

                                                  © Jean-Jacques Fournier

 

Ian on Sunday – The extraordinary claims of poetry – by Ian McDonald

Intermittently through the year, and especially during memorable times up the immense and soul-redeeming Essequibo, I like to read Shelley – as we all should do from time to time since he is pre-eminently the poet of hope. “Let us believe in a kind of optimism in which we are our own gods,” he wrote, “because Hope is a solemn duty which we owe alike to ourselves and the world.”

Shelley had a Promethean vision which seemed to his age, as it must certainly seem to ours, wholly unattainable – a vision of men and women “Equal, unclassed, tribeless and nationless.” But we cannot and should not live without ideals, however unreachable they may seem. Shelley’s poetry argued always against the despair which in his age, as again in ours, seems to follow every hopeful upheaval, each successive glimpse of the vanishing form of liberty and the brotherhood of man.

Think of the despair that so quickly followed in the wake of the great burst of optimistic expectations of a new world dispensation arising out of the break-up of the communist empire and the end of the Cold War. Think how the promise of the Arab Spring has so quickly disappeared. Shelley would have spoken eloquently against such quick disillusion. He would have counselled us to keep the faith. In the same news programme that tells us of the latest horrors out of Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, or Syria or a score of other places we hear described the shining lives of the men and women who strive to bring help to such countries and so we hold on still to the slim hope that all may yet be well.

Almost more than anything I love Shelley because, in this most unpoetic age, I draw again from him the belief that poetry can be a transforming agent in people’s lives: “The most unfailing herald, companion or follower of the awakening of a great people to work a beneficial change in opinion or institution, is Poetry.”

This remarkable claim for poetry, for the power of the imagination to bring about social change – and in his Defence of Poetry he also wrote “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” – explains Shelley’s appeal to readers as different as Baudelaire, Karl Marx, Yeats, Shaw, Gandhi and John Kennedy.

Shelley saw himself as taking part in a great movement of thought set in train by the French Revolution and the unprecedented hopes it generated. He believed that the poet – the prophet who sees into the hidden currents of his time far more acutely than his fellows – has a special obligation “to make the best of it,” to argue against despondency and disillusion and despair. This is the element in Shelley which must speak to us as man’s hatred of man reasserts itself with unbelievable ferocity, as civil carnage mounts across the world, as religious conflict spills blood in country after country, as gross inequality reestablishes itself in the privileged but miserable West, as war looms in the Middle East and avenging terror seems to spread everywhere.

In our own land, where hope has been shredded so often, where daily we are filled with revulsion at brutal public crimes and unspeakable acts of mindless domestic ferocity, let the force and relevance of poetry never be forgotten. Once I was reading Shelley while in “beloved Essequibo where my soul will go/if hereafter good things happen” – the poet’s great ‘Ode to the West Wind’ especially filling me with wonder all over again as it used to do in my young days – I came across some lines which struck me forcefully. They are from ‘Prometheus Unbound’ and they tell us to resolve never to lose heart:

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;

To forgive wrongs darker than death or nights;

To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;

To love, and bear; to Hope till Hope creates

From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;

Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent

This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be

Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;

This alone is Life, Joy, Empire and Victory.

Thus over the centuries do the words of poets return again and again to define our deepest needs and inspire mankind to endure against all odds. Amidst the chatter of bureaucrats and businessmen, academics and politicians, it is the voice of the poet, as he delves into the heart of things, which never ceases to give us hope.