Take me home

27 November 2010


When it is all over and finally done

When my breath will have stopped

When all colour from me has gone

When my heart many a beat skipped

Take me home


 When the light in my eye is so jaded

When dark night is paler than my lips

When all rose from my nails has faded

When you see a black tinge at the tips

Take me home


When movement catches not my eye

When my head is stiff, held upright

When of my bosom you hear no sigh

When my hand is rigidly closed tight

Take me home


When my toe extended stays curled

When my body’s twist seems awkward

When not a word from me is hurled

When my gaze passing looks onward

Take me home


When you lay me down feel no sorrow

When all is left of me is but mere ashes

When you speak I will be in the morrow

When you read me, I’ll come in flashes

I am finally home


Reading of my poem on youtube


Point break, the limits of injustice that disappoint

9 November 2010


 Σ ∞

I await that one truly Just at last they will appoint

This justice system with injustice, us it did anoint

My finger is crooked my every member is disjoint

To wait and to point, myself, in vain I disappoint

 Σ ∞

The waiting that stretches beyond breaking point

I am dead sea as arthritis invades my every joint

To injustice and inequity every finger I may point

But wailing and pointing, in vain are, though joint

 Σ ∞

Reading of my poem on youtube


 Σ ∞


 Σ ∞


French justice, a cloak of wear and tear

9 November 2010



Fool I try to catch now what I had let go, haughty mare

Ailments in wailing I cry me a pail so wail as they stare

I go on oblivious to their frowns heeding not their glare

Banshee and ogress I turn, I once little frightened hare


I run in a competition that has no concept left of the fair

My ankles flailing don’t allow me to climb so many a stair

Higher in injustice I rise and oxygen in purity fails my pair

Air I beseech, sweet air, oh I gasp within my hidden lair


I run, reach out but all I reach is nothing but this thin air

I run here, no, wrong place it is there, I cry tear my hair

I seek; know not how to reach within this vile Vanity Fair

Blue white red between grey mirth and such dark despair


Their justice more injustice would once more for us bare

In impunity they carve into their system with such care

Intricate details to make you win any if not all your share

Of misery as they deny you. Fight back? Don’t you dare!






Exchanging role, relinquishing control

4 November 2010

Alas I am now imprisoned in my mind

And it seems I cannot set myself free

For no reason I have to always remind

Myself of torment and with such glee

How to know when is the time to let go

How to know if blinded you cannot see

It is more difficult than you’d ever know

It would be for you, it is so hard for me

Some say it is a mere question of now

Some deprive you of access to eternity

Some crude, lewd fail to even see how

You cannot, now set free, be but felicity

I shake my head say this is mine plight

You cannot bear it, for it is mine to be

And on I would stay at it awake all night

Cloaked in renewed anguish and misery

Darkness had me many a thought grind

As my mind wandered from coast to sea

I never meant to turn and look behind

You were meant to disappear, a remedy

And through those nights I’d toil and row

As I tended and cared to them mine three

Alas you now smothered my trace in snow

Left me out in cold night wailing banshee

When the marriage is dissolved no vow

Does that dissolve for me my maternity?

