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Yann Rolland Poem
O flowers, your soul is so beautiful,
I would like to know you all,
You populate so many vast gardens,
Your silences are filled with treasures,
O flowers, I cannot name all of you,
Neither compare you,
Petunias, Magnolias, orchids,
You undo my chains with a single attraction,
O benevolent angels, you offend no one,
A rose alone in a blue vase
Change the life of a painter, or the fate of the world,
O flowers, how to end my life without loving you?
O flowers, how would my poem end
If you didn’t exist?
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2025
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Yann Rolland Poem
In my back, yellow mountains, glittering with a thousand bursts,
Of course, the sun has its incandescent magic
God is phosphorescence; his knowledge blinds all dogs and cats,
May the night be divine, when I leave my kingdom,
Who are we? Camel companions, desert companions,
Companions of eagles with millenary greenhouses and pointed,
Lost companions, by the splendor of our cities,
Who are we? Companions of the blue Bedouins,
We know about what only silence teaches us
We know only what God wants to hide from us,
We are companions of camels in the desert,
Behind our backs, yellow mountains, sparkle with a thousand bursts.
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2023
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Yann Rolland Poem
Hide this bottle from me,
That I could drink
This Chateauneuf du Pape
More tempting than the smile of a maid,
this Saint Emilion sneaky
Who has no saint but the name,
Hide this bottle from me,
This haut c$ote de Beaune,
Straight from the Middle Ages,
This rosé of Provence so sincere
Who would make pretty Bretons blush,
In a creperie of Brest.
Hide this bottle from me,
This Sauternes so sweet, so sweet
That makes high school girls naughty,
Hide me this bottle,
That I might well drink,
This wild little sauvignon,
Love is enough to make me drunk.
Cachez-moi cette bouteille,
Que je pourrais bien boire
Ce Chateauneuf du Pape
Plus tentant que les fesses d’une pucelle,
ce Saint Emilion sournois
Qui n’a de saint que le nom,
Cachez-moi cette bouteille,
Ce haut côte de Beaune,
Venu tout droit du Moyen Age,
Ce rosé de Provence si sincère
Qui ferait rougir de jolies bretonnes,
Dans une crêperie brestoise.
Cachez-moi cette bouteille,
Ce Sauternes si sucré, si doux
Qui rend les lycéennes coquines,
Cachez moi cette bouteille,
Que je pourrais bien boire,
Ce sauvignon peu sauvage,
L’amour suffit à m’enivrer.
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2024
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Yann Rolland Poem
I liked to be quiet,
In a white ferry, between Brittany and England,
Quietness is a precious diamond
To offer to a new girl, or a cat,
I like to be quiet, everywhere,
In a Syrian garden, when the sun freeze the time,
I like stillness of grass in the city,
Il like to be quiet, now and here,
Like a summer road in the desert,
Asking for nothing more, that the buzz
Of a bee, or the gasp of a summer wind.
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2023
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Yann Rolland Poem
The robin redbreast is hardly afraid,
He is not afraid of cemeteries,
Seeing me, he lands on the grave of the Bouvier family,
Looks at me, then flies on that of Cécile Kerneis,
Since he is Breton, the bird waits for me a little,
And flies again to the tomb in black marble of a man named Brélivet,
The robin redbreast is not afraid of graves, nor of me,
All the dead are his friends, like saints,
He flies again and lands on the stone of François Le Gall,
Then happily jumps on the gray tomb of Alexis Kerbaol.
He watches me, like a small soldier with medals,
He prays religiously on the white stele of Madame Coat,
The little robin is not afraid of cemeteries, nor of me,
On the tomb of Hervé Jaouen, he finds his pride,
In the cemetery, all the dead are his friends.
NB names are from Brittany
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2025
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Yann Rolland Poem
Bees, dear bees
Prefer the yellow,
Don’t ask me
Why!
Yellow attracts you
More than the blue,
Yellow makes them tender
More than red,
The yellow excites them,
Less than mauve,
Bees are amazing,
Dear bees,
They prefer yellow,
It is the color of honey,
They prefer yellow, the sun,
It is the color of sunflower,
Ah really, dear bees,
You are obsessed,
You only think about it, like me,
Yellow makes you happy,
It suits you so well, ah really
What a joy to be a bee
In a rape field.
Or on a simple mimosa.
On a common barbarian
Or in a lemon tree.
Like a ray of sunshine.
You’re taking my heart.
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2025
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Yann Rolland Poem
Wretched is the man, who has not seen the sea, of day
Who has not heard the seagulls cry above the waves,
Who did not walk long hours to think, or dream
Who has not seen the ships sailing for distant Egypt.
