Melancolie

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m e l a n c o l i e

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

— Baudelaire, L'Albatros

(the poet is like the prince of the clouds, who haunts the storm and laughs at the archer. exiled on the ground among the jeers, his giant wings keep him from walking.)

my name is celeste. i am seventeen.
i live in oregon, where it rains,
which is the only thing oregon has ever understood about me.

i am teaching myself french with a dictionary and a set of tapes from the library, because it is a language that sounds like it is always a little bit sad, even when it is ordering bread.

things i like: rain. the moon. black. tea with no sugar. the x-files. old cemeteries, which are only parks for people who have finished.

· · ·

pluie
il pleure dans mon cœur / comme il pleut sur la ville — verlaine

the rain in oregon
does not fall.
it stays.
it sits on the window
like a cat no one let in,
and i am the only one
who hears it asking.

cemetery, sunday

they say it is morbid
to read in a graveyard.
but the grass is kept
and the trees are old
and no one there asks me
what i want to be.
i read to a woman named eliza
who has been quiet since 1901.
she never interrupts.

la lune

the moon is only a stone
that the sun is kind to.
everyone looks at her.
no one visits.

a phase

my mother says
it is a phase.
so is the moon.
the moon has been doing it
for four billion years.

· · ·

if you understand, write to me.
[email protected]

souls who have wandered here:

last updated 13 september 1999. it was raining.
best viewed at night, with the lights off.
© 1999 celeste

ps i love my dog. his name is biscuit and he is not gloomy at all. don't tell anyone.