I bore them in me then, despite our row

You cannot fail my right to love but see

I wither as he deprives me of their sight

My anguish is my only robe to the knee

I stumble may fall, I never learnt to fight

What was supposed to be one knit family

Reading of my poem on youtube


My colour blue

4 November 2010


I was thinking of memories that come sweet

Memories soft when I think of us two

And as always it comes when our eyes meet

Soft and heartfelt my colour blue


Take it away take it away and make it flee

All sadness will go now with you

As always when you come to just cloak me

Goes away from me the colour blue


Time comes goes by and relentless I know

That for always you’d paint me with you

Time to time pink and rosy or yellow

When summer comes and shows us its dew


Take it away take it away this sadness

And let the happiness shine through

For always when you come to me love

There’s no scent left of my colour blue


Memories scorch me as they come engulf me

For without you it would come so true

Oh I thought I had lost it so rosy

Yet it comes back forlorn my colour blue


Take it away take it away with gladness

The gladness I found out with you

And for always this colour paint rosy

So I can forget my colour blue


But then darkness may come and wash over

All these rosy and pastels we knew

And it always remains as it was then

Only me and that washed colour blue


Take it away take it away this madness

This madness when I’m missing you

For I still feel now and never less

Always painted this sad colour blue


And it always remains as it was then

Only me and that washed colour blue

Only me and that washed colour blue


Reading of my poem on youtube



Burn witch burn

And the witch burnt, flames crackling in delight

As her ghastly cackles rang wildly through the night

September 17 and October 10, 2010


Stacking, packing, they crowed so, cheered on

Soon this dark Witch would be burnt, be gone

The trial you ask? Village fool a cloak did don

In the land of why not and a time once upon


The men lined up jeering were hardly forlorn

One whistled soft sneers, another blew a horn

The women between two minds seemed torn

A woman gazed intently, nursing a new-born


The wood was there now, it seemed enough

This burning, a chore, would not be so tough

They piled hearth, the smooth and the rough

A fledgling cried silenced by his mother’s cuff


Yet the waif looked on at that tasteless sight

He seemed to find that in her dark was light

Prying open the maternal clutch ever so tight

He approached the pyre so observe he might


Bushes thorny white into her hair had grown

To hold back her arms that eerie glow shone

And while there she stood on the altar alone

The moonlight sparkled on her face of stone


With haggard glazed eyes she gazed around

Hands, helpless, behind her, she was bound

Eyes resting on that cherub’s face so round

She felt less the gnawing of the ruddy hound


And as the fire soared higher, much higher

Lighting up her dark’s doom to their desire

Of the flame she felt not much the bite dire

Her eyes locked on to the eyes that inspire


And so burnt the witch on a day of plenty

An age she counted two twenty and twenty

After she burnt, in the square again empty

The waif looked within where she lay gently


Skipping away, as the sky had turned black

The waif ran home never even looking back

For he held now close tight in his heart rack

A shadow of her vengeance he would stack


Reading of my poem on youtube



Stack the wood, light the fire

St Patrick’s day  

St Jeanne’s way  

11 September 2010  

You took a second look  

A wish that came true  

For in that small book  

The colour was so blue  

Twas a new age Avatar  

In a world full of change  

Living in a coloured Bazaar  

That may a mind derange  

You feel good and I feel blue  

Rhyme in woods for me and you  

And as you will that blue admire  

Some just stack it for their bonfire  

Bring the wood and stuff the hay  

Hasten now your step you crowd  

St Patrick or else St Jeanne’s day  

All fire we’ll cheer clear and loud  

It might be that it’s St Patrick’s day  

They danced and feasted in delight  

For finally they’d have their way  

The witch will burn now in its light 



Reading of a modified version of the poem

Mon cri – My cry

Dans certaines traditions indiennes comme dans certaines arabes (berbères aussi), les familles qui vivent de grandes tragédies engagent une pleureuse qui, à travers ses cris et lamentations permet à la famille de rester composée et digne. Voici ma pleureuse. Une gitane, comme il convient pour mon esprit libre et voyageur.


In some Indian traditions as in some Arab (as well as Berber), families who live great tragedies resort to a mourner who, through her cries and lamentations allows the family to stay composed and dignified. Here is my mourner. A gypsy, as befits my free wandering spirit.

Weathering storms

“Rather windy isn’t it?”  

28 August 2010  

Woman all over the world, suffering

We yield not in vain shuddering 

But pliable reeds, we flex in pain 

To spring back to our tall selves again 

While the strong oak may tower

Over us and want us to cower 

We welcome with love and consent 

All hate, anger and resentment 

To turn darkness into bright light

Despite the hate, despite the spite 

For when HE gave us to hold a womb 

HE knowingly gave within us a tomb 

For the world’s hatred as we can bear 

From suffering more than our share 

But with the womb he gave us the seeds 

To grow within us those slight, silken reeds 

A gift of love so, many a storm, we may weather

With a heart, though sinking, light as a feather 

So when the mighty oak from storms splits 

We resume our grace that us so befits

Tranche de vie avec l’aîné

Lien vidéo et texte anglais plus bas / Video link and english translation below french text

25 août 2010

Depuis le jugement que l’on m’a communiqué le 12 août – jour de mon anniversaire, j’enregistre toutes les conversations avec mes enfants. Je veux d’une part pouvoir toujours établir la vérité (puisque mon ex-mari essaie de m’affubler de la réputation de la méchante sorcière) mais surtout d’autre part, je voudrais conserver un souvenir, quelque chose pour meubler ces tristes instants où je suis privée de leur vue et de leur voix.

