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Poems On / About PARIS  5/26/2015 8:39:14 AM
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Best Poems About / On PARIS
 
 
 
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  9.     

Passion

The makeup that’s most beautiful is passion,
unchallenged by the pressure of esthetics;
a favorite flavor always, never out of fashion,
it’s natural, and far cheaper than cosmetics,

Elaine Sciolino “A Guide to the French. Handle With Care, ” writes in the NYT, March 22, about her experiences in Paris, where she has been the NYT’s Paris correspondent for five and a half years:
Feeling Sexy Is a State of Mind, or: Buy Good Lingerie
In her close-fitting sweaters and pants and tailored leather jackets, Eliane Victor is both stylish and alluring. The retired author and journalist is in her late 80s. For French women, being sexy has nothing to do with age and everything to do with attitude. Arielle Dombasle, the actress and cabaret singer married to the philosopher Bernard-Henri Lιvy, dared to expose her breasts on the cover of Paris Match and took off her clothes in a song-and-dance revue at Crazy Horse in Paris. Some people feel she tries too hard. But give the lady some credit. She’s turning 50 and has a Barbie-doll body.A 600-page sociological study of sexuality in France released this month concluded that 9 out of 10 women over 50 are sexually active. The sexiest French women seem naturally skilled in the art of moving, smiling and flirting. Chic French women prefer to peel and polish rather than paint their faces. Too much makeup, they say, makes a woman seem older, or worse, “vulgaire.” “The most beautiful makeup for a woman is passion, ” Yves Saint Laurent once said. “But cosmetics are easier to buy.”


3/22/08
 
gershon hepner

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  10.     

Accordian In The Metro

In 2002 I was in Paris for a couple of days. My wife & daughter let me loose. They wanted to look at shops & so I left early at dawn to walk around a have a look at that great city.

I got lost & found a few times & had to try out the few French words I could remember from the 3rd form. On the way home at the end of an exhilarating day & I went into the Metro to catch a ride back to the Arch DT which was near our hotel in Victor Hugo ‘street.'

I was walking thru the tunnel & heard an excellent accordion player. He finished playing some French tunes as I was approaching. Then he switched to Bach's Toccata & Fugue in D minor. I stood close to the wall & listen as people hurried past.

A year or so later I saw an SBS documentary on TV called ‘DOWN UNDER PARIS' about Australians in living Paris who were working as buskers or selling their paintings on the street.

I was sitting there engrossed when I heard the accordian player. That sounds familiar I thought, ‘yes that's him. I watched him play, he was excellent, ' & there I was standing close to the wall listening wearing the black jacket I'd bought in Switzerland.

I asked google for the film maker's email & I wrote a note to Richard Snashall asking if I could buy his dvd. I told him that it was me in the background in his movie. I recalled vaguely that there had been someone crouched down with a video camera while I was listening.

When Richard sent me the dvd he said that he thought I was a Parisian on his way home when he filmed me standing there. When I got the dvd it had a note,

‘Hi Lindsay, Here's some bonus raw footage I dug out in addition to Down Under Paris. regards, Richard.
 
Lindsay Smith

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  11.     

Don'T Say Paris

No one says Paris anymore.
There's no such thing as Paris, no
Cafι de la Paix, no Titian's Entombment
in the Louvre or Hotel La Sanguin
with amaranth petals on the sheets. Don't

say Paris. When you utter the word
I take off my long red gloves. I prepare
my hands to be stroked. I'm an idiot
that way, a Parisian to the bone. Once,

on some Rue or other, I was not alone.
The city, blue. My black coat opened
and gave birth to my body as I walked.
You dare speak of Paris? You unlatch

the door in the cage, that word comes
blooming out, orange feathers ignite
the room. My room the color of sage

in fog. And now, Paris, breaking
the mirrors, exposing the cobbled
alleyways behind them. Who says
Paris? Now I swirl my nipples

with Le Rouge Baiser. Or did you
mean Paris, Kentucky? Or just Paris
a word tossed off like an exploding peony
dropped from the swaying top of that tall

steel tower? Paris, a bitter word,
a word to be spit into a lace handkerchief
like the pit of some pink-fleshed fruit,
stolen from the garden of the rich, in whose

sweetness a woman like me can drown.
Paris, where I loved and suffered, where
the enemy flag opened and flared, poppy
with a spider inside. Liberation, another

suspicious bit of language, a perfumed
envelope holding no letter. Paris, you say.
I have shut down the Office de Tourisme,
covered the windows with flowering vines,

casting those rooms in purple light.
I have wrapped my lips around that word
until it throbbed like Bouguereau's
La Madone aux Roses.
 
Diane Seuss

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  12.     

Paris, Translation Of Paul Verlaine's Poem: Paris

(For those who may be interested, this poem by Paul Verlaine presents more difficulties than his other rhymed quatrains I have read, but then this may only be a personal feeling. T. Wignesan)

Paris cannot lay claim to beauty but through its history,
But this history is by beauty all through possessed!
The river Seine lies so absurdly sheltered,
Yet its bright green hue all on its own deserves glory.

Paris cannot be thought gay but by virtue of its chatter
Yet this loquaciousness, a teeming vulgar vice,
Springs from a throng of tongues in its voice,
Stirring this insipid linguistic stew into spicy banter.

Paris can hardly be considered wise but by the demure
Flux of its populace and its diverse factions,
Even if it can engender revolutions
It lies in ambush in the shade with its sense of Order.

Paris can boast not just with its charming Girl
Who has no need to envy those who’re Exotic
But for harmless wrongs and sins not quite endemic
Such that they come to pass in a detached swirl.

Paris thus may be held to be good but for its flighty
Inebriation with lust and with pleasure,
Nothing much more than a flirtation with desire
Such pleasure as at the expense of a brother be duty.

Paris doesn’t display anything as sad and as cruel
As the poet we see by the year or at random
Dying of ennui under clinical surveillance
Not far from the old worker fraternal.

Long life to Paris, likewise for its history,
For its eloquence and its Girl, naοve
Products of an art both perverse and primitive
And die the poet purging himself by duty!

© T. Wignesan – Paris,2013
 
T (no first name) Wignesan

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