Yekta

- France -

Born in 1979 in la Vallée aux Loups, near Paris, Yekta is a French poet and musician.

From 1998 to 2002 he performed on stage with the Actuel Free Théâtre and worked with director Claude Bernard. He also performed with two friends in a band called Librorbite, which mixes poetry, photography, painting, music and theater.

He was first published in 2006 in publications such as Pyro (Editions du Grand Incendie), Avel IX, Bacchanales, Borborygmes, Commune, La Passe, Le Sabord, Sarrazine or Voix d’encre.

In 2009 he was writer in residence in the Norman city of Eu for three months. He participated in international festivals in Charleville-Mézières and Namur. During his performances, he collaborated with Canadian band LES PAÏENS and other famous musicians like Jean-Marc Wadel, Jean-François Pauvros or Pierre Cussac.

Since 2014, he is member of the jury for the poem in prose Prize organised by the Association des amis de Louis Guillaume. He is involved in the French-English Poetry Festival and assumes several tasks in its magazine, La Traductière.

As a composer, author, guitarist, pianist and singer, Yekta collaborates in several projects linked to poetry. He composed the music for the videopoem STATUE directed par Nicolas Sandanassamy, and is working on a CD which will accompany his next book (Transignum editions).

More about the poet

Poetry

Internal Rhyme / Rime intérieure

at every page its aspect changes
its mouth always has the dark charm
of proffered lips of shared saliva
it mostly shows teeth mined by silence
and the white throat of those who inhale the wind
it pants like a dying marathon runner
breathes like hell’s ambassador
its singular voice has only my heart
to be born and disappear in a brief shipwreck
on the reef of sentences where time bleeds
where the soul unfolds where the being is armed
I alone make it speak as a nameless friend
in the darkness of an empty room
but its tongue is the flame of a sacred fire whiplash storm
and if on the book I nod off the poem invades
my dreams like a memory from long ago
and if I leave the book open on the table
and I stand up the poem follows me with its gaze
Translated by Roger Little
à chaque page change son visage
sa bouche a toujours le charme noir
des lèvres offertes d’une salive en partage
il montre surtout des dents creusées par le silence
et le gosier blanc des buveurs de vent
il a le souffle d’un marathonien mourant
l’haleine d’un consul des enfers
sa voix singulière n’a que mon coeur
où naître et disparaître l’instant d’un naufrage
sur l’écueil des phrases où saigne l’heure
où s’ouvre l’âme où s’arme l’être
moi seul le fais parler comme anonyme ami
dans la nuit d’une chambre vide
mais sa langue est flammèche d’un feu sacré fouet d’orage
et si sur le livre je m’assoupis le poème envahit
mes rêves comme une très ancienne mémoire
et si je laisse le livre ouvert sur la table
et que je me lève le poème me poursuit du regard
(Untitled) / (Untitled)

Night sees trees of chalk grow
on the blackboards of condemned schools
words grip on to each branch
it's me pursuing the book of my birth
among the dilapidated rooms I take
balancing lessons in the constellation of thoughts
I have learnt nothing from their handbooks
not even a phrase to contain me
not even the secrets of appearance
nicknames follow me I repeat stories to myself
but I know nothing of the being for whom I pray in the debacle
I am only an accent in the infinite language of the wind
come to blow the ashes of the dead
a sound distorted on the grain of doors
that I pass through without respite the better to lose myself
I encircle the invisible I cross-rule the silence
and so I live in the sketch bereft of a centre
the unconscious of the signs
Translated by Jan Owen
la nuit voit croître des arbres de craie
sur les tableaux d’écoles condamnées
sur chaque branche quelques mots s’étreignent
c’est moi qui poursuis le livre de ma genèse
parmi les salles délabrées je prends
des leçons d’équilibre dans la constellation de mes pensées
je n’ai rien appris de leurs manuels
pas même une phrase pour me contenir
pas même les secrets du paraître
des sobriquets me suivent je me répète des histoires
mais j’ignore tout de l’être pour qui je prie dans la débâcle
je ne suis qu’un accent dans la langue infinie du vent
venu souffler la cendre des morts
un son qui se déforme au fil des portes
que je franchis sans relâche pour m’égarer davantage
j’encercle l’invisible je quadrille le silence
ainsi vis-je dans l’esquisse privée de centre
l’inconscient des signes
(Untitled) / (Untitled)

at the foot of the bed the tracks of a beast
earth and blood on the rug
he gets up and follows the still fresh trail
walks down corridors across rooms
through the open door and reaches
the nearby woods
I can breathe its fur the animal is only a few metres away
he says to himself as he steps over cracks and crosses rivers
I can almost feel its heat I am getting close to it
he says to himself as he leaves cities with unfamiliar languages
but he has long since reached the animal
and with his eyes staring at the horizon he hasn’t seen
that the tracks before him have vanished
his feet are bleeding
and silently there
close behind him
someone’s following
Translated by Donald Winkler
au pied du lit les traces d’une bête
de la terre et du sang sur la moquette
il se lève et suit la piste encore fraîche
il longe les couloirs traverse les pièces
passe la porte ouverte et va
jusqu’à s’enfoncer dans la proche forêt
je respire son pelage l’animal n’est qu’à quelques mètres
se dit-il alors qu’il franchit déjà crevasses et rivières
je sens presque sa chaleur j’approche de la bête
se dit-il tandis qu’il quitte des villes aux langues infamilières
mais il a depuis longtemps rejoint l’animal
et les yeux rivés sur l’horizon n’a pas vu
que les traces ont devant lui disparu
que ses pieds saignent
et que sans bruit là
tout près derrière
un autre le suit

Yekta

- France -

Poetry

Internal Rhyme / Rime intérieure

(Untitled) / (Untitled)

(Untitled) / (Untitled)