Cette tranche de vie-là, comme vous l’entendrez, elle a trait à une discussion entre mon fils de 13 ans et moi où je lui demande encore, pour vérifier, s’il veut revenir chez moi ou s’il a changé d’avis. Je l’informe de mon blog, essaie de lui expliquer les détails de ce qui est arrivé avec le jugement, de lui expliquer les différentes parties de la procédure, son déroulement, comment on aurait dû examiner les faits, quels étaient les critères.

Il est très intelligent et a été tellement frustré et choqué du jugement qu’il avait pleuré et était resté silencieux pendant très longtemps car il n’arrivait pas à comprendre ce qui s’était mal passé. Pour son cerveau intelligent mais si innocent encore, tout était évident, précis et chronométré comme une montre suisse. Il n’y avait pas de possibilités d’accrocs qui auraient pu leur porter tort. Je lui parle et lui explique, essayant avec l’humour de le sortir de ce coin sombre où il s’est réfugié plein de colère et d’amertume. Je suis triste et c’est difficile pour moi d’invoquer l’humour en ce moment mais j’y ai déjà eu recours avant et sais que je dois l’atteindre avant que la colère et le côté sombre ne prenne le dessus sur ce petit être si plein de fierté et de lumière avant. Si mur, si intelligent, si sage mais encore – quelque part – un enfant.

J’essaie de savoir ce que leur père leur dit car je sais mieux depuis cette année qu’en fait il n’a eu de cesse de les manipuler, d’essayer de les retourner contre moi, d’utiliser toutes les occasions même quand il était hébergé chez moi pour leur faire croire que j’étais une mauvaise mère, une méchante femme qui voulait uniquement lui faire mal.

Pour bien comprendre cette tranche de vie et les bizarreries qui pourraient exister dans ce récit, il faut savoir plusieurs choses :

– Le père ne laisse pas ses enfants me contacter librement

– Parfois quand on parle, le père est là à côté debout pour on ne sait quelle raison puisque lui et moi n’avons plus rien à nous dire ; du coup les enfants se comportent étrangement ou ne parlent plus que par monosyllabes

– Souvent mes appels restent sans réponse alors que j’entends sonner de l’autre côté (je ne sais pas si le téléphone est coupé) et souvent le téléphone est en dérangement

– Quand le temps entre deux appels devient trop long et que je fais intervenir la famille, mon ex-mari est obligé de me faire parler aux enfants mais le fait en exerçant encore ses talents de manipulateur : 1) pour le grand, il essaie de lui trouver une activité dont il raffole et ne lui permet de l’exercer que juste avant qu’il ne m’appelle 2) pour le petit, il allume la télé sur la chaîne de ses dessins animés favoris juste avant de m’appeler et fait ensuite semblant d’obliger Léo à venir me parler ce qui provoque de la colère, des cris, une crise de la part de Léo et je dois alors moi-même demander à ce que Léo retourne à son dessin animé (il est trop petit pour comprendre et son hyperactivité ne l’aide pas à être plus conciliant et capable de discernement)  3) pour Léa il lui permet de voir ses émissions favorites juste avant qu’elle ne parle avec moi.

Ces techniques de manipulation réussissent avec le petit, parfois avec le grand (il n’y peut rien quand on vous prive d’un hobby et qu’on vous le donne juste à un certain moment, vous le prenez, c’est légitime et je ne lui en veux pas) mais jamais avec Léa qui est toujours tout de suite là au rendez-vous. Mais même Léa vit mal et réagit contre ses  manipulations d’une manière tout à elle, en rébellion, en nervosité, en agressivité

Vous aurez plus l’occasion de constater, dans d’autres vidéos, les effets de ces techniques de manipulation utilisées par ce père au mépris de la souffrance immédiate que c’est en train de causer mais – et c’est surtout cela qui me torture – au mépris total de l’effet à long terme de ce comportement sur la psyché de ces enfants.

