Julie C Smith Jul 14

Je suis un peu perdue
Dans un petit village j'ai cru
Que je serai ressuscité
Mais j'ai été juste réveillé

For the beginning of my Part IV a short poem. My first in French.
Part IV of my poem book is not yet finished, I'm still in it.
Hank Helman Jul 11

They did yet not know,
The coincidental details
Of each other’s loathings,

Or even begin
To chart
The eclipses of their early aspirations,

Although instantly,
And within seconds of hearing each other’s voice,
They suspected they’d soon share
The gasps and pleadings of the great grand hope.

Their introduction was online of course,
Their first physical meet,
A small wine bar on the south side,
Where they were served complimentary
Blue cheese, on
Crisp crackers, handmade,
Each bite a delight and a nod and a welcome treat.
A sign of so many yummy things to come.

Lisa, her full name was Lisa Lilac,
Explained, with a bit of crumb on her lower lip,
That her bedroom was the only place to have
A serious conversation.

Nothing else will matter if we don’t fuck well,
Or at the very least if we don’t fuck with potential, she said,
Can anything overcome the cardinal disappointment,
Of shite-shat sex?
How is intimacy even possible she asked
If the ordeal is bitter or banal.

His name was Keegan
And he took her hand for a moment,
And examined the backs of her knuckles with
A kind man’s massage of her fingers.

Her hands were small beautiful appointments,
And he knew her touch was opiate  
And capable of breaking him apart.

Let me see if I can read your desires, Keegan said
And he turned her hand over and examined her palm.

Our first kiss must be a valuable possession, he said,
A vivid memory, erotic and intentional,

From this first brush, in this famished embrace
You will find in my pursuit all of your hunger,

I will draw your lower lip out with a lover’s bite,
My tongue will pirate your beautiful mouth,
And like a jewel thief in a plush apartment,
It will search urgently and everywhere for a precious reaction.

A French Kiss, is that not the most perfectly named thing,
Our entanglement will tender to curiosity,
This very first kiss will be ours,
Our only signature of things to come.

Lisa said she wanted him to kiss her right now,
In the company of strangers and hired help, Keegan asked.
Of course, I sometimes like an audience, she said,
And I always fall for a man,
Who can perform under pressure.

In that case you must make a promise, Keegan requested.
I’m listening, she replied.
You must promise after
The first time we make love,
To let me read to you out loud,
No matter time of day,

Will there be a first time,
She asked in blush of fashion and feminine coy,
Without any doubt he replied
And consummated her with his dusk- dawn smile.

Whoever believes in coincidences?
Too many duplicate incidents

À cause de toi (Because of you)

She said she ran when that was what I had to do
To save my life from a future without you

À cause de cette fille (Because of her)

She's on the lookout for bomber jackets
When mine brought lost confidence back in my eyes

À cause de cette fille (Because of her)

She says she's a writer and calls herself poet
My antidote was a story and a book full of poems

À cause de cette fille (Because of her)

Now she's in the place I was in before
But I couldn't leave you and used the back door

À cause de cette fille (Because of her)

I should even be thankful to her
Because I found my new personality

À cause de cette fille (Because of her)

Now Cleopatra, my soul's incarnation
Is displayed on her page for my justification

À cause de moi (Because of me)

I can't believe it, it's too high of a cost
But sometimes we have to pass on what helped us the most

Who thought we had so much in common? Written about a girl I once hated but turned out I could even be thankful to her. And a coincidence.
I didn't know if I should post it because in my opinion it's a weird poem;)
meg Jul 5

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist.
Wait for what she will tell us.

True, our breath echoes the sea’s
sweeping tide. The inky bleeding
of saltwater that calms and soaks.
Drenched, this collective exhale.
I’ve always preferred silk over velvet;
that’s what the sea is. Silk over velvet.

The moon has seen every unholy rite,
her glare is cast cold. Over the Mysteries,
over me. Every pulse of her is lapped
up by the sea beneath. This shared breath
is echoed in the sea is echoed in the moon;
the universe folds itself. Lives inside a gasp.

