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Poems On / About PARIS  10/23/2014 1:46:08 AM
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Best Poems About / On PARIS
 
 
 
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  117.     

A Tomato Juice in Paris

On Thursday I will drink a tomato juice in Paris,
I'll hope for rain.

I want traffic lights reflected across windshields
of double parked citroens.

weather to fit my mood; the half-shut eyes
of a midnight cocktail shaker alone at the bar.
I'll visit Monoprix where you first bought
espadrilles.

Paris was crazy for Le Hot bebop;
girls two-steped with each other in cellar clubs.
I'll try to exorcise ghosts 20-years old;

your packed bags by the door, a drained juice glass
drying in the sink; a taxi sounding its horn.

I had on white shoes, it was that long ago.
 
Bernard Henrie

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  118.     

Maigret

Commissaire of the Paris Brigade Criminelle
George Simenon’s French detective
Was as much the stuff of my teenage years
As the Beatles, Kennedy, minis.

I loved his pipe, the exotic sounds of his tipples
Pastis, Armagnac, Cognac, Calvados, Pernod,
His trademark raincoat, his laconic style

In a battle of nerves he’d climb into a man’s head
Going to any lengths to track down killers

Maigret was rarely mystified
In the shadow of a courtyard, the beach or a boulevard
In Montmartre, in the Inn of the Drowned Men
In the Rue Pigalle, Bayeux, or Ιtoile du Nord
He’d sleuth them down, the criminals, biding his time
A man of scruples, meticulous

He mixed in circles that coloured the celibate evenings
Of Scottish puberty, jostling with fortune tellers
Cadavers, the madman of Bergerac,
Bums, pickpockets and strippers
Lovers, informers, wine merchants

The most obstinate man in Paris
I lived a kind of half-life dogging his steps
Looking in through the open window of Simenon’s art.
 
sheena blackhall

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  119.     

France At Night.

On the coach
between Paris and Tours
Mamie was seated
next to you

her head
of frizzy hair
against your shoulder
her eyes closed

her mouth ajar
fish like
the valley between
her small tits visible

as she lay there
rocking slight
to the coach’s motion
music coming through

the radio
some Mozart piece
you looked
at her hands

in her lap
small and curled
like sleeping crabs
her bare arms

sans hair but freckled
and you looked at her
and sensed her head
against you

knowing some brain
buzzed beneath
her frizzy mane
thoughts exploded there

were explored
or put aside
sleep be drugged
like some child

in fairy land maybe
you studied her knees
just visible
where her

red skirt rose
flesh on flesh
how through Paris
in the coach

she had pulled
your hand
into her lap
held it there

the pulse of her
beating through
her garden of Eden
beneath the cloth

then the Mozart
piece ended
and Beethoven began
thunderous and loud

pushing through
the speakers
stirring Mamie
beside you

her lips moving
mouthing words
her hands opening out
the palms upright

you looked beyond her
at the passing scenes
of France at night.
 
Terry Collett

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  120.     

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet VI

Away from sorrow! Yes, indeed, away!
Who said that care behind the horseman sits?
The train to Paris, as it flies to--day,
Whirls its bold rider clear of ague fits.
Who stops for sorrows? Who for his lost wits,
His vanished gold, his loves of yesterday,
His vexed ambitions? See, the landscape flits
Bright in his face, and fleeter far than they.
Away! away! Our mother Earth is wide;
And our poor lives and loves of what avail?
All life is here; and here we sit astride
On her broad back, with Hope's white wings for sail,
In search of fortune and that glorious goal,
Paris, the golden city of our soul.
 
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

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