tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5740238966171110072012-02-21T10:35:49.371-05:00Jean Coulombe, Alain Larose et Denis Samson ; trois poètes librement associés pour partager leur poésie sous toutes ses formes...Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.comBlogger3811100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-84632546717544467122012-02-21T10:30:00.003-05:002012-02-21T10:35:49.385-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aZKyUKtZhoE/T0O448licXI/AAAAAAAABPo/3saM7YyghZE/s1600/IMGP8706.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 288px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aZKyUKtZhoE/T0O448licXI/AAAAAAAABPo/3saM7YyghZE/s320/IMGP8706.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711612040911679858" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Rongés par la beauté</div><div>en robe de ficelles nouées à vif</div><div>de longs cheveux à ses paupières,</div><div>les bras lourds</div><div>de mains mortes en prières</div><div>à se signer avec la langue,</div><div>ne reste bientôt qu'un squelette</div><div>des substances blessées.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8463254671754446712?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-50645605203177819182012-02-19T08:54:00.004-05:002012-02-19T11:01:35.485-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2i6bsXanUtk/T0D_4nDTGWI/AAAAAAAABPc/JyKJ-NlFXVM/s1600/imgres.jpeg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 204px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2i6bsXanUtk/T0D_4nDTGWI/AAAAAAAABPc/JyKJ-NlFXVM/s320/imgres.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710845675526363490" /></a><div><br /><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div>( <i>Court essai à la manière du concours de Blois</i> )</div><div><br /></div><div>Je marche à toi</div><div>comme un fakir paqueté</div><div>sur du rêve brisé</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2005</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5064560520317781918?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-4877040001938268312012-02-18T11:08:00.002-05:002012-02-18T11:13:58.169-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6VFXl8D6KEo/Tz_NMhxb28I/AAAAAAAABPQ/EWKnY6c8UE8/s1600/route.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6VFXl8D6KEo/Tz_NMhxb28I/AAAAAAAABPQ/EWKnY6c8UE8/s320/route.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710508467636919234" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>L'espace d'un instant</div><div>toutes ses vies</div><div>catapultées</div><div><br /></div><div>le sang de son sang</div><div>largué aux étoiles</div><div><br /></div><div>pour tomber en soi</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-487704000193826831?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-50325287786184709192012-02-16T20:48:00.005-05:002012-02-16T21:25:28.865-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yox8cPvgHK4/Tz2yIDBzBII/AAAAAAAABPE/ynSPFQsRGmg/s1600/Maison.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yox8cPvgHK4/Tz2yIDBzBII/AAAAAAAABPE/ynSPFQsRGmg/s320/Maison.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709915753897198722" /></a><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Quand le blizzard</div><div>des soirs d'hiver</div><div>chemine sans nous</div><div><br /></div><div>quand la montagne</div><div>jugule l'horizon</div><div>et que les fantômes </div><div>s'invitent aux rêves</div><div><br /></div><div>quand la nuit négocie</div><div>les courbes du jour</div><div>et que les brûlures du temps</div><div>passent aux aveux</div><div><br /></div><div>la maison fait doucement son lit</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5032528778618470919?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-66084726736186856742012-02-14T11:49:00.004-05:002012-02-14T12:24:59.526-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1y88Jt3Hcgk/TzqSfu7dmRI/AAAAAAAABO4/vHnMgCv7AfI/s1600/imgres.jpeg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1y88Jt3Hcgk/TzqSfu7dmRI/AAAAAAAABO4/vHnMgCv7AfI/s320/imgres.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5709036551516559634" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>On a ri</div><div>on en a fait</div><div>des farces</div><div>entre la dinde et les patates pilées</div><div>mar-ga-ri-ne</div><div>mar-ga-ri-ne</div><div>mar-ga-ri-ne</div><div>pour les patates</div><div><br /></div><div>On en a craché des dentiers</div><div>sur le tapis du salon</div><div>sur un air d'accordéon</div><div><br /></div><div>Mais c'est quand </div><div>à la fin</div><div>le tapis glisse</div><div>de sous tes pieds enflés</div><div>que tous ces dentiers </div><div>t'avalent</div><div>et qu'il faut vider</div><div>les cendriers froids</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6608472673618685674?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-68068716016767463042012-02-13T18:35:00.003-05:002012-02-13T19:05:00.264-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5JBcdufaGEE/TzmlFFF9PpI/AAAAAAAABOs/59E0Wmz79mU/s1600/IMGP1265.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5JBcdufaGEE/TzmlFFF9PpI/AAAAAAAABOs/59E0Wmz79mU/s320/IMGP1265.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708775509353905810" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Planter des notes</div><div>dans une chanson pas finie</div><div>dans la poussière qui danse</div><div>au petit jour</div><div>un rayon de soleil</div><div>un poème qui parle d'amour</div><div>qui parle tout seul</div><div>un piano couvert de cicatrices.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6806871601676746304?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-91815501702567452822012-02-07T13:30:00.003-05:002012-02-07T13:38:49.883-05:00<div><br /></div><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LjFLcXdnJhI" div="">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/div&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;div&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;frameborder="0" allowfullscreen&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Ma gueule à la Keaton</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">indemne dans les débris</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">d'une romance en kit</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Extrait p. 22 de «Harikots» d'<a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a></div><div>publié par <a href="http://moulteditions.com/">Moult Éditions</a>, Montréal 2009 </div><div>ISBN 978-2-9809822-4-8</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-9181550170256745282?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-40979121920546747132012-02-07T10:00:00.006-05:002012-02-09T23:39:17.892-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zqH56BkzowA/TzE9E_bswHI/AAAAAAAABOU/5gw0gxSAkuA/s1600/Arrimage.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zqH56BkzowA/TzE9E_bswHI/AAAAAAAABOU/5gw0gxSAkuA/s320/Arrimage.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706409358811512946" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>De maison en maison</div><div>il y a des gens qui ont</div><div>des miroirs pour amis</div><div><br /></div><div>ils connaissent leurs reflets</div><div>leur sourire dans le vide</div><div><br /></div><div>ils rêvent leur jour la nuit</div><div>ils arriment leur nuit au jour.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cercle intime de leur vie</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4097912192054674713?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-25151493443857114092012-02-02T12:21:00.007-05:002012-02-05T12:32:48.921-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AiW3PT5H5oA/TyrL0kmM8cI/AAAAAAAABOI/ImRlL1_qH1I/s1600/svp2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AiW3PT5H5oA/TyrL0kmM8cI/AAAAAAAABOI/ImRlL1_qH1I/s320/svp2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704595982055698882" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Ne reprochez pas trop aux poètes</div><div><br /></div><div>d'employer souvent les mêmes mots</div><div><br /></div><div>ces mots ont tant besoin de poésie</div><div><br /></div><div>pour signifier encore quelque chose.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2515149344385711409?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-58353475707522301142012-01-30T19:43:00.004-05:002012-01-30T19:52:18.028-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JjDSWq2KX_c/Tyc6PXUvdJI/AAAAAAAABNk/YtkRXLoP9kY/s1600/NUIT.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JjDSWq2KX_c/Tyc6PXUvdJI/AAAAAAAABNk/YtkRXLoP9kY/s320/NUIT.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703591488721482898" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Liqueur liquidée goulûment</div><div>veines éclatées d'un cristal</div><div>langues désarticulées qui échappent</div><div>des paroles</div><div><br /></div><div>elle fait les lignes de la peau</div><div>dans chaque repli des sens</div><div>chaque recoin d'une nuit improbable</div><div>hantée de blessures stériles</div><div>juste une fascination électrique</div><div>de l'épiderme.</div><div><br /></div><div>Plus tard l'hiver tablette</div><div>fume une cigarette</div><div>et j'écris ce poème</div><div>au parvis du ciel en démolition.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2012<br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5835347570752230114?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-82991579444043148312012-01-26T00:26:00.002-05:002012-01-26T12:35:38.594-05:00<div><br /></div><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1AzJ0jEhZ18" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Vidéo-poème de <a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a></div><div>Musique: François Carrier </div><div>Tous droits réservés (c) 2012</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8299157944404314831?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-9416367599551709222012-01-24T20:38:00.005-05:002012-01-24T21:09:18.346-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ud486VYaNaA/Tx9dXGIK7RI/AAAAAAAABNM/DH3DABCd3ZU/s1600/Hors%2BTraces.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ud486VYaNaA/Tx9dXGIK7RI/AAAAAAAABNM/DH3DABCd3ZU/s320/Hors%2BTraces.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701378304637594898" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Quasi boulonné au fleuve</div><div>le paysage martèle désert</div><div><br /></div><div>comme un chat en vieillesse</div><div>je vais me fourbir un soleil </div><div>bien trop pâle et froid</div><div><br /></div><div>d'une voix exilée et rauque</div><div>je dirai les gestes perdus</div><div>au plancher gris d'une escale</div><div><br /></div><div>sonate entendue d'avance</div><div>et glaces qui se rompent</div><div><br /></div><div>jeté hors mes traces</div><div>leur chant me poursuit</div><div><br /></div><div>jouons la belle errance </div><div>de l'IMMENSITÉ intime</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-941636759955170922?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-9079821605486539112012-01-23T20:01:00.003-05:002012-01-23T20:12:53.916-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CGYeTLkcQ0w/Tx4FKuy49bI/AAAAAAAABNA/vaBnd7hPQNM/s1600/M%25C3%25A9moire.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 235px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CGYeTLkcQ0w/Tx4FKuy49bI/AAAAAAAABNA/vaBnd7hPQNM/s320/M%25C3%25A9moire.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700999860215936434" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>La mémoire en résidence</div><div>les mains sèches qu'on feuillette</div><div>sous la douleur</div><div>les poèmes appris par coeur</div><div>à propos de ce qu'on oublie</div><div>le bruit du sang dans les veines</div><div>tel celui de l'horloge</div><div>poussière d'étoiles et poussière de peau</div><div>flottent dans l'air du temps.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-907982160548653911?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-23839602886597292422012-01-17T10:42:00.002-05:002012-01-17T10:48:42.143-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_IT7lI4Cozo/TxWXKcdwdCI/AAAAAAAABMo/YO2QcZNc55Q/s1600/Virages.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_IT7lI4Cozo/TxWXKcdwdCI/AAAAAAAABMo/YO2QcZNc55Q/s320/Virages.