Lingo of Hurricanes

          Every day, I use the lingo of lunatic hurricanes.
I say the folly of contrary winds.
          Every evening, I use the patois of furious rains.
I say the fury of flooding waters.
          Every night, I speak to the Caribbean islands in the tongue of hysterical storms. I say the hysteria of the roaring sea.
          Lingo of hurricanes. Patois of rains. Language of storms. Flow of the spiralling life.
          Life, fundamentally, is tension. Towards something. Towards someone. Towards oneself. Towards the point of maturity where the old and new meet and death and birth untangle. And all this, in part, happens in the pursuit of one's double, a pursuit that merges on the border between the intensity of a need, of a desire and of a continual quest.
          Some dogs go by - I've always had an obsessions with stray mutts - they yelp after the outline of the woman I'm chasing. After the image of the man I'm looking for. After my double. After the hubbub of fleeing voices. For so many years. It looks like thirty centuries.
          The woman has gone, with neither trumpet nor drum. Along with my dissonant heart. The man did not even proffer his hand. My double is always encroaching on me. And the unsettling throats of nocturnal dogs yowl horribly with the cacophony of a broken-hearted accordion.
          It was then that I became a storm of words that burst the hypocrisy of clouds and the falsity of silence. Rivers. Storms. Lightning. Mountains. Trees. Lights. Rains. Savage oceans. Take me to the core of your frenetic articulations. Take me ! A pinch of clarity would suffice so as I might be born a viable being. Because I accept life. Tension. The unyielding law of growth. Osmosis and symbiosis. Take me ! The noise of a step, of a look, of a stirring voice would suffice, because I live happily in the hope that waking is still a possibility for mankind. Take me ! How little would it take, for me to say that sap circulates in the marrow of cosmic joints.
          Lingo of hurricanes. Patois of rains. Language of storms. I say the flow of the spiralling life.

Share this poem

view comments

Comments (2)


You have written the best translation of a Franketienne’s text.
Can you translate the following passage from Dezafi?
Nou pa sekle
Raje pouse
Nou pase kle
Frize vole.


First time I read a translation that is true to Franketienne’s writing.
When can I read more?

Leave a comment