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Poems On / About PARIS  5/25/2015 2:14:35 AM
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Best Poems About / On PARIS
 
 
 
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  117.     

In Paris

Homes reach the stars, the sky's below,
The land in smoke to it is near.
Inside the big and happy Paris
Remains the secretive despair.

The evening boulevards are noisy,
Gone are the sundown's final rays,
And there are couples everywhere
Trembling of lips, daring of eyes.

I'm here alone. To trunk of chestnut
It is so nice one's head to lean!
And like in the abandoned Moscow
In heart weep verses of Rostand.

Paris at night is sad and alien,
Dear to the heart is madness gone!
I'm going home, there's vial of sorrow
And tender portrait of someone.

There's someone's glance, sad and fraternal.
There's tender profile on the wall.
Rostand and the Reichstadtian martyr
And Sara - in sleep come they all!

Within the big and happy Paris
I dream of grass, of clouds and rain
And laughter far, and shadow near,
And deep just like before is pain.
 
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

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  118.     

Menelaus And Helen

I

Hot through Troy's ruin Menelaus broke
To Priam's palace, sword in hand, to sate
On that adulterous whore a ten years' hate
And a king's honour. Through red death, and smoke,
And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode,
Till the still innermost chamber fronted him.
He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim
Luxurious bower, flaming like a god.

High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.
He had not remembered that she was so fair,
And that her neck curved down in such a way;
And he felt tired. He flung the sword away,
And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there,
The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.


II

So far the poet. How should he behold
That journey home, the long connubial years?
He does not tell you how white Helen bears
Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold,
Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold
Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys
'Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice
Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old.

Often he wonders why on earth he went
Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came.
Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent;
Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name.
So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried;
And Paris slept on by Scamander side.
 
Rupert Brooke

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Read more: paris poems, journey poems, child poems, lonely poems, hate poems, red poems, home poems, death poems, god poems, children poems, kiss poems, remember poems, sleep poems
   
 

   
   
 

  119.     

In A Paris State Of Mind

It was the Paris feeling of it all
assaulting my senses
as I slumbered and dreamed
on imagined European time

White noise buzzed
with sophisticated speak
clicking on cobblestone
to Chanel boutique snobbery

As the Eiffel Tower loomed large
drenching the city in warmed light
my dreams paused, to images of home
longing for Lady Liberty, a fine french gift

Scents of the city of lights cling tightly
lavender, roses and mint leaves
hurry me back to my imagined luxury
dreaming of the Hotel Le Bristol Paris

The french sandman sprinkles gold dust
here in no man's land, dream world central
still safe and sound in my trance
the time ticks and I continue to float

I notice the pace of the country
no rat race rules, or impossible schedules
they march to a different beat
cafe's, wine, and enjoying life

As I begin to slowly wake
and find my way through this foggy haze
my final image of Paris in my dream
is a speeding car, hitting the thirteenth pillar
in the Alma tunnel.

Some things are never forgotten.
 
Robin Bennett

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  120.     

A Paris State Of Mind

It was the Paris feeling of it all
assaulting my senses
as I slumbered and dreamed
on imagined European time

White noise buzzed
with sophisticated speak
clicking on cobblestone
to Chanel boutique snobbery

As the Eiffel Tower loomed large
drenching the city in warmed light
my dreams paused, to images of home
longing for Lady Liberty, a fine french gift

Scents of the city of lights cling tightly
lavender, roses and mint leaves
hurry me back to my imagined luxury
dreaming of the Hotel Le Bristol Paris

The french sandman sprinkles gold dust
here in no man's land, dream world central
still safe and sound in my trance
the time ticks and I continue to float

I notice the pace of the country
no rat race rules, or impossible schedules
they march to a different beat
cafe's, wine, and enjoying life

As I begin to slowly wake
and find my way through this foggy haze
my final image of Paris in my dream
is a speeding car, hitting the thirteenth pillar
in the Alma tunnel.

Some things are never forgotten.
 
Robin Bennett

Read more poems from Robin Bennett >>>
   
 
 
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Poems On / About PARIS