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698627109202719778" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Sur la glace noire du coeur</div><div>il faut savoir</div><div>négocier son miroir</div><div>dans les virages</div><div><br /></div><div>surtout ne pas freiner</div><div>sur la glace noire du coeur</div><div>attention dans les courbes</div><div>besoin de toute l'attention disponible</div><div>pour ne pas se planter</div><div>ne pas foncer dans le décor</div><div>ne pas se ramasser à l'arrière-scène</div><div>dans la poussière</div><div>parmi les vestiges</div><div>des vieilles histoires d'amour des autres.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mais si revient le printemps</div><div>alors il faut savoir</div><div>se jeter à l'eau</div><div>et rouler en cascades</div><div><br /></div><div>il faut savoir</div><div>se jeter à l'eau</div><div>au risque d'être aspiré</div><div>par les rapides du coeur.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2383960288659729242?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-15602531493257931892012-01-12T10:14:00.006-05:002012-01-12T10:39:28.877-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BZjJSD33eTQ/Tw74_zV3ocI/AAAAAAAABMc/_2fr8FhnUds/s1600/Tout%25C3%25A0l%2527%25C3%25A9cran.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 249px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BZjJSD33eTQ/Tw74_zV3ocI/AAAAAAAABMc/_2fr8FhnUds/s320/Tout%25C3%25A0l%2527%25C3%25A9cran.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696764353667637698" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Le tout à l'écran</div><div>faire semblant d'y croire</div><div><br /></div><div>trame spatio-temporelle</div><div>tissée intime publique</div><div><br /></div><div>je te connais et puis</div><div>je te connais plus</div><div><br /></div><div>à contre-courant</div><div>tout respire</div><div>l'à peu près</div><div><br /></div><div>seuls les stigmates</div><div>percent l'écran</div><div><br /></div><div>mémoire immortelle</div><div>jouée multinationale</div><div><br /></div><div>au large de nulle part</div><div>tout flottera à jamais</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1560253149325793189?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-41561668816159925812012-01-08T22:16:00.005-05:002012-01-09T12:41:35.530-05:00<div><br /></div><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/S2CteAYdtwg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Ivre nulle part</div><div>éprouver au matin</div><div>la terreur du gibier <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>p.51</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Le jour du Seigneur</div><div>le discours du président</div><div>le fond de l'air est frais<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>p.35</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(c) 2009</div><div><br /></div><div>Vidéo:<a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe"> Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4156166881615992581?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-50162798385763723612012-01-05T19:19:00.007-05:002012-01-06T03:59:50.724-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J-9IwsktA_0/TwY-FMn4aLI/AAAAAAAABMQ/Xyvy8HCYi_I/s1600/monde.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 182px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J-9IwsktA_0/TwY-FMn4aLI/AAAAAAAABMQ/Xyvy8HCYi_I/s320/monde.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694307037865339058" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Ils tiennent le monde</div><div><br /></div><div>dans leurs mains</div><div><br /></div><div>sans que le monde</div><div><br /></div><div>y tienne vraiment</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5016279838576372361?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-20186236108875441262012-01-04T10:27:00.004-05:002012-01-04T16:33:39.066-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xqvcKgxBf78/TwRwHJqFjoI/AAAAAAAABLU/B5e3k9Hx9JE/s1600/Nuit%2Bblanche.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xqvcKgxBf78/TwRwHJqFjoI/AAAAAAAABLU/B5e3k9Hx9JE/s320/Nuit%2Bblanche.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693799097056988802" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Sous l'oeil verrouillé des portes</div><div>de la nuit</div><div>par grandes infections de</div><div>graffitis cutanés</div><div>les néons des vitrines écrivent</div><div>des promesses voluptueuses</div><div><br /></div><div>le long des rues</div><div>brisant les ombres les contours</div><div>les lampadaires se suivent</div><div>la nuit se casse</div><div><br /></div><div>le ciel refermé la lune une perle</div><div>rare</div><div>plus loin tout repose</div><div>sur un oreiller de neige.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2018623610887544126?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-54788183118317037952012-01-01T13:40:00.004-05:002012-01-03T11:03:41.536-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TWqtVa7YEGc/TwCoq3G89II/AAAAAAAABLI/fSoK7Gdsu2g/s1600/GEL.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TWqtVa7YEGc/TwCoq3G89II/AAAAAAAABLI/fSoK7Gdsu2g/s320/GEL.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692735383297389698" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Dans l'obscurité la route refroidit</div><div>le soleil peut pas</div><div>aller plus loin</div><div>par là c'est le chemin des heures</div><div>perdues d'avance</div><div><br /></div><div>par là les bêtes se cachent</div><div>au fond des yeux</div><div>des forêts alentour</div><div><br /></div><div>par là la terre durcit</div><div>le froid devient silence</div><div>l'absence s'étend</div><div>à l'infini</div><div><br /></div><div>par là la brûlure du gel</div><div>te ressemble.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2012</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5478818311831703795?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-13378879130581998772011-12-28T12:01:00.008-05:002012-01-05T15:33:25.556-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SieZnidsJP4/TwCodkvGCuI/AAAAAAAABK8/mjP8eIlCjnI/s1600/epitre.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SieZnidsJP4/TwCodkvGCuI/AAAAAAAABK8/mjP8eIlCjnI/s320/epitre.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692735155027184354" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Sors de ton silence<br />arbore ton enfance<br />jusqu'au souffle éternel<br /><br />ta vie entière entre tes mains<br /><br />scrute ton parcours-rupture<br />chasse toute confusion<br /><br />délivre-toi de tes peurs<br />délie ta langue granit<br />ouvre les ailes de ton coeur<br /><br />accepte la douleur de vivre<br />embrasse la douceur de vivre<br /><br />protège ton âme de l'humanité<br />ne crains pas les ombres<br />ni le silence de tes nuits<br /><br />tes amis connaissent tes hivers<br />tes enfants aiment ta force<br /><br />disperse les nuages du doute<br />sois un abri pour toi-même<br />et les tiens<br /><br />réjouis-toi du soleil qui émerge<br />et ouvre tes bras à la terre<br /><br />bénis la plénitude du moment<br /><br />ta vie entière entre tes mains<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1337887913058199877?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-79144809954685381362011-12-20T10:51:00.004-05:002011-12-20T14:17:04.087-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p81w718amrM/TvCvNZ6lAYI/AAAAAAAABKk/trQ1ClG03xE/s1600/P1010530.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p81w718amrM/TvCvNZ6lAYI/AAAAAAAABKk/trQ1ClG03xE/s320/P1010530.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688238974198677890" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>J'ai porté mes neiges</div><div>pour sombrer en ta voix</div><div>retenir l'écho</div><div>d'une flèche de glace</div><div>lancée sans appel</div><div>au tourment</div><div><br /></div><div>belles pages folles</div><div>tournant en nos feux</div><div>racontant nos braises</div><div>mes yeux nomades</div><div>creusant tes soifs</div><div><br /></div><div>dans nos songes</div><div>j'ai porté l'hiver</div><div>errant sans cruauté</div><div>pour marquer de givre</div><div>chaque paupière</div><div><br /></div><div>ici tu es partout</div><div>comme un vent fauve</div><div>tu arraches mes pierres</div><div>souffle à souffle</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7914480995468538136?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-6974984647818555972011-12-19T12:51:00.002-05:002011-12-19T12:55:55.645-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O6gjkfWuo-s/Tu955qDfKeI/AAAAAAAABKY/PS8bScq7VnE/s1600/NoMessage.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 317px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O6gjkfWuo-s/Tu955qDfKeI/AAAAAAAABKY/PS8bScq7VnE/s320/NoMessage.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687898885840644578" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>La voix du passé sur mon répondeur</div></div><div>répète qu'il fait beau ce matin</div><div>une vraie journée d'été</div><div><br /></div><div>ce matin on gèle</div><div>et ce n'est même plus</div><div>le matin</div><div><br /></div><div>la voix du passé est belle</div><div>comme un été indien</div><div><br /></div><div>la voix de l'hiver efface</div><div>ce qui reste de chaleur.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-697498464781855597?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-53962189440421348282011-12-14T00:32:00.007-05:002012-01-02T03:11:10.630-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ilQlehpaQsQ/Tug1RMYjnHI/AAAAAAAABKM/3MTbZn3lvGM/s1600/Hockey-Fight-Turns-In-a-Gruesome-Leg-Break.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ilQlehpaQsQ/Tug1RMYjnHI/AAAAAAAABKM/3MTbZn3lvGM/s320/Hockey-Fight-Turns-In-a-Gruesome-Leg-Break.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685853099053522034" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Toute cette masculinité</div><div>conviée au Festival</div><div>des commotions cérébrales</div><div><br /></div><div>Toute cette testostérone châtrée</div><div>à la kermesse des assassinats légaux</div><div>et tous ces spasmes incertains de vivre</div><div><br /></div><div>Tout, tout et re-tout</div><div>à l'infini des charges</div><div>recharges et décharges</div><div><br /></div><div>Toute cette douleur orpheline</div><div>sans autre appel que le gouffre</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5396218944042134828?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-30840974257273124842011-12-06T20:34:00.004-05:002011-12-06T20:39:01.358-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aZgAbAOMfYQ/Tt7C7beI97I/AAAAAAAABKA/Aipo5t-l-W0/s1600/Blanc.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aZgAbAOMfYQ/Tt7C7beI97I/AAAAAAAABKA/Aipo5t-l-W0/s320/Blanc.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683194106030389170" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Vieux manteau de boules à mites</div><div>sorti de la mémoire</div><div>les os bien au chaud</div><div>le coeur qui pique</div><div><br /></div><div>le ciel sent l'hiver</div><div>je tire la langue</div><div>goûte la première neige.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3084097425727312484?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-34689607803267534372011-12-02T10:33:00.006-05:002011-12-02T11:27:33.951-05:00<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">photo Ian Giles</span></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dAfnfypsfic/Ttjv0MCYKiI/AAAAAAAABJ0/ZIljl7P2cR0/s1600/Ici%2Bmaintenant.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dAfnfypsfic/Ttjv0MCYKiI/AAAAAAAABJ0/ZIljl7P2cR0/s320/Ici%2Bmaintenant.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681554609791314466" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>C'est un boxeur</div><div>déguisé en femme</div><div>comme la poésie</div><div>et qui promène ses invendus</div><div>dans un landau</div><div>de ferme en ferme</div><div>jusqu'à Québec</div><div>comme autant de bébés</div><div>mexicains morts</div><div><br /></div><div>Il demande son chemin</div><div>sur St-Jean</div><div>vers le Rio Grande</div><div><br /></div><div>Il veut nager</div><div>jusqu'aux mines d'argent</div><div>de l'autre côté</div><div><br /></div><div>Un homme l'a reconnu</div><div><br /></div><div>C'est un poète franco-ontarien</div><div><br /></div><div>Le poète franco-ontarien</div><div>pousse son premier recueil</div><div>de la basse-ville jusque chez lui</div><div>dans un chariot d'épicerie</div><div>et aussi dans une indifférence</div><div>particulièrement générale</div><div><br /></div><div>Le poète franco-ontarien</div><div>a les yeux</div><div>en forme d'Everlasts</div><div>d'en avoir assez vu</div><div><br /></div><div>Il regarde le boxeur</div><div>et murmure: «Cut 'em off...»