The Poetic Beauty Of Cœur De Pirate |La Beauté Poétique De Cœur De Pirate.

Truly beautiful music is hard to find. I am always searching for new artists and sifting through popular media for the good stuff. One such artist that I have found is the Canadian Francophone singer Cœur De Pirate, (In English this translates to 'Pirate Heart')  her music and poetic lyrics are amazing, I have been listening her songs nearly non-stop for about 2 months now. Not all of her music is in french, she also has english language music as well.

Some of my favorite songs are:

  • Place de la République
  • Comme Des Enfants
  • Oublie-moi
  • La Petite Mort
  • Tu Oublieras Mon Nom

 

I am in the process of learning to speak and write french, and as each new word or phrase comes into clarity, I will notice the word in one of the french artists music I have been listening to, it is like a little light comes on in my head when I recognize the word. What started out as a way to learn more french by trying to immerse myself in the music and culture, has become a new found love of French language music. I have been listening to Cœur De Pirate, Stanislas, and Jacques Brel for several months now.

The music of Coeur De Pirate is unique in its mix of heartfelt poetic expression and great piano work, this is the kind of music I love no matter what the language of choice is. This is what music should be.

Granular

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Scratching granular across the page; ink attaching at the molecular layer to mush paper fibers, bleeding at the feathers into the next line.

Dusty sharp pen scrawls push scent smells up and into my memories. Proust has nothing on mould, pens, papers and forget his damn madeleines.

Candles flickering at the corners of the page, dim lights turning my scrawling into mere shadows, fading from the light, dimly bleeding away.

Can we catch our tears before they drip from the page, and fall as ink into dust?

-Ezra

Oh Sea

Oh Crushing Sea
Crashing salty wet brine leaping off cold wind on to my scorched face, twisting, crawling, trying to burrow deeper into my warm shell of a coat. My fingers are numb at the deep edges.

Gulls want more, they scream at me to run in; to try and drown myself upon the soaked and scratched coral sea-bed. They are furious at me; angry that I do not care to worship Neptune in his salty temple.

They are his minions and scraggly temple slaves hooded in white; half demon -half dove. They have been cast from the frigid crushing sea to scream and cry for bread and for blood on the lonely shore.

Circling in great clouds  of white they push, they call, they plead. Into the salty tear soaked spray: the teeth of the storm. I slosh, I tremble, I fall. Sinking slowly down to a shell strewn path that leads farther down into the blackness.

-Ezra Hilyer