It all started with Arthur Teboul’s Déversoir. Well, no. It all started when I wrote my first poem. I think it was called La Montagne. I was nine years old. Maybe eight.

From then on, poetry entered my life, making brief and regular appearances. For a long time, I thought it was a somewhat superior art form, a little inaccessible. A way of writing reserved for the highly sensitive, the terribly tormented, the geniuses of language, beloved of God. I didn’t even know how to read a collection properly (I smile today at this revealing – and utterly unfounded – fear of not knowing how to “properly” read a piece of art).

That’s when Arthur and his Déversoir came on the scene. He sat at a desk in Paris for a week, opening his pen to passersby. You could go see him, sit down in front of him, and in the silence of that exchange, he would write a poem, which he would then give to his guest. I thought it was a wonderful idea. This way of bringing spontaneity back into a seemingly codified art form, of saying that unrhymed words, fiery words, words born without premeditation, can be poetry. He made me understand that poetry is not only a literary genre, but also – above all? – a way of being. Of seeing the world. Of living it.

Later, while walking around London, I came across a street poet. I liked him, with his yellow socks, red chair and typewriter. And I thought to myself: hey, you can buy poetry.
What a lovely idea.

An idea that stayed with me. It stayed until the day I decided to seize it. Yes, offering poetry. I find that beautiful. I even think it’s necessary. Because the world is lacking it. A world so fast-paced, so noisy, so garish, so devoid of nuance is a world that leaves really little room for poetry. It hasn’t disappeared, of course. It’s simply less visible. We need to give it back the place it deserves.

That’s why I wanted to revive writing, to imagine poetry as a gift. I write poems for people, for a special occasion, for someone to whom we want to dedicate a thought, to tell a story or a memory, to celebrate. A text imagined, then handwritten, stamped, and slipped into a wax-sealed envelope. Just as we give a bouquet of flowers, why couldn’t we give a poem? But not just any poem: a unique poem. A poem written to order.

Would you like to offer a poem to someone? Or create a text for a special occasion? Let’s talk about it.
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