The Seine a tongue of midnight ink.
Montparnasse, a tepid August night,
star-bundles like quartz-splinters in the sky.
The Dingo bar the place.
Jazz coming from somewhere, melody of mystery,
throng of conversation and smoke,
grey curlicues swaying above our heads.
Hemingway, feuillemort shirt, telling me I look rough.
*‘You sleeping well?’ ‘Well enough.’
‘That wife of yours is pure mayhem, I tell you.’*
The same old chatter. Besides, Isadora was worse,
cradling her drink as if a glass of jewels.
Then he was onto his Pamplona jaunt,
a heat that careened off from the streets,
undulations of warmth in the air
quivering like whispers.
*‘Look here, we’re the best writers in this city
when you’re not gallivanting over to your wife.
Two women, one body, you know it Scott.’*
I sighed, ordered another gin.
‘Transparent poison’, Ernest said again.
On the way home, faded trill de trompette in my ears,
night thriving to every pocket of Paris,
fields of unidentified liquorice flowers.
Young and in love - young with intimacy
skittering around our bodies
like delicate bees.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 11:21 AM UTC
The Seine a tongue of midnight ink.
Montparnasse, a tepid August night,
star-bundles like quartz-splinters in the sky.
The Dingo bar the place.
Jazz coming from somewhere, melody of mystery,
throng of conversation and smoke,
grey curlicues swaying above our heads.
Hemingway, feuillemort shirt, telling me I look rough.
*‘You sleeping well?’ ‘Well enough.’
‘That wife of yours is pure mayhem, I tell you.’*
The same old chatter. Besides, Isadora was worse,
cradling her drink as if a glass of jewels.
Then he was onto his Pamplona jaunt,
a heat that careened off from the streets,
undulations of warmth in the air
quivering like whispers.
*‘Look here, we’re the best writers in this city
when you’re not gallivanting over to your wife.
Two women, one body, you know it Scott.’*
I sighed, ordered another gin.
‘Transparent poison’, Ernest said again.
On the way home, faded trill de trompette in my ears,
night thriving to every pocket of Paris,
fields of unidentified liquorice flowers.
Young and in love - young with intimacy
skittering around our bodies
like delicate bees.
Written: 2018/19.
Explanation: A poem that was part of my MFA Creative Writing manuscript, in which I wrote poems about cities that have staged the Eurovision Song Contest, or taken the name of a song and written my own piece inspired by the title. I have received a mark for this body of work now, so am sharing the poems here.
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