</div><div>en tournant le coin de Scott</div><div>en éclatant d'un rire</div><div>jaune sans nom</div><div>sous le soleil de novembre</div><div><br /></div><div>comme si c'était hier</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3468960780326753437?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-30483458871126775332011-11-30T21:09:00.004-05:002011-11-30T21:15:42.350-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jAjDuw3qhO4/TtbiBLDpHOI/AAAAAAAABJo/t7EInpKL_JM/s1600/IMGP6224.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jAjDuw3qhO4/TtbiBLDpHOI/AAAAAAAABJo/t7EInpKL_JM/s320/IMGP6224.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680976489750273250" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Dans l'étreinte des jours</div><div>le breaker du coeur a sauté</div><div><br /></div><div>les heures se brisent</div><div>l'éternité s'absente</div><div>ailleurs n'est plus ailleurs</div><div>à la fin.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rêves consommés la télé du cerveau</div><div>restée ouverte</div><div>les lèvres se referment</div><div>sur les yeux qui mordent.</div><div><br /></div><div>Le temps des blessures</div><div>enfermé dans une peau d'hiver</div><div>la lumière fendue l'oeil à coudre</div><div>entre désir et délire</div><div><br /></div><div>une plaie dans l'image du corps.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3048345887112677533?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-80774304137685413892011-11-26T21:14:00.011-05:002011-12-14T00:39:49.706-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WgQZ3KKYcXI/TtGdOLgMWYI/AAAAAAAABJc/snwdON80bXs/s1600/givre.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WgQZ3KKYcXI/TtGdOLgMWYI/AAAAAAAABJc/snwdON80bXs/s320/givre.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5679493472022452610" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>La douceur des tempêtes</div><div>a dressé pour toi son mur</div><div><br /></div><div>ne la chasse pas</div><div><br /></div><div>ne le contourne pas</div><div><br /></div><div>sache prendre son souffle</div><div>comme une caresse infinie</div><div><br /></div><div>il t'avalera sans te broyer</div><div><br /></div><div>sous son cruel déferlement</div><div>il te libérera vers la lumière</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8077430413768541389?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-31738230379490405692011-11-22T14:01:00.004-05:002011-11-26T21:14:47.590-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-59a2lmP-wA8/Tsvx5KqJT3I/AAAAAAAABJQ/0bHYrTZy-Hc/s1600/verger.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-59a2lmP-wA8/Tsvx5KqJT3I/AAAAAAAABJQ/0bHYrTZy-Hc/s320/verger.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677897719646605170" /></a><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Le vieux verger </div><div>fleurit seul en hiver</div></div><div>figé en ses branches</div><div><br /></div><div>tapi dans ses sèves</div><div>il murmure sa folie</div><div><br /></div><div>le vieil oiseau </div><div>lisse ses plumes</div><div>résigné et digne</div><div><br /></div><div>silencieux</div><div>il attend l'aube</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3173823037949040569?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-62737519035397206742011-11-16T10:41:00.003-05:002011-11-16T10:46:44.472-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MYTOD92Ll4k/TsPZtO7eFYI/AAAAAAAABJE/-zI8RYHHDSw/s1600/Happy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MYTOD92Ll4k/TsPZtO7eFYI/AAAAAAAABJE/-zI8RYHHDSw/s320/Happy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675619326541829506" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Les «Heures Joyeuses» terminées</div><div>on baisse l'éclairage</div><div>et le soir tombe partout</div><div><br /></div><div>tu parles tu seul</div><div>dans ton coin</div><div>personne t'écoute</div><div>mais tout le monde te regarde</div><div><br /></div><div>triple scotch</div><div>la soirée vire en sloche</div><div>ben raide</div><div>et tu rentres chez toi</div><div>dans l'odeur de ton renfermé</div><div>et tu continues à l'aimer</div><div>et toutes les soirées se ressemblent</div><div><br /></div><div>boire jusqu'au cul</div><div>à même la bouteille</div><div>en te pourléchant la bibine</div><div>avant de sombrer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Une belle crucifixion.</div><div><br /></div><div>Je voudrais pas être à ta place!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6273751903539720674?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-65168032118362401872011-11-11T15:09:00.004-05:002011-11-11T15:28:23.521-05:00<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><i>À Michel Pleau...</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LeCFJnUq-3I/Tr2A-NEBYUI/AAAAAAAABI4/YxgPSrj2q_U/s1600/P1010369.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LeCFJnUq-3I/Tr2A-NEBYUI/AAAAAAAABI4/YxgPSrj2q_U/s320/P1010369.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673832911703466306" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Le soleil entre dans la cambrure de l'automne</div><div><br /></div><div>comme un souvenir oublié près de la fenêtre</div><div><br /></div><div>sa chaleur patiente frôle les fruits mûrs</div><div><br /></div><div>abandonnés sur la table du temps.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6516803211836240187?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-69272293496544102542011-11-08T20:59:00.003-05:002011-11-10T11:54:36.996-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2DEji7_x6Wk/TrneooTi4sI/AAAAAAAABIU/GhLOwdCm8TM/s1600/Chevreuil.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 259px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2DEji7_x6Wk/TrneooTi4sI/AAAAAAAABIU/GhLOwdCm8TM/s320/Chevreuil.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672809995245380290" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Je t'ai trouvé bien seul</div><div>dans cette ruelle sale</div><div><br /></div><div>cela m'a rappelé</div><div>que ce n'est pas toujours</div><div>la vie qui gagne</div><div><br /></div><div>et j'ai continué mon chemin</div><div>en songeant aux frimas d'automne</div><div>au soleil jouant dans les arbres</div><div><br /></div><div>mais la tristesse avait creusé</div><div>furtivement son trou</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6927229349654410254?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-9591391741083235932011-11-07T18:38:00.004-05:002011-11-07T18:44:51.978-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sGIj9TjI5w8/TrhsEUD9N4I/AAAAAAAABII/yKO_jW43gcE/s1600/aufoyer.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sGIj9TjI5w8/TrhsEUD9N4I/AAAAAAAABII/yKO_jW43gcE/s320/aufoyer.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672402552033720194" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Le matin le «foyer» s'éveille</div><div>comme une douleur.</div><div><br /></div><div>Chaises vides à la salle à manger</div><div>il y a ceux qui sont partis</div><div>durant la nuit, parfois...</div><div>Et il y a ceux qui restent.</div><div><br /></div><div>Entre les deux, </div><div>il y a celles et ceux</div><div>qui savent plus faire la différence</div><div>dont la mémoire s'invente des histoires</div><div>aussitôt oubliées.</div><div><br /></div><div>Le seul espoir est qu'elles soient drôles.</div><div><br /></div><div>C'est tout ce qu'il reste.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-959139174108323593?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-66957926227901262412011-11-06T12:17:00.003-05:002011-11-06T16:27:23.876-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7wuiaB2DPgY/TrbBqecpnmI/AAAAAAAABH8/1e_wcIUlP0M/s1600/richard.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7wuiaB2DPgY/TrbBqecpnmI/AAAAAAAABH8/1e_wcIUlP0M/s320/richard.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5671933716191616610" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Fais attention</div><div>aux jambes de grand-maman</div><div>sous la table</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(2011)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6695792622790126241?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-41301464784231466692011-11-02T08:32:00.005-04:002011-11-02T21:32:40.352-04:00<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:small;"><i>... à Jean Coulombe</i></span></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HJ0Vaocj2Z0/TrE4sS6h0xI/AAAAAAAABHc/NbIk6-4lLa4/s1600/Showbizz2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HJ0Vaocj2Z0/TrE4sS6h0xI/AAAAAAAABHc/NbIk6-4lLa4/s320/Showbizz2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670375739478889234" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Dans le show d'insipide réalité des</div><div>laboratoires sociaux</div><div>des démocraties corporatives,</div><div>à la loterie des infections,</div><div>les mascottes d'épidémies</div><div>ont des suggestions pour les familles.</div><div><br /></div><div>Voici venir la maladie, les investisseurs</div><div>et le spectacle,</div><div><br /></div><div>la branche économique de la douleur,</div><div><br /></div><div>la cosmétique indifférence</div><div>des belles momies tendance</div><div>et des idoles au coeur d'argile.</div><div><br /></div><div>À l'apogée des rêves d'acier</div><div>nos ascenseurs se brisent</div><div>comme du verre</div><div>sur les cieux étanches.</div><div><br /></div><div>Il y a des squelettes d'anges</div><div>dans les squats célestes,</div><div>des lits défaits par des bombes,</div><div>des soleils en trop</div><div>qu'on enfouit sous la terre</div><div><br /></div><div>des feux partis profond</div><div>à l'intérieur</div><div><br /></div><div>des forêts jamais éteintes...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4130146478423146669?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-46438580920471341752011-10-28T08:58:00.004-04:002011-10-28T09:17:54.912-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2O0pRQ1dnrg/Tqqpeu4601I/AAAAAAAABHQ/CDYIeY81Y6c/s1600/imgres-3.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 227px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2O0pRQ1dnrg/Tqqpeu4601I/AAAAAAAABHQ/CDYIeY81Y6c/s320/imgres-3.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668529426447127378" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>La première fois</div><div>où je suis tombé amoureux</div><div>j'ai mis un pissenlit </div><div>avec un peu d'eau</div><div>dans une bouteille de Perrier</div><div><br /></div><div>ma mère m'a pris par la main</div><div>et je suis allé le porter</div><div>à la petite fille qui habitait </div><div>la grande maison en brique rouge</div><div>de l'autre côté de la rue</div><div><br /></div><div>elle l'a regardé</div><div>comme si c'était un rat mort</div><div>puis est disparue à l'intérieur</div><div><br /></div><div>je l'ai revue beaucoup plus tard</div><div>et j'ai compris</div><div>que c'est elle qui m'avait fait</div><div>le plus beau cadeau</div><div>ce jour-là</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4643858092047134175?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-78318426264950775952011-10-25T18:10:00.001-04:002011-10-28T18:14:42.775-04:00<iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/O36uUc6Mqlo?hl=fr&amp;fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Bouffer du ciel à en perdre haleine</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7831842626495077595?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-29238261197808778032011-10-23T17:15:00.004-04:002011-11-03T12:56:28.202-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E9g2JGiI2fY/TqSEBBiLYAI/AAAAAAAABHE/fqP_YgZF4I0/s1600/Croyants.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E9g2JGiI2fY/TqSEBBiLYAI/AAAAAAAABHE/fqP_YgZF4I0/s320/Croyants.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666799384265449474" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>J'ai cru vivre dans l'indulgence des dieux</div><div>mais le sourire méchant des croyants</div><div>m'a bientôt ramené sur terre</div><div>dans la brutalité des humains</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2923826119780877803?