Initials of lightning

To enter the universe of Francesca Y. Caroutch without doubt this dune treats that he should read Children of lightning (published by Rougerie Publishing, 2011), as a race in pursuit of Lorage. This poet has the rare gift dexhausser words, give them a real presence, to forge a poetic material that devours through the eyes. With this woman Letre, poetry is a living language. Several poems upset dizzying. The most troubling is certainly that feeling of dispossession: the very strong impression, from reading these fiery wills, join this emptiness of light where everything is reconciled, passed melted in lAthanor of the unit; sensation of sinking into the cosmos within this poetic cosmogony that is both deeply singular and highly universal. Everyone is All. Read Francesca Y. Caroutch, this is climbing peaks where the air is so pure that it burns the lungs, where the solar plexus is more than once crossed by the point of a sword of fire. This is his whole body and all his soul that he dentrer matter in this book because, at the turn of each page, the emotion keeps his word. Here, nothing that is not lying.

To read is to enter naked in the living flesh of silence; in other words, is to live what we read. No real read First of which has been lived in the full sense of the term. And it is the same for any writing that claims to speak true. In Children lightning, incandescent travels words; and a white chest bite our excavation in search of the heart and quun bird tries to peck a red berry in the middle of the snow. Just great to open his soul to be struck by lightning verbal of these poems. And here is a good book that does not come out unscathed.

"I will discover in técrivant
I find myself reading you "(Past perfect)

In these two verses, the poet perfectly expresses the feeling of un-veiling, to dis-cover in contact with each other. The writing is life, as well as the nature of all our actions. Sad dichotomy deadly than trying to put the barriers between reassuring dillusoires write it and live it. For the book to live it ny has not quun, which easily crosses provided to plunge entirely in the highly living Word of the poet.

At times the breath is short to rush about with words. And it would be difficult to say how this poetry landscapes convenes in us, how we cross dendroits at his side ("crazy travel in cities views dreams"): green meadows divresses, warm stables, rugged mountains, lakes stalls waves deserts are emerging on the horizon of Fata Morgana fabulous, white frost monasteries, yellow valleys that the blaze of the sun ignites Its a comet back in the trailer transportation of desire, in the amniotic bath of the earliest memories, when language quun wasnt still stammering in the throat of men. And then, as in a light coat of peace come to embrace the drive and deliver a brutal joy our chest of his old oppressions.

"Lolivier make the light that it devours
in the sweetness of his oil "(The Samurai of emptiness)

"Cleansed by silence
new words ringing without noise "(dry road)

"Tonight I find you
more alive than ever
lakefront subdued
by its own flickering "(Daybreak)

"Refusal carved effigies BE
or more white bones
that boxes of a Jebel "(Vigil weapons)

"Psalm of flesh
transmuted into light "(In the morning porter)

"Ecstasy vacuum
will heal
Disease time "(Constellations nomads)

"The key to garden
hides in its fountain "(Key)

And this dorgue, which opens at infinity of the Beginning:

"I greet you in the light" (Death and Resurrection of a Poet)

Poetry Francesca Y. Caroutch is a child running in laughter yellow corn in the greenness of weeds because, as could have said Armel Guerne, she is a woman of open air.

More than ever, it is for poets to relight the great stills of beauty to celebrate the wedding with life!

Thibault Marconnet
March 4, 2015