Toutes les occasions étaient bonnes pour lui de leur montrer combien il souffrait de leur absence, il a utilisé à outrance la carte du chantage affectif et malgré tout les enfants n’avaient pas flanché parce qu’ils avaient déjà eu l’occasion de voir – pendant mes voyages d’affaire – combien il était mieux pour eux de ne pas être avec lui durant les périodes scolaires. Non pas qu’ils ne l’aimaient pas du tout, c’est juste qu’ils connaissaient mieux leur intérêt et leur salut. Une sorte d’instinct de survie de cette jungle urbaine quand vous sentez dans vos os ce qui est mieux pour vous quand vous possédez le don d’une pensée indépendante que vous êtes intelligent.

Il a donc eu recours à la force pour les soumettre à sa volonté et a été bien aidé par la justice en cela. Puisqu’ils ne voulaient pas venir avec la douceur, le chantage affectif et les mille promesses, eh bien ils viendraient contraints et forcés.

S’ils étaient majeurs, on aurait qualifié ceci de kidnapping. Quel autre mot en effet pour une personne qui prend d’autres personnes contre leur gré ? Peut-on l’appeler autrement juste parce que c’est sanctionné, même favorisé par la justice ? Peut-on l’appeler autrement parce qu’il s’agit de leur père ?

La justice a un comportement ambigu quant à la liberté individuelle et une notion un peu particulière de quand et comment elle peut s’exercer. Je veux bien croire qu’on ne peut pas sanctionner un enfant mineur récalcitrant qui veut s’affranchir de tout parent et vivre sa vie nu, tout seul dans la rue. Mais un enfant mineur, capable de discernement, qui veut juste pouvoir vivre une vie normale et heureuse, plutôt que cette rengaine malheureuse Métro – boulot – dodo que son père, sorcier apprenti, nous convertit en Pajéro – école de beaux – dodo ? A-t-on le droit dans la toile de vie appartenant à un enfant d’égarer la palette et les pinceaux, écarter les couleurs pour ne laisser que les nuances lasses de gris que l’enfant martèle sur la toile à coups de tête à défaut d’un instrument plus approprié ?

On pourrait me reprocher que je tiendrais un discours autre si c’est un autre choix qui leur cœur habitait. Mais loin de moi cette veule hypocrisie. Mes convictions, je les revendique, je les vis. J’ai toujours cru, très fort, aux paroles sages du poète Gibran Khalil Gibran quand il décrit le rapport des parents à leurs enfants. A part l’habituel rengaine des bonnes manières, afin d’en faire des êtres dont tout le monde pourra être fier, je limite mes interventions à leur expliquer les chemins leur en laissant le choix, l’orientation.

Et de ces vidéos que je compose, comme un désespérant bouquet de rose, il n’en restera que l’ambigüe question, quelle était donc leur vraie intention ? Et moi, connaissant ma vérité, tout ce que je vous dirai, c’est que j’ai voulu la partager, vous la faire expérimenter. Vous regardez, en tirez vos conclusions et décidez si j’ai eu tort ou raison. Car je continue encore mon combat, je continue le cœur frêle et las. Ne sachant des deux crimes, quel dilemme ! Que choisir se taire ou exprimer ce problème.

Aujourd’hui je m’exprime et partage malgré mon silence de tout temps avant ce drame qui le fait éclater, mon vœu de silence. On me prend mes enfants et en plus contre leur gré, pour les soumettre à une tyrannie pour aucune autre raison que celle-là : « Parce qu’on peut le faire. Parce que pour une personne qui connaît bien les rouages de la justice, il est facile de soumettre l’autre à sa volonté » alors je m’insurge et romps mon silence. Un silence absurde de pénitent qui n’est ni de saint ni de moine mais simplement de femme conditionnée à ne pas dévoiler, à ne pas raconter aux autres ses malheurs. Comment vas-tu ? Bien.    Saignes-tu ? Tes yeux sont-ils pleins de larmes ? Qu’importe ! On ne s’attachera qu’à cette phrase anodine de bienséance qui sort de ta bouche comme une vipère que tu craches de dégoût et d’impuissance, de bienséance.