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-85233899661409900132011-10-18T21:11:00.006-04:002011-11-03T12:56:47.377-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2R9_arrDac8/Tp4j8FKuHBI/AAAAAAAABG4/CLBcMVXonUM/s1600/ciel.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2R9_arrDac8/Tp4j8FKuHBI/AAAAAAAABG4/CLBcMVXonUM/s320/ciel.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665004896364928018" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Où vont ces oiseaux,</div><div>curieux témoins</div><div>sous le vent?</div><div><br /></div><div>Moi, je voudrais</div><div>recouvrer mes ailes</div><div>froides et futiles.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Où brillent ces lumières,</div><div>arrachées à la vie?</div><div><br /></div><div>Où sonne cette chanson,</div><div>prise dans ma gorge?</div><div><br /></div><div>Mon être infléchi au vide,</div><div>je méconnais ma fibre.</div><div><br /></div><div>J'assassine mon volcan.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8523389966140990013?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-40473500669761558542011-10-16T13:31:00.005-04:002011-10-16T16:52:06.629-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6d7-S2xmIXo/TpsVJHATzHI/AAAAAAAABGs/SjeIbM7yWBc/s1600/Vivre.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6d7-S2xmIXo/TpsVJHATzHI/AAAAAAAABGs/SjeIbM7yWBc/s320/Vivre.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664144202591882354" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Ouvrir le soir bras au ciel</div><div>faucher les forêts les peurs</div><div>seul au parloir du destin</div><div>sans famille</div><div>sans patrie</div><div>aucune braise au foyer</div><div><br /></div><div>le vent ricane noir</div><div>le ruisseau murmure froid</div><div>je m'ouvre au calme des jours</div><div><br /></div><div>ton visage sous l'écorce</div><div>au coeur</div><div>à l'aubier</div><div>délicate musique</div><div>sourire apaisé</div><div>je prends mes bagages</div><div>au creux des ombres</div><div>poids léger d'une vie soufflée</div><div>au-dessus du destin</div><div><br /></div><div>cette main que tu me tends</div><div>sans ornière</div><div>sans amertume</div><div>en chaleur</div><div>me doucit un paysage</div><div>gorgé de couleurs</div><div><br /></div><div>je retrouve les mots de la nuit</div><div>ceux de la dernière flamme</div><div>celle qui vacille</div><div>celle qui étreint</div><div>celle qui grave la beauté ignée</div><div>du plus que vivre</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4047350066976155854?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-76972577184418065132011-10-13T20:35:00.003-04:002011-10-13T20:41:04.462-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5ZO4oOitubE/TpeD-aYzUXI/AAAAAAAABGg/GCda00yWGOw/s1600/parti2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5ZO4oOitubE/TpeD-aYzUXI/AAAAAAAABGg/GCda00yWGOw/s320/parti2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663140164700164466" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Souliers pourris et gerbes de cheveux</div><div>le feu au vent dans l'air à vif</div><div>avec ce cuir souvent ressuscité</div><div>avec ses déchirures</div><div>et ses insignes rouillés</div><div>je le vois encore qui marche</div><div>dans cette ville qui mouille</div><div>qu'il pleuve ou qu'elle fonde</div><div><br /></div><div>la tête dans le velours</div><div>le vin tiré</div><div>au rivage des heures,</div><div>des pages de fumée</div><div>plein les poches,</div><div>je l'entends encore</div><div>nous chanter ces poèmes</div><div>d'une mémoire en résidence</div><div>comme l'écho humide</div><div>de cités naufragées.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7697257718441806513?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-88120807974175038562011-10-11T20:49:00.005-04:002011-10-11T20:56:11.577-04:00<div>... à J.-A.</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EX8S8ryfEhE/TpTkNNawxHI/AAAAAAAABGU/grbXWZGxhpg/s1600/IMGP4590.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EX8S8ryfEhE/TpTkNNawxHI/AAAAAAAABGU/grbXWZGxhpg/s320/IMGP4590.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662401547102897266" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>La musique vient d'arrêter</div><div>et l'hôtel est à veille</div><div>de dormir.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dans la chambre</div><div>au-dessus du bar</div><div>accroché à un clou</div><div>un manteau usé d'hivers</div><div>jamais finis,</div><div>une bouteille de chevet,</div><div>un cahier ouvert et des cigarettes,</div><div>mouillés,</div><div>mots noyés presque</div><div>illisibles,</div><div>un verre cassé dans une poubelle</div><div>renversée.</div><div><br /></div><div>Il disait être venu là</div><div>pour se rappeler</div><div>et écrire.</div><div>Pas pour mourir</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8812080797417503856?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-18133169427313483642011-10-09T21:06:00.003-04:002011-10-09T22:01:04.701-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hvOJEOCLW00/TpJFoJncumI/AAAAAAAABGM/rnn5l_JDvLQ/s1600/imgres-4" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hvOJEOCLW00/TpJFoJncumI/AAAAAAAABGM/rnn5l_JDvLQ/s320/imgres-4" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661664237636598370" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Vladimir</div><div>on peut pleurer</div><div>tout ce qu'on veut</div><div><br /></div><div>mais on</div><div>peut pas</div><div>baiser</div><div>sur ta musique</div><div><br /></div><div>salut quand même</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1813316942731348364?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-64114813210553865352011-10-06T23:55:00.008-04:002011-10-07T00:21:29.245-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t7L7Sq059_Q/To54UZzG3YI/AAAAAAAABGE/OAxU_KHKblc/s1600/Car_crash.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 223px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t7L7Sq059_Q/To54UZzG3YI/AAAAAAAABGE/OAxU_KHKblc/s320/Car_crash.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660594073569254786" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Le temps d'un virage</div><div>vouloir être Dieu </div><div><div>est un sport extrême </div><div><br /></div><div>ton visage flotte au loin</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>comme le soleil est gris</div><div>au-dessus du vide</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6411481321055386535?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-10446041115257185772011-10-05T00:09:00.005-04:002011-10-05T01:18:45.472-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PuU3x9OItgo/TovcRFOnHUI/AAAAAAAABF8/fw6z0jZSWVI/s1600/imgres-3" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PuU3x9OItgo/TovcRFOnHUI/AAAAAAAABF8/fw6z0jZSWVI/s320/imgres-3" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659859542740507970" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>J'ai croisé Monsieur Carton</div><div>l'autre jour</div><div>derrière le restaurant</div><div><br /></div><div>vidant le conteneur</div><div>avec ses yeux de braise éteinte</div><div>trop</div><div>pour brûler du carton</div><div><br /></div><div>avec son truck en carton</div><div>sous un ciel de carton</div><div>dans le matin en carton</div><div><br /></div><div>Monsieur Carton avalait tout le carton</div><div>sans en être</div><div>tout le carton qu'il faut à un homme</div><div>pour arriver à se fondre</div><div>dans Monsieur Carton</div><div>et se trouver un dernier lift</div><div>en carton</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(c) 2011</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1044604111525718577?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-26481883106602933192011-09-30T03:09:00.005-04:002011-09-30T10:17:17.888-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MKBxPy60Fzc/ToVtEgcbJtI/AAAAAAAABF0/m-dvnr-aCy8/s1600/RolandLeveillejr3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MKBxPy60Fzc/ToVtEgcbJtI/AAAAAAAABF0/m-dvnr-aCy8/s320/RolandLeveillejr3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658048431056955090" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>J'ai peut-être neuf ans</div><div><br /></div><div>ma mère est au téléphone</div><div>et pleure derrière la porte</div><div><br /></div><div>mon oncle Roland</div><div>est mort saoul</div><div><br /></div><div>en s'endormant sur ses frites</div><div>en essayant d'éteindre</div><div><br /></div><div>pour moi</div><div>mon oncle Roland</div><div>c'est le bon gars qui m'a montré</div><div>en riant</div><div>un petit moine en plastique</div><div>qui pisse de l'eau</div><div>quand on lève sa robe</div><div><br /></div><div>à chaque fois</div><div>que je ne vois pas </div><div>un petit moine</div><div>en plastique</div><div>qui pisse</div><div><br /></div><div>je pense à mon oncle Roland</div><div><br /></div><div>ça veut dire</div><div>souvent</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2648188310660293319?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-66809161365789033982011-09-27T22:46:00.004-04:002011-09-27T22:52:34.203-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9wE_6Z_7CMc/ToKKtr3MU8I/AAAAAAAABFs/Xr9aPNBoqHE/s1600/fleurs.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9wE_6Z_7CMc/ToKKtr3MU8I/AAAAAAAABFs/Xr9aPNBoqHE/s320/fleurs.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657236599403729858" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9wE_6Z_7CMc/ToKKtr3MU8I/AAAAAAAABFs/Xr9aPNBoqHE/s1600/fleurs.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Le ciel une aile brisée</div><div>le soleil labouré d'ombres</div><div>l'automne est arrivé</div><div>entre chaud et froid</div><div><br /></div><div>au bureau sous les arbres</div><div>j'écris ce que je peux</div><div>pages arrachées à tous les vents</div><div>c'est ma façon de suivre</div><div>les oiseaux qui s'en vont</div><div><br /></div><div>comme toutes les fleurs mises à sécher</div><div>jardins entre les pages</div><div>des livres de poèmes</div><div>toutes les fleurs vont mourir</div><div><br /></div><div>maux mystère du coeur</div><div>mots mystère de l'amour</div><div>j'écris ce que je peux</div><div>en attendant le gel.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6680916136578903398?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-37605287069101759832011-09-23T14:14:00.005-04:002011-09-23T22:18:51.233-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a5dDRgXVW2I/TnzN7rQ2dOI/AAAAAAAABFk/9a0p0aW3gzo/s1600/imgres-2.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 250px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a5dDRgXVW2I/TnzN7rQ2dOI/AAAAAAAABFk/9a0p0aW3gzo/s320/imgres-2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655621657179878626" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>- Jack Kerouac à un policier de Lowell lui disant qu'il voudrait écrire de la poésie.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Octobre 1987</div><div><br /></div><div>Un certain Kerouac</div><div>de Lowell</div><div>m'a montré la poésie</div><div><br /></div><div>Septembre 2011</div><div><br /></div><div>Un certain Kirouac</div><div>de Québec</div><div>m'a montré comment faire</div><div>le ménage</div><div>d'un beau grand restaurant</div><div>de Chicoutimi</div><div><br /></div><div>Je regarde ça</div><div>de même</div><div><br /></div><div>Je ne sais plus</div><div>lequel</div><div>m'a appris le plus</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3760528706910175983?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-70412061830666550052011-09-22T21:32:00.002-04:002011-09-22T21:45:16.236-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5gfL6mlCfPw/TnvipHabp7I/AAAAAAAABFc/n82TFw7AadE/s1600/immensit%25C3%25A9.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5gfL6mlCfPw/TnvipHabp7I/AAAAAAAABFc/n82TFw7AadE/s320/immensit%25C3%25A9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655362953086216114" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Un coyote hurle au loin</div><div>et j'attends le jour</div><div><br /></div><div>libre comme la pluie</div><div>sous les cendres</div></div><div><br /></div><div>les petits bruits de la nuit</div><div>ne sont plus rien</div><div><br /></div><div>quand arrive la montagne</div><div>immense en son silence</div><div><br /></div><div>nous danserons la suite</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7041206183066655005?