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Poems On / About PARIS  6/30/2015 4:59:30 AM
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Poetry Readfing Sonnet

The Poetry Reading a Sonnet
We stayed at a small hotel only brick throw away from one
of Paris’s famous hotel where British MP’s let themselves
be bribed just to stay there for a weekend with a cohort.
I was to read poetry and naturally petrified of the thought
of reading in public, but with the help of whisky was able to
perform, use a Richard Burton voice, with Norwegian accent.
Poetry is a lonely craft and when poets meet much alcohol is
consumed and for once we feel it is our work is worthwhile.

My wife was not there she was visiting her family, rich people
who lived in the heart of Paris, rue Salazar, and I had to find
my own way back to the hotel and promptly fell and I woke
Up in the hospital. Two days I was kept there, my wife came
but not her family it appears my dislike of Israel and Zionism
has hit a raw nerve, but they sent me a card with grapes on.
oskar hansen

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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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Poems On / About PARIS