poetry is hard to translate

i have 88 keys and
felt hammers that
strike hidden strings
leading to my spinal
chord
and i remain silent
the world plays me
like a drum
but i won’t speak
there is a hat filled
with scraps of paper
we all dip our hands in
i have drawn words
that none of you
will ever guess

j'ai quatre-vingt-huit de touches
et marteaux de feutre qui
frappent les ficelles dissimulées
conduisant à mon moelle corde
et je reste muet
le monde joue de moi
comme un tambour
mais je ne parle pas
il y a un chapeau rempli
avec les bouts de papier
nos mains plongent à l’intérieur
j’ai pris les mots
personne ne les devinera

the way i write

writing comes from outside me and
i reach towards it with one hand
wrapped around a pencil, it snorts
and pounds the ground with
its hooves but i dress in a fancy sash
and turn my back to the audience.
writing is afraid of the helicopters
tracing its footprints with spotlights.
i promise writing i will never tell
anyone,
that it can hide behind my secret door
which is a luxurious very old bookcase
and when you pull on the almanac
from the year your grandfather was born
it will not come off the shelf.