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-76720754625083561702011-09-20T23:42:00.005-04:002011-09-21T09:01:00.680-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ngoQNKaKKRs/Tnnf-a8ZCvI/AAAAAAAABFU/qal-TvuaZIE/s1600/imgres.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 217px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ngoQNKaKKRs/Tnnf-a8ZCvI/AAAAAAAABFU/qal-TvuaZIE/s320/imgres.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654797070617873138" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y7Fo5EaoyKs/Tnlff3CkwHI/AAAAAAAABFM/qzcWnAmfbF8/s1600/imgres" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div><br /></div><div>Il n'y a plus de chemin</div><div>pas plus que de village</div><div><br /></div><div>chacun dans le miroir du passager</div><div>reste le chemin</div><div>chacun dans ce regard</div><div>reste le village</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7672075462508356170?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-30539977204849340432011-09-20T12:12:00.003-04:002011-09-20T12:16:21.922-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kYA-0sy0DYk/Tni7ka1PIjI/AAAAAAAABFE/croeHx-_Wds/s1600/Denis.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kYA-0sy0DYk/Tni7ka1PIjI/AAAAAAAABFE/croeHx-_Wds/s320/Denis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654475566515954226" /></a><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kYA-0sy0DYk/Tni7ka1PIjI/AAAAAAAABFE/croeHx-_Wds/s1600/Denis.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Il y en a qui disent</div></div><div>(des poètes le plus souvent)</div><div>que les meilleurs poèmes</div><div>on les écrit</div><div>quand ça va mal</div><div>ou qu'on est malheureux.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ils disent ça surtout</div><div>quand ça va mal</div><div>et quand ils sont malheureux.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pour le moment</div><div>je ne saurais leur donner ni tort</div><div>ni raison.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3053997720484934043?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-48075423095708116942011-09-16T07:58:00.003-04:002011-09-16T09:29:27.375-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d1ZilkIi7Lg/TnM8Vhx7O5I/AAAAAAAABE8/tgKmzV4UrWE/s1600/imgres-1.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 197px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d1ZilkIi7Lg/TnM8Vhx7O5I/AAAAAAAABE8/tgKmzV4UrWE/s320/imgres-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652928297822796690" /></a><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d1ZilkIi7Lg/TnM8Vhx7O5I/AAAAAAAABE8/tgKmzV4UrWE/s1600/imgres-1.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pour Ti-Chilles Samson, où qu'il soit..</span>.</i></div><div><i><br /></i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Un dernier verre avec la lune</div><div><br /></div><div>la marée</div><div>c'était ce tapis de salle d'attente</div><div>sous lequel tu t'endormais</div><div><br /></div><div>traverse de Québec</div><div><br /></div><div>l'oreille subordonnée</div><div>aux pas perdus</div><div>aux pas inquiets</div><div><br /></div><div>un dernier verre avec</div><div>la mémoire cassée</div><div>qui emprunte</div><div>emprunte</div><div>emprunte aux inconnus</div><div>jusqu'à plus soif</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4807542309570811694?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-25372240716570098952011-09-13T19:42:00.003-04:002011-09-13T20:01:00.070-04:00<div><br /></div><div><iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/fii-900oIWo?hl=fr&amp;fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Tant de guerres m'ont traversé les neurones</div><div><br /></div><div>homme occidental repu</div><div><br /></div><div>pixels et distance</div><div><br /></div><div>sans aucune accointance</div><div><br /></div><div>autant de cris perdus</div><div><br /></div><div>sous la chape de l'indifférence</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2537224071657009895?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-731723314976919402011-09-13T07:29:00.003-04:002011-09-13T09:17:41.799-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q5iAOlOWn6U/Tm8_qz4OEPI/AAAAAAAABEs/63GLyzIXQdA/s1600/jd_anqm_poche_p48s1_gp.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q5iAOlOWn6U/Tm8_qz4OEPI/AAAAAAAABEs/63GLyzIXQdA/s320/jd_anqm_poche_p48s1_gp.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651806062086328562" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Dans cette course de poche</div><div>contre mes moi-mêmes</div><div>en bodybag</div><div><br /></div><div>les vieux</div><div>devancent les jeunes</div><div><br /></div><div>et tu m'abreuves</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-73172331497691940?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-27704347216618917902011-09-12T12:35:00.005-04:002011-09-12T12:42:32.008-04:00<div><br /></div><div>... à L.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gql7qU0CcGg/Tm41CF8ZzEI/AAAAAAAABEQ/0o2V3jWEVuk/s1600/lac.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 388px; height: 272px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gql7qU0CcGg/Tm41CF8ZzEI/AAAAAAAABEQ/0o2V3jWEVuk/s400/lac.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651512892468087874" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Belle ébouriffée</div><div>aux chapelles de coiffure</div><div>dans le rose Cadillac</div><div>d'un vieux film de jeunes</div><div>à travers les lèvres des miroirs</div><div>le temps avale</div><div><br /></div><div>tu maquilles encore parfaitement</div><div>juste ce qu'il faut</div><div>mais ta face a coulé juste</div><div>un petit peu.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dans mes rêves parfois</div><div>quand du froid</div><div>jaillit un visage</div><div>je te vois toujours</div><div>telle que tu étais autrefois,</div><div>belle ébouriffée.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2770434721661891790?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-53063225133739007622011-09-06T16:36:00.007-04:002011-09-06T16:47:26.737-04:00<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6xqnaN0nVrY/TmaGi4xbHfI/AAAAAAAABEA/onZ67yGOEcU/s1600/Rompre.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 251px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6xqnaN0nVrY/TmaGi4xbHfI/AAAAAAAABEA/onZ67yGOEcU/s400/Rompre.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649350716496223730" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Écrire</div><div>en état de se rompre</div><div>pour ne pas disparaître entièrement</div><div>à soi-même</div><div>en espérant que ça marche à nouveau</div><div>que ça fonctionne encore</div><div><br /></div><div>mangé du coeur</div><div>écrire</div><div>ayant trop bu</div><div>pour arrêter d'écrire</div><div>au risque de confondre</div><div>le délit des langues</div><div>et l'érection du silence.</div><div><br /></div><div>Écrire pour demeurer</div><div>ce qu'on n'attend pas nécessairement</div><div>de soi.</div><div><br /></div><div>J'espérais me tromper</div><div>mais j'aurais bien dû savoir</div><div>que la beauté mise à nu</div><div>on finit souvent seul</div><div>(bien qu'on ne soit jamais seul</div><div>dans ce cas-là).</div><div><br /></div><div>J'espérais me tromper.</div><div><br /></div><div>J'ai réussi.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5306322513373900762?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-75497387923864172062011-08-31T22:30:00.004-04:002011-08-31T22:42:23.669-04:00<div> <br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hScihed8aBo/Tl7uhdG_vXI/AAAAAAAABDw/HllJwnH9VBM/s1600/dep2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hScihed8aBo/Tl7uhdG_vXI/AAAAAAAABDw/HllJwnH9VBM/s320/dep2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647213241286245746" /></a> <br /><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div>Avide de départs</div><div>tu t'avances nue</div><div>sur les rails du silence</div><div> <br /></div><div>tu me largues un sourire</div><div>un dernier pour la route</div><div> <br /></div><div>con comme un train saoul</div><div>j'applaudis dans le vide</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7549738792386417206?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-51912049166778802882011-08-26T08:52:00.004-04:002011-08-26T09:51:39.242-04:00<div> <br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W1rlfOpUI6s/TleYS-xvuCI/AAAAAAAABDo/5jg1pPS1H04/s1600/bilde.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W1rlfOpUI6s/TleYS-xvuCI/AAAAAAAABDo/5jg1pPS1H04/s320/bilde.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645148109788919842" /></a> <br /><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div>Les roses</div><div>couchées sur la neige</div><div>au pied du mur</div><div> <br /></div><div>une passion sourde</div><div> <br /></div><div>et les astres </div><div>alignés</div><div>comme un peloton d'exécution</div><div> <br /></div><div>les draps </div><div>de l'amour </div><div>du vendredi</div><div>sont partis</div><div>avec les vidanges du samedi</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2009</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5191204916677880288?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-77211704642602270622011-08-23T22:35:00.007-04:002011-08-23T22:52:56.793-04:00<div> <br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M2mxtDL6YY4/TlRjkXeURyI/AAAAAAAABDg/btv_8yT9tPQ/s1600/outre.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M2mxtDL6YY4/TlRjkXeURyI/AAAAAAAABDg/btv_8yT9tPQ/s320/outre.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644245709429688098" /></a> <br /><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div>Les frères que je n'ai jamais eus</div><div>morts au feu de l'enfance</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div>les frères que j'ai toujours eus</div><div>les bras ouverts en poésie</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div>les uns et les autres</div><div>me tissent mémoire</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div>OUTRE-CIEL</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livresquebecois.com/livre.asp?id=juobfsaisdjupe&amp;/la-fatigue-du-metal/jean-coulombe">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7721170464260227062?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-27027636267175946512011-08-16T14:19:00.004-04:002011-08-17T23:58:09.187-04:00<div> <br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KCytEWwiwCM/Tkq04MsSXTI/AAAAAAAABDY/NtXg49h1xYQ/s1600/Trav2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 232px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KCytEWwiwCM/Tkq04MsSXTI/AAAAAAAABDY/NtXg49h1xYQ/s400/Trav2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641520360807619890" /></a><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KCytEWwiwCM/Tkq04MsSXTI/AAAAAAAABDY/NtXg49h1xYQ/s1600/Trav2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Beaux grands yeux vides</div><div>les pupilles comme des pilules</div><div>il pleut elle fume</div><div>une cigarette mouillée</div><div> <br /></div><div>entre Lévis et 23 hres sur le traversier</div><div>arrachée aux intérieurs de la nuit</div><div>elle navigue</div><div>sur rendez-vous</div><div>parce que c'est</div><div>ce qu'on attend d'elle.</div><div> <br /></div><div>Ses larmes ont des oeillères</div><div>cosmétiques.</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2702763626717594651?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-79974201703684735182011-08-13T16:36:00.002-04:002011-08-13T16:42:41.194-04:00<div> <br /></div><div><iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SN0vAREkiWo?hl=fr&amp;fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div>Le vent vient</div><div>le vent va</div><div> <br /></div><div>la tempête reste</div><div> <br /></div><div>Le vent tourne</div><div>le vent brûle</div><div> <br /></div><div>les hommes restent</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7997420170368473518?