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Poem for l.w. (*)


Could I,

would I

give you

a sky.





you like.



the clouds

would be


the dreams



to come true.



you would


on them.


(l.w.  for  Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the famous poet of the beat generation and the counterculture in San Francisco)



a game called eternity

The simplicity

of life

and the complexity

of death

play a game

called eternity


the complexity

of life

and the simplicity

of death


portrait of a man


What would

you do

if the rain

fell up ?


Me ?




Get used

to living

on a cloud,

I guess.

against conformity and averageism


I hate,



they are evil

as habitual hunger

in a child's stomach,



who try

to change man

the hunter for truth


a castrated cow


in the peace

of mental death.

Somebody Comes to This Place


it is an old story.

Somebody comes to this place

and gros up in the shadows of buildings

and stars and other somebodies.


Somebody learn to love :

to know intimately the houses

of the spirit and the flash.


Somebody learn to hate and kill

and stream and curse like hell.


Somebody learn to be affadi and lonely

and sad, and to know the secret

of darkness.


Somebody learns to like the rain,

and things which are soft and green,

and hot food and cold water,

and the blanket of sleep,

and the music of the land and the sky.


Somebody learn so many things.


It is an old story.


Somebody comes to this place ...

and lives ...

and then goes away forever.


The Haunted Heart


Life's greatest tragedy

is the haunted heart. In which

a huge love presides. A love

that cannot be resolved,

that cannot find the meaning of a kiss,

the peace of an embrace.


Always there is a man who loves a woman

that does not love him.


The shutters of 'the haunted heart bang, the floors


and the sound of crying comes from a dark room.

creation of a poem


A delicate bird

hit against

night's cruel beauty

and promptly laid

and enchanted egg.

family portrait 2


Three skinny


of bread

whose eyes

are crystallised



Beat your poem :  


Just change one syllabe or letter in order to find another word, and follow your music, imagination and rythm.   Beat your poem now !


As an example, I beat one as it came, from the poem   family portrait 2 :

Family portrait 1   by   Laurence Marie Noé        (a brautigan dream)

Two crispy


of Creoles


whose cheers

are chrisalised



Got it ? It's as easy as a piece of cake,  isn't it ? and you can write thousands of them.

Send your poems in commentaries (at the end of my article), leaving your blog link  in  commentaries, or send it to plauranice.gmail.com.

 I will give your poem a special place

and a  page in my blog ...




Vous pouvez faire le même atelier en français : choisissez un des poèmes proposés et changez une ou plusieurs lettres dans les mots, de façon à fabriquer d'autres mots qui se rapprochent par le son de ceux de Brautigan.

Gardez le nombre de mots et le rythme, peut-être la musique. Mon principe malgré tout est de rester libre.

Alors à vos plumes et envoyez vos poèmes ou créations à  plauranice@gmail.com ou dans l'espace "commentaires" à la fin de l'article. Vous pouvez y entrer l'adresse URL de votre blog si vous en avez un.

A bientôt  !




Richard Brautigan put an end to his life  in 1984 in Bolinas,  Washington State. He was the "Last of the Beats".

His poetry was a laboratory of experiences.

He wanted to give the clouds the shape of  desires. He practiced collages, associations of words and ideas. The incongruous as well as the strangeness breaks and blurs  our perception of something we have known or  experienced before. 


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