Bienséance, pudeur, stupide Omerta organisée par les familles, les amis parfois par les femmes mêmes contre les femmes. La bienséance pour la bonne conscience ; pour que les hommes puissent se regarder et se supporter pour qu’amis et famille ne soient pas dérangés dans leur quotidien, dans leur gentille quiétude, par la sordide et injuste vérité que vit leur prochain, leur voisin.

Cette vidéo-ci est divisée en plusieurs parties puisque j’ai les moyens limités et ne peux mettre ensemble les 25 mn entières que j’ai pu discuter avec lui. J’ai essayé de lui apporter un peu de réconfort, un peu de pensée claire, de rationalité dans ce monde absurde qu’il ne comprenait plus. Il était blessé, taciturne et replié sur lui-même et au fur et à mesure que la conversation se déroule, je me rends compte combien lui, l’aîné de la fratrie, a essayé désespérément de raisonner avec son père sans succès. Je me rends compte combien il faut que je lui explique tout, que je le soutienne dans l’exercice de sa volonté avec l’humour de cette maman qu’il a toujours connu ainsi, sans trop lui faire part de ma propre colère. Encore un autre exercice d’équilibriste. Je n’ai jamais été douée pour les jeux de cirque mais poussée dans ce ring, sous ce projecteur cru, je me découvre, moi aussi, une nouvelle capacité de survie.

Vidéo en 3 parties/video in 3 parts: cela a pris du temps car ce fut un exercice techniquement et émotionnellement difficile, la discussion ayant duré plus de 20 minutes et aussi parce que j’étais confrontée plusieurs fois de suite à la souffrance de Léo / It took time as it was a difficult technical and emotional exercise given that the discussion was more than 20 minutes and that I had to witness and bear over and over again Léo’s suffering.





Since the judgment that was released on 12th August – my birthday, I record all conversations with my children. I want one hand to always establish the truth (since my ex-husband is trying to create for me the reputation of the Wicked Witch), but above all else, I want a souvenir, something to fill those sad moments when I am deprived of their sight and their voices.

This slice of life there, as you will hear it, concerns a discussion between my 13 year old son and me when I ask him again, just to check, whether he still wants to return home to me or whether he has changed his mind. I inform him of my blog, trying to explain the details of what happened with the trial, to explain the different parts of the procedure, its progress, how one should have considered the facts, what were the criteria. He is very intelligent and was so frustrated and shocked with the judgment and had cried and was angry and silent for a long time as he could not understand what went wrong. To his intelligent but yet innocent mind everything was so obvious, neat as clockwork. There were no possible glitches that should have worked against them. I speak to him, explaining trying with humour to get him out of his dark corner where he lies in anger and bitterness. I am sad and it is difficult for me to invoke humour but I have done it before and I know I must get to him before the darkness and anger takes over this small being once so full of light and pride. So mature, so intelligent and wise, yet still somewhat a child.

I try to know what their father tells them because I know better since this year since that he never ceased to try to manipulate them, to try to turn them against me, using every opportunity even when he had been staying with us, as a guest in my house, to make them think I was a bad mother, a wicked woman who only wanted to hurt him.

To understand this slice of life and odd elements that might exist and that one cannot understand in this video, one must know several things:

– The father does not let his children contact me freely

– Sometimes when we speak, the father is standing there next to them for some unknown reason since he and I have nothing more to say to each other; hence the children are behaving strangely or only speak in monosyllables

– Often my calls go unanswered, so I hear ringing on the other side (I do not know if the phone is off) and often the phone seems engaged

– When the time between calls is getting too long and I have to get the family to intervene, my ex-husband is forced to make me talk to the children but does it while exercising his talents as manipulator: 1) for the older one, he tries to find an activity he enjoys a lot and allows him to exercise that hobby only right before he calls me 2) for the little one, he turns the TV on and sets it to the little one’s favourite cartoons just before calling me and then pretends to force Leo to come and talk to me therefore causing anger, screaming, and a fit from Leo thus forcing me to ask that Léo be returned to his favourite cartoons (he is too small to understand and hyperactivity did not help to be more accommodating and discerning) 3) for Léa he allows her to see her favourite shows just before she is supposed to speak with me.

– These manipulation techniques are successful with the little one and sometimes with the eldest (there is nothing you can do; when you are deprived of a hobby and given it back at a certain point in time, you take it, this is legitimate and I do not blame him) but never with Lea who is always immediately there for the skype appointment. But even she lives badly the situation and reacts to this manipulation in her own way, with rebellion, restlessness, aggressiveness.

