Sylvain Braud

My career

Activity leader, director and then educationalist, also story-teller, slamer and clown ; since 2009, I have started writing activities. Working on various formats such as poetry, aphorism, short story, and probably soon comics.

I am interested in everything concerning the relationship between words and writing. This has always been significant for me. Through tales and singing slam music on stages of Nantes, I am going from written form to oral form, always focusing on the emotion and the development of imagination.

Several novels are in progress, one of which is the first part of a cycle of 5 or 6 volumes: Gwir Aël, “L’écoutant” and “ Kalimba”. Actually, many texts are ready to be shown, yet I am not enough rigorous and constant to fly with words toward a heaven for writers.

I am trying to set up but I am still at a learning stage. I participate to 3 writing sessions and they represent an opportunity for me to test different ranges or writing styles. I am opened to every style or mode.
Planned : an initiation trip through a hiking trail known as « des douaniers » in Bretagne on spring of 2013, were writing, tales in the aim of sharing this trip through a book.

I participate to various poetry competitions or take advantage of writing invitations to improve more and more my writing

You can read me in

Carnets ligériens, # 2, (bulletin des amis du petit pavé, avec deux aphorismes)
Mesquer and the Guerande peninsula : a tribute to Hélène Cadou, poem : « Sur la terre glaise »
Poems collection of the association Voix de plumes, Florilège, 8 texts ; poems : Joker, chef commanche

Novels in progress: Hier c’était quand? (Alzheimer contre Astrid), L’objet parlant (le porte monnaie ), La machine de l’ancêtre, Pix and co ;
Short story : Un chien, un homme
Novel : Kalimba.

Deux mille braises

Des siècles sans éternités
Attisent feux des extrémités.
Étincelles ou guirlandes,
Fées feuillues glandent.

Tournent soleils fatigués,
Autour d’étoiles convoitées.
Immensité s’éloignant,
Un « fini » devient grand.

Après les barrières moussues,
Indiens courent dans la rue.
Rattraperont-ils balles, cellules, noyaux ?

Continents perdus se rient des petits egos.
Sioux ou hurons entonnent silencieux Pow-wow.
Zéros se tordent sous la tactilité des maux ?

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