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-40416350931511115812011-07-28T15:41:00.005-04:002011-08-13T16:43:05.849-04:00<div> <br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0Tr8wF6TY-s/TjG8XPTwmTI/AAAAAAAABC4/7InYfW5gQus/s1600/Plaines.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634491716249622834" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0Tr8wF6TY-s/TjG8XPTwmTI/AAAAAAAABC4/7InYfW5gQus/s320/Plaines.jpg" /></a> <br /> <br /> <br />Assis sous un arbre <br />dans le filet des ombres <br />jetées sur nous; <br />le vent feuillette <br />Pierre Reverdy. <br /> <br />Juillet à Québec sur les Plaines <br />il fait beau, chaud, <br />l'été oublie <br />qu'il va finir <br />tôt ou tard. <br /> <br /> <br /><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4041635093151111581?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-21357225209045727142011-07-21T16:21:00.005-04:002011-07-21T16:58:48.620-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d1a9AgB8KZQ/TiiSngTjAII/AAAAAAAABCw/L69Ld2WlAmc/s1600/Oizeau.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d1a9AgB8KZQ/TiiSngTjAII/AAAAAAAABCw/L69Ld2WlAmc/s320/Oizeau.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631912541411278978" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>La vie a des arêtes<div>fenêtres miroirs</div><div>où perdre son souffle</div><div><br /></div><div>douce amère</div><div>la panique est</div><div>incrustée vive</div><div><br /></div><div>demain sera</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2135722520904572714?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-26896624767969281112011-07-20T17:45:00.004-04:002011-07-20T18:23:44.461-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Lrbn8fObQTU/TidN2xsdZqI/AAAAAAAABCg/OeQ4nFj1K6k/s1600/images-1.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Lrbn8fObQTU/TidN2xsdZqI/AAAAAAAABCg/OeQ4nFj1K6k/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631555462498182818" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>L'autre nuit</div><div>j'ai tiré sa chaise</div><div>de sous Hawking</div><div>dans un rêve</div><div><br /></div><div>l'univers était</div><div>un poster cheap de chimpanzé</div><div>tacké au mur des chiottes</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2689662476796928111?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-43535789542017047442011-07-16T22:20:00.007-04:002011-07-17T09:38:37.923-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UYBUUm-VrKk/TiJK8VNqmuI/AAAAAAAABCY/OF-ekZyxoog/s1600/cow-boy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UYBUUm-VrKk/TiJK8VNqmuI/AAAAAAAABCY/OF-ekZyxoog/s200/cow-boy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630144884513610466" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Desperado urbain</div><div>balancé dru</div><div>aux étoiles</div><div><br /></div><div>comme tout l'monde</div><div>le feu de l'autre</div><div>braisé au coeur</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4353578954201704744?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-15785956509161509852011-07-14T01:19:00.003-04:002011-07-14T01:42:57.687-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2v2vpPcd6Yo/Th59t3nE4yI/AAAAAAAABCI/2iNPRMG8WBM/s1600/P1000128.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2v2vpPcd6Yo/Th59t3nE4yI/AAAAAAAABCI/2iNPRMG8WBM/s320/P1000128.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629074811235132194" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2v2vpPcd6Yo/Th59t3nE4yI/AAAAAAAABCI/2iNPRMG8WBM/s1600/P1000128.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Tu as toujours quelque part où aller</div><div>et tu y vas</div><div><br /></div><div>tu as toujours quelque chose à dire</div><div>et tu le dis</div><div><br /></div><div>je t'admire mais tu ne le sais pas</div><div><br /></div><div>je t'aime mais tu ne t'en doutes pas</div><div><br /></div><div>toujours...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1578595650916150985?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-92000532466429571872011-07-11T22:00:00.003-04:002011-07-11T23:15:34.791-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-03OWeAFEwPA/ThutDA1CBCI/AAAAAAAABCA/tpabjpKicS8/s1600/imgres.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 192px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-03OWeAFEwPA/ThutDA1CBCI/AAAAAAAABCA/tpabjpKicS8/s320/imgres.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628282426603209762" /></a><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-03OWeAFEwPA/ThutDA1CBCI/AAAAAAAABCA/tpabjpKicS8/s1600/imgres.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Elle avait</div><div>ce regard</div><div>de casinos</div><div>qui implosent</div><div><br /></div><div>et l'avenir n'aurait pu</div><div>sembler meilleur</div><div><br /></div><div>tu ne pouvais</div><div>qu'en rester loin</div><div>pour applaudir</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-9200053246642957187?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-22729441901914408012011-07-08T11:33:00.003-04:002011-07-08T15:27:34.457-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1AT7ce8Eiwc/ThcjqlLl4YI/AAAAAAAABB4/mLtYc847Zlo/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 190px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1AT7ce8Eiwc/ThcjqlLl4YI/AAAAAAAABB4/mLtYc847Zlo/s320/Unknown-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627005473864933762" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>La vérité est une truite</div><div>pour en manger</div><div>faut la vider</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2272944190191440801?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-21209079860898080482011-07-08T08:36:00.010-04:002011-07-08T15:29:25.789-04:00<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uwl-tAqNVuI/Thb52zRymgI/AAAAAAAABBw/Q7AZvwUASXQ/s1600/Jean2011.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uwl-tAqNVuI/Thb52zRymgI/AAAAAAAABBw/Q7AZvwUASXQ/s400/Jean2011.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626959504319093250" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">DU LIVRE D’ARTISTES RÉPARATION DE POÉSIE NO 22 </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />LE LABORATOIRE par</span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYvhhOkaI1g"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Le collectif Réparation de Poésie </span></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">poésie: </span><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Jean Coulombe</span></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">infographie: </span><a href="http://pages.videotron.com/gsevigny/pages/g_s_1.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Gilbert Sévigny</span></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tous droits réservés </span><a href="http://www.erudit.org/culture/inter1068986/inter1112939/46411ac.pdf"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Collectif réparation de poésie</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (c) 2011</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">jean475@sympatico.ca</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 14px; font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2120907986089808048?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-23425876497027455852011-07-05T21:33:00.008-04:002011-07-08T08:35:39.924-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NvZdzVykYno/ThO-e-Gh3SI/AAAAAAAABBg/lvIoIatD_rY/s1600/City.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 272px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NvZdzVykYno/ThO-e-Gh3SI/AAAAAAAABBg/lvIoIatD_rY/s320/City.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626049798791617826" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Je m'en vais enfin danser<div>sur la ligne des marées</div><div><br /></div><div>je m'en vais sacrer ma vie</div><div>dans le coffre arrière</div><div><br /></div><div>la monnaie des brumes</div><div>m'achètera le rêve</div><div><br /></div><div>je plongerai dans la mer</div><div>le coeur mal barré</div><div>et le dos en falaise</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2342587649702745585?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-59023247642993045462011-07-03T23:11:00.007-04:002011-07-08T08:34:48.406-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gXe1oqFYnmo/ThEvoo0B9ZI/AAAAAAAABBY/pe1s1JskCl0/s1600/VideoClub.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gXe1oqFYnmo/ThEvoo0B9ZI/AAAAAAAABBY/pe1s1JskCl0/s320/VideoClub.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625329784759383442" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gXe1oqFYnmo/ThEvoo0B9ZI/AAAAAAAABBY/pe1s1JskCl0/s1600/VideoClub.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Le petit gars du vidéoclub</div><div>a toujours l'air triste</div><div><br /></div><div>même quand il cherche</div><div>un film pour me faire rire</div><div><br /></div><div>le petit gars du vidéoclub</div><div>pourrait être mon fils</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5902324764299304546?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-27607762646141731212011-07-02T01:17:00.004-04:002011-07-02T01:24:03.831-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cs7Lb5-MFJA/Tg6rQu_Nr9I/AAAAAAAABBI/A-W23UWQpvU/s1600/gustave_dore_bible_destruction_of_the_army_of_sennacherib.295x372.grayscale.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 159px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cs7Lb5-MFJA/Tg6rQu_Nr9I/AAAAAAAABBI/A-W23UWQpvU/s200/gustave_dore_bible_destruction_of_the_army_of_sennacherib.295x372.grayscale.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624621288611753938" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TqXWwCPP7lQ/Tg6qJ_vbhII/AAAAAAAABBA/vDw5YhzK1Is/s1600/gustave_dore_bible_destruction_of_the_army_of_sennacherib.295x372.grayscale.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Bien sûr</div><div>parfois</div><div>il faut savoir laisser</div><div>les fantômes</div><div>avec les fantômes</div><div>les morts avec les morts</div><div>et certains vivants aussi.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2760776264614173121?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-40301947955856866332011-06-29T18:58:00.014-04:002011-07-08T08:34:05.812-04:00<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c-jNnZCCCH4/ThPBmOhnwJI/AAAAAAAABBo/a96j0ljapoE/s1600/Foule.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 174px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c-jNnZCCCH4/ThPBmOhnwJI/AAAAAAAABBo/a96j0ljapoE/s400/Foule.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626053221994184850" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Je déambulais dans la forêt des trottoirs</div><div>la foule les dévalait assommée de sommeil</div><div><br /></div><div>les gens roulaient leur tête contre leur coeur</div><div>encore tout gros de soupirs inassouvis</div><div><br /></div><div>certes l'illusion est abusive</div><div><br /></div><div>et je me suis dit</div><div>peu importe le regard</div><div>pourvu qu'il brûle</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4030194795585686633?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-36373238657949413602011-06-21T20:28:00.004-04:002011-06-21T22:11:07.637-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YdipPUSHsP0/TgE3VHg--uI/AAAAAAAABAo/gdwqwSYIsK8/s1600/train.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YdipPUSHsP0/TgE3VHg--uI/AAAAAAAABAo/gdwqwSYIsK8/s320/train.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620834645869263586" /></a><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YdipPUSHsP0/TgE3VHg--uI/AAAAAAAABAo/gdwqwSYIsK8/s1600/train.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Wagons qui portent des voyages</div><div>de graffitis</div><div><br /></div><div>à l'hôtel sur le bord de </div><div>la track d'un pays</div><div>où roulent des trains fantômes</div><div>le regard d'une fenêtre suffit</div><div>parfois</div><div>pour voir passer toute sa vie</div><div>d'un seul coup.</div><div><br /></div><div>On ne fait jamais</div><div>que voyager</div><div>dans le temps.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3637323865794941360?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-78867698356939227902011-06-18T10:04:00.007-04:002011-07-08T08:33:40.150-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JxsJUcf_-a0/Tfyypju09VI/AAAAAAAABAg/0aC2TpV8E5w/s1600/verbiage.