Poems

From the tree, always the tree.

In its sap flows our veins.

All those tiny bits of wood,

These bits of himself, these bits of himself,

I like it.

And then one day, a wink, from him to me, from us to him, almost at the end of his life, there in front, just in front,

The animal.

Here it is.

It’s waiting for me to bring it back to life.

Like a surgeon of the verb “to love”, to give him back what he has lost.

A wing, a claw, a horn, an eye, always made of glass.

Capturing the light in its slightest glint.

His eyes remain youthful.

He’s there in front of us and knows exactly where he comes from, what he wants, with the little and the almost nothing, he’s happy.

No fear, no time, no age, just the presence of sharing.

Too bad, too good. He’s sweetly cheerful.

Here I write on it: “To the trees, et cetera…”.

For me, sculpture is the materialization of feelings.

It’s simple and to the point.

She doesn’t play, she doesn’t cheat,

she is the very consciousness of beauty.

For and with my job as an agricultural sculptor,

in my opinion, it’s the best way to express

the painful recognition of the farming world.

Humanity is nothing if it doesn’t recognize its mother.

The one that gives birth to it and nourishes it: the Earth.

The man,

this fragile, light seed is nothing

without the food that keeps it alive.

Respect, recognition and transmission.

Furrow after furrow,

let’s join together to listen to the song of the third dimension.

Beyond sculpture, I want to talk about art,

the one who raises, the one who brings, the one who germinates.

In silence,

in the transparency of time that makes, of time that is,

Always ready for the eternal moment of peace

and sow in freedom to reap the fraternity tear.

Fair and simple

In the beginning, the TREE.

Remember chlorophyll,

With a wink,

A no-brainer,

From wood to man, living,

An intimate trace of our existence.

We are linked, connected by the profound reality of life,

Essentially living together.

All these pieces of wood,

Often abandoned,

have been used and touched by human hands.

Their memory is intact.

I prepare them like a feast day,

I straighten them, give them a pedestal and, in a peasant impulse

I bring them new germination,

a spark of light,

a new chance.

Glass to express life and survival,

for and with the joy of being born, of being reborn without perhaps being.

No doubt back on the road in the early morning,

they’ve come a long way and now they’re going even further.

to show their strength and fragility,

their generosity to love again and again.

Sometimes even without bark,

Beyond an aged body, they give back the year Life,

Beyond almost nothing,

In the secret assembly of care, they are there

With us and for us.

Again and again, like a new seed,

In an intimate and ultimate suit of humility and interiority,

of joy and dew,

Happy to exist

and in a flight of freedom

they try to reach the heart of the standing man of clay,

and Raimer, to reach the silence of Peace.

What more can we do than bring Life to Beauty.

Here we are, already, now, at this moment, in this state of affairs,

in a state of evidence that keeps us on our feet and moving forward.

These beings are the latest to emerge from a liberated space.

From these heads escaped from the fire, the best of the tree remains a thought.

From this glass neck, another fragility and column between thought and materiality.

These beings are dressed in sacks of wheat, corn, bags of life at the service of our lives.

As with our lives, fill, empty, wear out, and with joy they are overturned and illuminated by the light.

The inner light that is given to every living being. These open bags, torn between the heart and the lower abdomen, right at the precise point from which strength springs.

It’s protected and filtered by a glass plate, a utensil they use to eat.

Take and be aware of our Food, essential to our Life. We are what we eat.

Finally, these beings stand on a pedestal that links them to the earth and to the work of men: a disc, an agricultural tool as a root.

Their outfit also has a few mirror-like spots; without being narcissistic, it’s the link, the correspondence like a lighthouse at the end of the pier.

These beings, my beings, have received everything, experienced everything; they only move forward in awareness of the essential, in serenity, austerity and a deep relationship with this inner light that is their only notion of healing. They’re out of that poor duality: beyond influence, beyond fear, beyond brokenness. Just an intense inwardness, a personality that drives them to be surely connected to others and to something else.

They are Dioms, half God, half Man. Simply exceptional beings of great wisdom.

They are in knowledge. Everything is within them, and it’s because they are Thems that they can be with others. They are in Transmission.

Poverty is the refuge in the Other, or the accusation of the Other.

They are Luminously Happy.

Together in the field, in the sound of the wind,

Near the Golden Bird Tree,

They are at peace.