Unhappy is man, who does not think of the sea, often
Who has not rested his soul alone by languishing dreams,
Of the pale-faced, and sweet and benevolent smile,
Who has not been lulled by the soothing music of a beach,
Wretched is the man who has not seen the sea, of day
Who has not seen the albatrosses hover over science,
Unhappy is the man who never lost, mystic
In front of the immensity and infinite grandeur of the Atlantic Ocean.
Malheureux est l’homme, qui n’a pas vu la mer, de la journée
Qui n’a pas entendu les mouettes pleurer au dessus des vagues,
Qui n’a pas marché de longues heures pour penser, ou rêver
Qui n’a pas vu les bateaux appareiller pour la lointaine Égypte.
Malheureux est l’homme, qui ne pense pas à la mer, souvent
Qui n’a pas reposé son âme seule par des rêves languissants,
De vahinés au front clair, et au sourire doux et bienveillant,
Qui n’ a pas été bercé par la musique apaisante d’une plage,
Malheureux est l’homme qui n’a pas vu la mer, de la journée
Qui n’a pas vu les albatros planer au dessus de la science,
Malheureux est l’homme qui ne s’est jamais perdu, mystique
Devant l’immensité et l’infinie grandeur de l’Océan Atlantique.
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2024
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Yann Rolland Poem
The perfumes of hot croissants,
The bakery is open,
I’m going to enjoy Sunday.
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2023
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Yann Rolland Poem
I can’t stop thinking,
That the earth is round, round
Like African women,
That the seagulls are white,
That dogs are crazy,
They bark at poets, writers,
I can’t stop thinking,
That the sun is a guitar
Who plays in the summer, in the blue sky,
That men do not love the saints,
That pear trees are angels,
That flowers are generous hosts,
I can’t stop thinking,
That silence is a low chapel
Built by wild Bretons,
That silence is a quiet port, a silence
That we board the boats,
To cross the hurricanes,
I can’t stop thinking,
That silence alone heals the soul,
That it heals the red skins
That the conquistadors have "civilized",
That men have white skin,
To wage war on the oceans,
I can’t stop thinking
That the clouds are puppets
Held by the hand of God,
That men are crazy,
Since they tame the bears,
Since they tame the elephants,
I can’t stop thinking,
That men have built cities
Too big for the earth,
Bigger than Tennessee or Arizona,
That they must now
Walk to not go mad.
NB, poem inspired by a song by Neil Young " can’t stop working"
Je ne peux arrêter de penser,
Que la terre est ronde, ronde
Comme les femmes africaines,
Que les mouettes sont blanches,
Que les chiens sont fous,
Ils aboient sur les poètes, les écrivains,
Je ne peux arrêter de penser,
Que le soleil est une guitare
Qui joue l’été, dans le ciel bleu,
Que les hommes n’aiment pas les saints,
Que les poiriers sont des anges,
Que les fleurs sont des hosties généreuses,
Je ne peux arrêter de penser,
Que le silence est une basse chapelle
Construite par des bretons sauvages,
Que le silence est un port tranquille, un silence
Qu’on fait monter à bord des bateaux,
Pour traverser les ouragans,,
Je ne peux arrêter de penser,
Que le silence seul, guérit l’âme,
Qu’il guérit les peaux rouges
Que les conquistadors ont "civilisé",
Que les hommes ont la peau blanche,
Pour faire la guerre aux océans,
Je ne peux arrêter de penser
Que les nuages sont des marionnettes
Tenues par la main de Dieu,
Que les hommes sont fous,
Puisqu’ils dressent les ours,
Qu’ils dressent les éléphants,
Je ne peux arrêter de penser,
Que les hommes ont construits des villes
Trop grandes pour la terre,
Plus grandes que le Tennessee ou l’Arizona,
Qu’ils doivent maintenant
Marcher pour ne pas devenir fous.
NB, poème inspiré par une chanson de neil Young " can't stop working"
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2024
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Yann Rolland Poem
Amy, Amy, what a voice,
As from heaven,
You’re a jazz singer,
Of the ones we can’t forget,
Sensitive, you felt guilty,
To refuse a photo,
You had too big a heart,
We asked you a hundred times,
How to hunt these people
So they can finally understand?
My God, what a voice,
What love, what love offered,
to all who listen to you,
You said thank you, tenderly,
I say thank you,
O Amy, what a voice,
It’s hard to understand,
I would have been in Belgrade to hear you,
Bye, bye, Princess, big black eyes,
Sing what you like,
It will always be more beautiful,
Only a Bach cantata,
Amy, Amy, what a voice,
An angel, angel in heavens.
Copyright © Yann Rolland | Year Posted 2023
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