2 poems by Ivan de Monbrison


They will not go further that day, they are both old with their gray hair and already quite tired; and this is quite normal. The field is empty and stretches far ahead, except for a few black crows flying low, here or there. The road goes on and turns on the right, in the direction of the nearby forest. They themselves turn around and walk back on their steps, in silence towards the little house, from which they had left for their walk earlier on, when it was still not evening yet, and in the afternoon. They meet on the way a child with the legs of a bird instead of human legs with a blade of grass in his mouth, then a young peasant with a mystical madman’s face, screaming all alone as addressing himself to some invisible demon, it seems to them at least, some wild hare running away and followed by a fox, and finally a tree bent down so much, that it could maybe fall on the ground at the slightest gust of wind. Time passes, they keep on walking still in silence. Finally when it’s already dusk, they reach their little house. The sky is almost red and it’s cold now. It’s going to rain tonight because the wind has started to blow in the meantime, and will surely bring the clouds along, and the tired old tree will be able finally to let it go and fall.

They disappear inside the house, closing the door carefully behind them. After that, sitting in silence in the large and sole room of the ground floor, they eat their soup and some dry bread, drinking wine. Once done, they go up to their room to go to bed. They close the shutters, and, finally, they can close both their eyes.

It’s pitch dark outside, and indeed, it has begun to rain on the road and on the empty fields.


no one dares to speak. the door has been left open. the courtyard outside is empty. there is the voice of a woman crying, all alone, somewhere, hidden in an upstairs apartment. the courtyard is almost empty, except for a few plants that someone had put into some pots before, and which really need to be watered, you kind of guess.

the sky is gray but it is not raining yet, it is very cold this January, it often freezes at night. you wonder how the homeless people manage to survive all day long and at night outside, with this cold. once, recently, you walked by a woman, who always sleeps at the very same place in a street, who keeps hiding her face, who was this time busy speaking all alone, just to herself, you guessed that she was kind of delirious. in the neighborhood there is also a mother and her daughter who have been living on the street for quite a few years, always dressed in black, who do not speak to anyone. the daughter is of an indefinable age, the mother is very old and will probably die in the next few years. you wonder what will become of her daughter then. for you, you are just lucky, even if you live like a hermit, you have a roof of your own, and you can eat at leisure.

the night is already over. no one dares to speak. the door has been left open. the courtyard outside is empty, but you hear the voice of a woman, crying alone somewhere; who will never stop crying, no matter what, until the end of the day.


Ivan de Monbrison is a schizoid writer from France born in 1969 and affected by various types of mental disorders, he has published some poems in the past, he’s mostly an autodidact.

Image created on Stable Diffusion 2- 1