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JxsJUcf_-a0/Tfyypju09VI/AAAAAAAABAg/0aC2TpV8E5w/s200/verbiage.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619562862087566674" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Amitié longue distance</div><div>incrustée au souffle</div><div><br /></div><div>amitié perdue aphone</div><div>au verbiage des solitudes</div><div><br /></div><div>amitié chanson</div><div>tenant ma main</div><div>ouverte au ciel</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7886769835693922790?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-6201218175097480602011-06-17T19:11:00.005-04:002011-06-17T19:14:55.140-04:00<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1FXJlX7uBVg/TfvfyB1qFxI/AAAAAAAABAQ/9wX-81DOQ6s/s1600/M%25C3%25A9moire.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1FXJlX7uBVg/TfvfyB1qFxI/AAAAAAAABAQ/9wX-81DOQ6s/s200/M%25C3%25A9moire.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619331010654770962" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>La mémoire voyage seule</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-620121817509748060?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-66914469874404042442011-06-14T21:57:00.004-04:002011-06-15T14:06:58.751-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HkrWr8dhcIk/TfgRysKWRxI/AAAAAAAABAA/8dOpM8IwRPA/s1600/vaches.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HkrWr8dhcIk/TfgRysKWRxI/AAAAAAAABAA/8dOpM8IwRPA/s320/vaches.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618260097690388242" /></a><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">... chez Jean Coulombe, juin 2011</span></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HkrWr8dhcIk/TfgRysKWRxI/AAAAAAAABAA/8dOpM8IwRPA/s1600/vaches.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div><br /></div><div>Roulements de tonnerre</div><div>dans les champs</div></div><div><br /></div><div>montagnes de velours</div><div>horizon après horizon</div><div><br /></div><div>cascades d'un ruisseau qui respire.</div><div><br /></div><div>Plus tard le soir viendra</div><div>de là-bas.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pTK22iML2xY?hl=fr&amp;fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pTK22iML2xY?hl=fr&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6691446987440404244?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-60329120569928022862011-06-12T11:46:00.007-04:002011-07-08T08:33:03.274-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-thxFBH0FhUI/TfTiJK8H5aI/AAAAAAAAA_4/A6xuLkXC77E/s1600/guerre.1203549123.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 264px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-thxFBH0FhUI/TfTiJK8H5aI/AAAAAAAAA_4/A6xuLkXC77E/s320/guerre.1203549123.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617363282421081506" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Tant de sang coule</div><div>dans mes mots</div><div><br /></div><div>cette folie</div><div>qui me mord</div><div>les lèvres</div><div><br /></div><div>l'armistice sera</div><div>un soleil âpre</div><div>et doux</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6032912056992802286?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-41991691574449458882011-06-08T19:03:00.005-04:002011-06-08T20:11:17.998-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GoP5puVKgvs/Te__2lyt3lI/AAAAAAAAA_o/HKEW7X_H-GQ/s1600/chambre6.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GoP5puVKgvs/Te__2lyt3lI/AAAAAAAAA_o/HKEW7X_H-GQ/s320/chambre6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615988573677149778" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Tu es sortie de moi</div><div>et j'ai longtemps</div><div>gardé ta forme</div><div><br /></div><div>bleu de travail</div><div>pétrifié</div><div>dans un coin de la chambre</div><div><br /></div><div>j'ai attendu </div><div>un matin</div><div><br /></div><div>j'ai attendu</div><div>longtemps</div><div>que tu n'aies</div><div>plus rien</div><div>de propre</div><div>à te mettre</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4199169157444945888?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-46509906436747155762011-06-08T01:35:00.004-04:002011-07-08T08:32:39.935-04:00<div><br /></div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pPPXKualBEU?hl=fr&amp;fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pPPXKualBEU?hl=fr&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Vidéo: <a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe</a></div><div>Poésie: <a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a></div><div>CLS Poésie (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4650990643674715576?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-15115996682815826642011-06-01T22:48:00.007-04:002011-07-08T08:32:12.981-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7oOWV-lunhY/Teb6LCj5qtI/AAAAAAAAA_c/HXtLVp6dSqQ/s1600/River.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 193px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7oOWV-lunhY/Teb6LCj5qtI/AAAAAAAAA_c/HXtLVp6dSqQ/s320/River.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613449053136857810" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Enfance à usage unique</div><div>comme un obus perdu</div><div>dans la rivière du temps</div><div><br /></div><div>embâcle sur embâcle</div><div>il s'enfonce sec</div><div>sous les remous</div><div><br /></div><div>un arbre solitaire</div><div>froidure en écho </div><div>racle tout l'azur</div><div><br /></div><div>j'oublierai mon nom</div><div>pour mieux t'aimer</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1511599668281582664?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-37341451463417104272011-05-31T15:25:00.008-04:002011-05-31T19:03:06.315-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yRL-vd0tMu4/TeVCZXXAJyI/AAAAAAAAA_U/0jZ_Ijz4fwo/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 220px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yRL-vd0tMu4/TeVCZXXAJyI/AAAAAAAAA_U/0jZ_Ijz4fwo/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612965514121848610" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Quand j'avais 10 ans</div><div>il y avait un pâtissier</div><div>chez qui ma mère m'envoyait</div><div>chercher ses commandes</div><div>les jours de fête</div><div><br /></div><div>il était Suisse</div><div>à ce qu'on disait</div><div>et ne prenait un verre </div><div>que les samedis et dimanches</div><div>en cachette de sa femme</div><div><br /></div><div>il achetait une bouteille</div><div>au bar d'à côté</div><div>et l'y ramenait de sa pâtisserie</div><div>une fois vide</div><div>ni vu ni connu</div><div><br /></div><div>je me suis </div><div>souvent demandé</div><div>combien de vides entraient</div><div>dans sa recette secrète</div><div><br /></div><div>comme maintenant</div><div><br /></div><div>alors que tu regardes</div><div>mes mains</div><div>comme des ballons crevés</div><div><br /></div><div>et que je dois</div><div>faire un gâteau</div><div>de tout ça</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3734145146341710427?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-84138674837601758762011-05-27T23:22:00.016-04:002011-07-08T08:31:30.317-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kmJm3B6L7qA/TeBuuRdiRII/AAAAAAAAA_M/K-i7g8MzSG8/s1600/Miroir.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kmJm3B6L7qA/TeBuuRdiRII/AAAAAAAAA_M/K-i7g8MzSG8/s320/Miroir.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611606876943959170" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Objects in the mirror</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">are closer than they appear</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>En Amérique</div><div>tout au long </div><div>des lignes de force</div><div><br /></div><div>le carburant carbure</div><div>le carbone carbonise</div><div><br /></div><div>les sables bituminent</div><div>les cow-boys chevauchent</div><div>leurs dollars mécaniques</div><div><br /></div><div><div>et les routes orphelines</div><div>nous chantent l'amour</div><div>sur le cruise-control</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8413867483760175876?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-6502275169011695322011-05-25T12:52:00.003-04:002011-05-25T20:00:25.681-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N7yvCzj6eWI/Td01S_fbrEI/AAAAAAAAA-8/PoxPwFXLfao/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 184px; height: 274px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N7yvCzj6eWI/Td01S_fbrEI/AAAAAAAAA-8/PoxPwFXLfao/s320/Unknown-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610699311170694210" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Je ne sais pas</div><div>mais je pense à toi</div><div>Richard</div><div>et à ta tête d'ange</div><div>éclatée</div><div>devant une fenêtre</div><div>donnant sur le Pacifique</div><div>septembre 1984</div><div><br /></div><div>d'où je t'écris</div><div>les affaires continuent</div><div>en Amérique</div><div><br /></div><div>et c'est toujours le 26 décembre</div><div>pour la poésie</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-650227516901169532?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-68472374526702800042011-05-25T08:34:00.003-04:002011-05-25T08:37:38.771-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d1JTWtdHkWo/Tdz3da5MKwI/AAAAAAAAA-0/mhFxS7IU3xg/s1600/VOL-D-OISEAUX.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d1JTWtdHkWo/Tdz3da5MKwI/AAAAAAAAA-0/mhFxS7IU3xg/s320/VOL-D-OISEAUX.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610631320604257026" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Deux oiseaux chantent</div><div>invisible la guitare est un songe</div><div><br /></div><div>coupée la main des ombres</div><div>est jetée en pâture</div><div>aux serpents des fontaines</div><div><br /></div><div>arrivé aux vitraux de noirceur</div><div>parmi les squelettes des horloges</div><div>le regard se perd.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6847237452670280004?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-45234380304560733542011-05-23T11:32:00.008-04:002011-07-08T08:30:55.528-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZQsckDCvUDY/Tdp-JbvQwuI/AAAAAAAAA-s/RrVQSDe1YC4/s1600/meute.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZQsckDCvUDY/Tdp-JbvQwuI/AAAAAAAAA-s/RrVQSDe1YC4/s320/meute.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609934986373284578" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZQsckDCvUDY/Tdp-JbvQwuI/AAAAAAAAA-s/RrVQSDe1YC4/s1600/meute.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Poésie hip-hop</div><div>poésie slammée</div><div>poésie gueule de bois</div><div><br /></div><div>au-dessus des cris</div><div><br /></div><div>il faut rédiger âprement</div><div>la poétique des trottoirs</div><div><br /></div><div>entre les abysses</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4523438030456073354?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-53148900442257087512011-05-17T19:47:00.003-04:002011-05-17T20:08:56.444-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_eJ8mdbday4/TdMJTyCgCUI/AAAAAAAAA-k/GXdCQRcap1s/s1600/elvis.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 264px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_eJ8mdbday4/TdMJTyCgCUI/AAAAAAAAA-k/GXdCQRcap1s/s320/elvis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607836196460824898" /></a><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div>J'étais d'un monde nouveau</div><div>8 H 45 le matin</div><div>à l'Hôtel-Dieu de Québec</div><div>avec toute la chaleur possible</div><div>de mon petit corps</div><div>en plein coeur de l'hiver,</div><div>je suis né le jour où</div><div>Elvis enregistra</div><div>une des chansons qui le rendirent</div><div>célèbre à tout jamais</div><div>je sais plus laquelle.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5314890044225708751?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-50277731297028097232011-05-15T18:27:00.006-04:002011-07-08T08:30:13.914-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-erSAYf_dW98/TdBTARkBxWI/AAAAAAAAA-c/jdp6huKOzoQ/s1600/toundra-et-couleurs-d-automne-397455097-405690.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-erSAYf_dW98/TdBTARkBxWI/AAAAAAAAA-c/jdp6huKOzoQ/s320/toundra-et-couleurs-d-automne-397455097-405690.