You’ll get the chance to see the effects of these manipulation techniques, in other videos, used by the father not only with complete disregard for the immediate suffering that is being caused but – especially and this is what tortures me so – in complete disregard of the long-term effect of this conduct on the psyche of these children.

All the opportunities available were good enough for him to show them how much he suffered from their absence, he used to oblivion the card of emotional blackmail and yet the kids did not flinch because they had already had the occasion to see – during my business trips – how much better it was for them not to be with him during school times. Not that they did not love him at all, it is just that they knew were lied their best interest and salvation. A sort of survival instinct of the urban jungle when you know in your bones what is better for you when you are endowed with free thought and an intelligent mind.

He therefore resorted to force to submit them to his will and was well supported by justice in this. Since they would not come with the smooth talk, emotional blackmail and a thousand promises, then they would come constrained and forced to.

If they were adults, we would have called this kidnapping. What other word in effect for a person who takes other people against their free will? Can we call it anything else just because it is sanctioned, even helped by the court? Can we call it anything else just because he is their father?

Justice has an ambiguous attitude towards individual freedom and a somewhat unusual notion of when and how it can be exercised. I agree that we cannot accept that a recalcitrant minor simply eliminates from his/her life any parent and live a life naked, alone in the street. But a minor child who is capable of discernment, who just wants to live a normal and happy life, rather than this unfortunate buzz word “Metro-boulot-dodo” translated as Tube – work – sleep, as his father, an apprentice sorcerer alkazams into “Pajéro-école de beaux – dodo” or Pajero – school of the fine – sleep? Do we have the right in the painting of a child’s life to seize the palette, the brushes, set aside the colours leaving only sad shades of gray, as the weary child pounds on the canvas with his forehead, failing a more appropriate tool?

One could blame me that I would be talking another language if their hearts held another choice. But truly I abhor such spineless hypocrisy. I claim my beliefs and live them. I always believed, very strongly, the wise words of the poet Jibran Khalil Jibran, when he describes the relationship of parents to their children. Besides the usual refrain of good manners in order to make of them human beings that everyone can be proud of, I limit my intervention to explaining the pathways leaving the choice of direction.

And of these videos that I here link, like a desperate bunch of rosy pink, the only matter that will remain is the ambiguous question, what was their real intention? And I, knowing my truth in it, all I will say is that I wanted to share it, allow you to experiment it. You look, draw your own conclusions and decide whether I was right or wrong. Because I continue my fight, martial art, I continue with my frail and weary heart. Unsure from the two crimes, what a dilemma! What to choose: be silent or show the stigmata.

Today I am speaking and sharing despite my all-time silence before this tragedy that shatters my vow of silence. They take my children against their will, to submit them to a tyranny for no other reason than this “Because they can. Because for a person who knows the tricks of justice, it is easy to submit the other to his will “, so I make an exception and break my silence. An absurd penitent silence that is neither that of a saint nor that of a monk, but simply of a woman conditioned not to reveal, not to tell others her misfortunes. How are you? Good.    You bleed? Your eyes are full of tears? Whatever! They will only attach themselves to this innocuous sentence of decency that comes out of your mouth like a snake that you spit in disgust, in helplessness, in propriety.

Propriety, decency, stupid Omerta organized by families, friends, sometimes even by women against women. Decency for a feel good conscience, so that men may look at themselves and bear themselves, so that friends and family are not disturbed in their daily lives, in their nice tranquillity, by the sordid and unfair truth lived by the neighbour, their fellow human being.

This video is divided into several parts because I have limited resources and cannot put together the entire 25 minutes that I could talk with him. I tried to bring a little comfort, a little clear thinking, and rationality in this absurd world that he could no longer understand. He was wounded, silent and introvert and gradually as the conversation unfolds, I realize how much he, the eldest sibling, tried desperately and unsuccessfully to reason with his father. I realize how important it is that I explain everything, that I support him in the exercise of his will with the humor of this mother that he has always known this way, without expressing too much my own anger. Yet another tightrope. I’ve never been good at circus games but pushed into the circus ring, under this crude projector, I discovered, too, a new ability for survival.