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Poems On / About PARIS  8/30/2015 1:02:36 PM
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Best Poems About / On PARIS
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Poetry With Which To Party

From the top of your back teeth most art is not
mere furniture, said Erik Satie;
it should inspire, with both light and heat, an aliquot
of poetry with which to party.

Inspired by the life and works of Erik Satie:
In 1988 he composed three Gymnopιdies, inspired by a poetry reading by his friend J. P. Contamine de Latour. The hypnotic allure of these compositions had its roots from in dances performed by youths during an ancient ritual celebration. The next year, seduced by the Romanian popular music and Indonesian Gamelan he had heard at the Great Exhibition in Paris, he started working on Gnossiennes. Home was a small room on the top floor of a building at Butte Montmatre: 'high above my creditors'. In 1891 he was engaged as second pianist at the L’Auburge du Clou, where he met Debussy who became his friend until 1916 when a misunderstanding led to a break-up that would never be reconciled. That same year he met Sar Jospehin Peladin, Grand Maestro of the Aesthetic Order of the Catholic Rosae Crucis of the Temple of the Grail. Satie became his follower and was made Master of the Chapel. His compatriot and friend, the humorist Alphonse Allais, then gave him the nickname Esotιrik Satie. Among the several works he composed under the guidance of Sar Pedalan were Trois Prιludes du 'Fils des ιtoiles', le Sonneries de la Rose-Croix. Two years later he argued with his mentor and broke away amidst declarations of artistic independence. 'If I have to follow someone, I think I can say it’s just going to be myself.' Immediately thereafter, in 1893, he composed the Danses gothiques. In these first works Satie was already using a freehand style with no bar lines, arranged chromatically around complex chord structures, that foreshadowed Debussy’s harmonic and timbre experiments. In the score he would replace conventional directions such as 'allegro', 'piano con brio'... with his own invented terminology - 'don’t make your fingers blush', 'from the top of your back teeth', 'do your best'... In 1895 he composed Vexations, an eight-measure motif to be played forty times consecutively for a total duration of about 18 hours. A year later he took up residence on the outskirts of Paris in a modest house with huge rooms - 'I have many ideas to accommodate, ' - where he composed Piθces froides. He gave up all esoteric research and in 1900 began collaborating with the music-hall diva Paulette Darty. It was in this period that Satie immersed himself in cafι-concert and popular music, composing Je te veux and La Diva de l’Empire. In 1905, tired of being considered little more than an amateur, and at odds with the musical academia, he enrolled for three years at the Schola Cantorum, where he studied counterpoint with Albert Roussel. In 1910 his music attracted the attention of Diaghilev, Picasso, Picabia, Ravel, Stravinsky and finally Cocteau with whom he became co-founder of the Les Six group. Satie’s genius was reaching an apex and he presented a new challenge to classical musical form - musique d’ameublement, so-called 'furniture music' which, he declared, was nothing more than a utilitarian industrial product, 'Art, ' he said. 'Is something else.' Musique d’ameublement became a sensation because 'it serves the same purpose as light, heat, and all forms of comfort.' It is pure objective formalism in opposition to every sentimental attribute of musical language. Such provocation could also be seen in the ironic score 'directions' of Descriptions automathiques and Sports et divertissements - examples of the finest musical elegance.

gershon hepner

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My Thoughts Are On The Streets Of Paris

My thoughts are on the streets of Paris
Paris love is what it seems in darken dreams
Dark Angel running in the rain to take me down
My thoughts are on the streets of Paris
Watching lovers get on with their lives
Laugh, kiss and making dreams of an ever after
Why I sit and write what ever came to my mind,

I look out my window watching people
why Dark Angel is watching my every move
Reading my every thought making sure I stay true him
So I start to write down my feelings , my needs
Evil is all around me,

Tears stream down my face why Dark Angel has a smile
I ask him why do you smile when you see me in pain?
He never say a word he kills my spirit in silence
No one can see his mark what he has left in my heart
Lonely angel like me happy and free will never be,

I felt no murder in my mind I write out my words of all kinds
Dark Angel went up to the staircase to see all my work
even my paintings I draw out feelings
My words I put in writing no one can see the world like I do
My world of sorrow and pain that Dark Angel gives,

Blood is on the paper dark soul can be seen of lost dreams
Full of ashes nothing that can grow of love in full moon
Reflecting on my pale face Dark Angel cry's out Moonlight
Is the name I give too you,

Dark Angel
Why do you put your mind on worldly things?
You must find away to change without making any noise
are giving pain but just as soon as those words came out of my mouth deep rain came of my pains that has no end
I want my life back the way it was before I ever was taken down.

Lilly Emery (c)
Lilly Emery

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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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Menelaus And Helen


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.


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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