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607072800255886690" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-erSAYf_dW98/TdBTARkBxWI/AAAAAAAAA-c/jdp6huKOzoQ/s1600/toundra-et-couleurs-d-automne-397455097-405690.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Ce que la mécanique japonaise me refuse<div>ton paysage infini me le donne</div><div>comme une saison sous la langue</div><div>une fleur arrachée à la glace</div><div><br /></div><div>là, dans ta toundra multicolore</div><div>mes couleurs s'abandonnent</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/catalogue/358">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2006</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5027773129702809723?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-50803676824767717482011-05-13T16:27:00.002-04:002011-05-13T16:41:44.821-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5SE8dfEdHo/Tc2Ulp-1hNI/AAAAAAAAA-U/xrufElkdQBs/s1600/Labours3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 233px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5SE8dfEdHo/Tc2Ulp-1hNI/AAAAAAAAA-U/xrufElkdQBs/s320/Labours3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606300485791614162" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5SE8dfEdHo/Tc2Ulp-1hNI/AAAAAAAAA-U/xrufElkdQBs/s1600/Labours3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Pierre du ciel</div><div>que révèlent les labours</div><div><br /></div><div>robe rouge baiser vermeil</div><div>sur les vignes la rosée</div><div><br /></div><div>les pieds dans l'ombre</div><div>savourer l'arôme et goûter les épices</div><div>de la terre.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5080367682476771748?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-17991717434899780342011-05-10T20:28:00.004-04:002011-05-10T20:46:11.902-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RE-VjdZVW-g/TcnYWml-00I/AAAAAAAAA-E/gLkWIhjd7CA/s1600/tsuuuu.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RE-VjdZVW-g/TcnYWml-00I/AAAAAAAAA-E/gLkWIhjd7CA/s320/tsuuuu.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605249094067868482" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Les heures heureuses</div><div>me rentrent dedans</div><div>comme une apoplexie</div><div><br /></div><div>une marée imprévue</div><div>aux sables volatiles</div><div>gravant mémoire</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/2004/lafatiguedumetal.shtml">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1799171743489978034?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-42691307372628954122011-05-03T10:43:00.002-04:002011-05-03T10:45:02.686-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EFLAObQWK0o/TcAUNREgDQI/AAAAAAAAA98/WsXL31S8geg/s1600/Mar%25C3%25A9e.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EFLAObQWK0o/TcAUNREgDQI/AAAAAAAAA98/WsXL31S8geg/s320/Mar%25C3%25A9e.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602500154602032386" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EFLAObQWK0o/TcAUNREgDQI/AAAAAAAAA98/WsXL31S8geg/s1600/Mar%25C3%25A9e.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Chapelet de braise</div><div>au point d'eau</div><div>toute bue la nuit</div><div>la fumée est sur la mer</div><div>loin des feux</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-4269130737262895412?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-18164136781025332122011-04-29T04:50:00.004-04:002012-02-14T23:27:50.780-05:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6mu7iSYCXbs/Tbp8FDypZUI/AAAAAAAAA90/gWh23ZWUgC4/s1600/vacarme.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6mu7iSYCXbs/Tbp8FDypZUI/AAAAAAAAA90/gWh23ZWUgC4/s320/vacarme.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600925512947557698" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>À flanc de solitude</div><div>la pulsion du social</div><div>me ronge immense</div><div><br /></div><div>il me faut tout dire</div><div>malgré le trou</div><div>dans ma gorge</div><div><br /></div><div>il me faut</div><div>tout vivre</div><div>avant le soleil</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/2004/lafatiguedumetal.shtml">Jean Coulombe</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1816413678102533212?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-89521220368974216682011-04-26T19:54:00.006-04:002011-04-29T04:58:11.315-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4Q6qrSyX_U/Tbdbfdh6zWI/AAAAAAAAA9s/PN_Ey6efKLM/s1600/poete.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4Q6qrSyX_U/Tbdbfdh6zWI/AAAAAAAAA9s/PN_Ey6efKLM/s320/poete.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600045257719467362" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4Q6qrSyX_U/Tbdbfdh6zWI/AAAAAAAAA9s/PN_Ey6efKLM/s1600/poete.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Le poète se souvient</div><div>de tout ce qu'il oublie.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8952122036897421668?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-86110372449573687542011-04-22T23:26:00.005-04:002011-04-29T04:57:27.324-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PAIxezra_Vo/TbJHssQXP7I/AAAAAAAAA9c/cUiC2ePhQIQ/s1600/mine.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 168px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PAIxezra_Vo/TbJHssQXP7I/AAAAAAAAA9c/cUiC2ePhQIQ/s200/mine.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598616119894556594" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Sur le divan chez Denis</div><div>parfois le silence</div><div>passe entre nous</div><div>comme un minou</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8611037244957368754?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-84242945620377968782011-04-20T19:59:00.005-04:002011-04-20T20:48:48.636-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--tSWWQBjgqc/Ta9zhxc5ofI/AAAAAAAAA9M/wYAOH8faNIM/s1600/coffin-couch-3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--tSWWQBjgqc/Ta9zhxc5ofI/AAAAAAAAA9M/wYAOH8faNIM/s320/coffin-couch-3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597819885892248050" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Au salon après le jambon</div><div>on pogne des chocs</div><div>fantômes électriques</div><div>des tapis mauves</div><div><br /></div><div>on fête Pâques</div><div>du côté de mon père</div><div>chez mon oncle en pompes funèbres</div><div>et ma tante</div><div>celle qui coiffe les morts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dehors il pleut</div><div><br /></div><div>dedans on se momifie à sec</div><div>comme des petits pharaons</div><div><br /></div><div>toute la famille</div><div>savonnée parfumée</div><div>embaume</div><div>comme désincarnée d'odeurs.</div><div><br /></div><div>C'est Pâques</div><div>chez mon oncle et ma tante</div><div>et c'est mon enfance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Avec mes cousins et mes cousines</div><div>on joue dans la cave</div><div>on joue aux cowboys</div><div>on joue à la guerre</div><div>parmi les cercueils à vendre</div><div>je t'ai tué t'es mort.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-8424294562037796878?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-20673840468442330502011-04-19T16:35:00.003-04:002011-04-20T20:10:25.177-04:00<div><br /></div><div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PKNVxt1gL2g?hl=fr&amp;fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PKNVxt1gL2g?hl=fr&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Poésie et vidéo: <a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/2004/lafatiguedumetal.shtml">Jean Coulombe</a></div><div>Improvisations au piano: <a href="http://www.vincentgagnon.ca/">Vincent Gagnon</a></div><div>Tous droits réservés (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-2067384046844233050?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-15643502555022534922011-04-18T10:26:00.007-04:002011-04-18T20:23:37.427-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-afYwC6syfe4/TaxKK28ebjI/AAAAAAAAA88/cFeuRcR15Yw/s1600/nord.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-afYwC6syfe4/TaxKK28ebjI/AAAAAAAAA88/cFeuRcR15Yw/s320/nord.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596929987322998322" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Les noms des météores</div><div>écrits sur le sable</div><div>la marée sur ses rails</div><div>que rien n'arrête</div><div>le ciel et la mer</div><div>que rien ne sépare.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-1564350255502253492?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-38943734846719118572011-04-17T23:39:00.002-04:002011-04-18T10:34:22.143-04:00<div><br /></div><div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/goC7mkkiZOg?hl=fr&amp;fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/goC7mkkiZOg?hl=fr&amp;fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Poésie et vidéo:</div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/2004/lafatiguedumetal.shtml">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-3894373484671911857?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-72687937789769446032011-04-14T22:00:00.008-04:002011-04-18T10:35:50.647-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LrlDqD3aX2E/Taeoo-ND-7I/AAAAAAAAA80/-ywsFHQ07II/s1600/Couchant2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 277px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LrlDqD3aX2E/Taeoo-ND-7I/AAAAAAAAA80/-ywsFHQ07II/s320/Couchant2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595626483877149618" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Rebelle Cohen</div><div>mitraille ses poèmes</div></div><div><br /></div><div>lame au coeur</div><div>âme pivotante</div><div><br /></div><div>le sang du couchant</div><div>comme une déferlante</div><div><br /></div><div>j'imbrique</div><div>j'imbrique</div><div>l'acier délétère</div><div><br /></div><div>strato-cumulus</div><div>perdus au change</div><div><br /></div><div>tous mots kamikazes</div><div><br /></div><div>oxygène requis</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ecritsdesforges.com/2004/lafatiguedumetal.shtml">Jean Coulombe </a>(c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-7268793778976944603?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-68365598759206645632011-04-12T15:57:00.007-04:002011-04-12T16:04:04.716-04:00<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aQe2lAB-dqA/TaSwG-nWBDI/AAAAAAAAA8k/x1_pOkv-uHE/s1600/grain.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aQe2lAB-dqA/TaSwG-nWBDI/AAAAAAAAA8k/x1_pOkv-uHE/s200/grain.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594790271034721330" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>En nettoyant</div><div>le vieux moulin à café</div><div>(pas servi depuis longtemps)</div><div>un grain est tombé</div><div><br /></div><div>je me suis demandé</div><div>pour qui était ce café</div><div>et qui j'étais alors</div><div><br /></div><div>en contemplant le grain</div><div>au fond de l'évier</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://moulteditions.com/criture">Alain Larose</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-6836559875920664563?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-574023896617111007.post-52748857422810306472011-04-11T20:21:00.006-04:002011-04-19T21:49:09.948-04:00<div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mlLM-VlGDws/Ta47XZ5r9nI/AAAAAAAAA9E/7ekmYKvd89o/s1600/nounours.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mlLM-VlGDws/Ta47XZ5r9nI/AAAAAAAAA9E/7ekmYKvd89o/s320/nounours.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597476660143978098" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Dans mes rêves d'enfant</div><div>où personne ne dort</div><div>apparaissent les signes</div><div>d'invisibles mains</div><div>imprégnées du parfum</div><div>d'édredons oubliés</div><div>dans des coffres de cèdre</div><div>jamais consommés</div><div><br /></div><div>mains feuilletant les odeurs</div><div>de cahiers moisis</div><div>mains qui veulent saisir</div><div>ce qui reste d'éperlans</div><div>dans les filets de la mémoire.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.editiontrois-pistoles.com/viewLivre.php?id=320">Denis Samson</a> (c) 2011</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/574023896617111007-5274885742281030647?l=poesiecls.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Coulombe-Larose-Samsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874257091559880912noreply@blogger.com1