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
by her own rules.

Our stars are fading like so many discarded
loves. The world is tired, she crumbles
our castles. Crumbles our convent,
exhausts our goddesses. Daughter of life,
who slipped through Death’s doorway;
she sinks below. A seasonal existence.

Sunset spills red on the horizon, dedicates
her evenings to us. We exist by her signal
and her permission. She stretches her skin
for the moon. Lays herself as a blanket
on which night may sleep, cradled and safe;
a nest of stars. We all seek Dawn’s relief.

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
in anger, in yellow, in rain.

inspired by the French phrase, 'il faut laisser aller le monde comme il va', which I saw floating around on the internet a while ago.
Nolittleboy Jul 4

I find Parisian chic's are so effortlessly elegant, 
much classier than traditional Welsh vogue style of
Uggs with North Face.
With the right attitude, and the right dress you could look
like you walked straight off the Champs-Élysées!
but only if you're wearing wet socks.

Ben started as a runway model, 
her dream to became the face of Chanel, 
she bared her chest with a backward boy
this wrong way was meant as the right way
she had the essence of Parisian mode, the most perfect nipples,
glossed in the reddest rudest lipstick
but still she insisted on wearing wet socks.

With the air of self-assuredness, 
an indefinable je ne sais quoi 
that for most part initially seems so elusive, 
yet, almost at the same time the Eiffel Tower
grazes its Paris sky...
she steps out into the night wearing lipstick and wet socks.

Infatuation is a drug.

J'entends ta voix
dans tous
les bruits du monde.

I hear your voice in
all the sounds of the world.

“I think I must be incapable in properly saying
That which honors the concern you show me.”
With that she placed her hand in his and in her
Best broken French she continued….
“Marcherez-vous avec moi avalez-vous mon chemin?”
(Will you walk with me my way?)
He replies, “Naturellement fe veux mon cher.”
(Naturally I will my dear.)

There is a time when a virtuous convention,
Once created betwixt a woman and a man,
Sanctifies even those most private of walks.
This walk being as it was – in the dusk of the evening
Had within it their roads laid out the same way.
Hand in hand in a shared silence both of them
Admiring the sky’s crimson closing.
With a small tribute to such as this toward virtue
He felt her cold fingers clutch together in his and
Just then she broke the daunting silence asking,
“La beauteu ciel est-elle suelement vue par ceux
qui choisissent de la partager?”
(Is the sky’s beauty only seen to those who choose to share it?)
His answer, “ Pas plus que l’amour, moncher. Pour garder
de lui est juste comme imutile. – Quel but est-il eoins
qui ‘il soit partage.”
(No more than love - for the keeping of it is just as useless.
Of what possible purpose is it unless it is shared?)

She seemed much affected with what he had said giving it a low sigh.
He was incapable of inquiring after the sigh so
He said nothing more ‘til they came to the corner of
Tomorrows' Road and Yesterdays' Pass.
That was where they were to part today.
Waiting for the path to clear he asked, “Est-ce
Que je dois vous server le reste de la mania?”
(Shall I attend you the rest of the way?)
She replied first with a look to his hand
And then to his eyes, “Pas du tout, monsieur.
Vous pouvez cependant me server toute la manua.”
(Not at all, sir. You may however attend me all the way.)

With this he seemed to loose his French verbs for a time
And it was not until they were steadfast alone in her
Bungalo that any French returned.
Yet the French that returned said not a single word.
She was most capable though the question
She answered was never asked.
If he had to have asked he would have asked,
“Cue ferai-je avec vous ?
Devrais-je vous aimer de tout mon cœur ?
Je crois que dans la route que nous prenons,
il cause l'intersection d'entre nous..”

Only the little French in her knows…..

Writing to me is about showing myself when and where it is proper to speak for "my characters"and when to speak in the first person. Here - using a narrative - I let the characters play their roles while giving them a first person feel. Is this a true story or is it just a story? Does it matter? No it doesn't because the point was settled between the characters leading the way.
Sally A Bayan Jun 13

(A repost of an older poem, SILENCE, this time in french.
Please scroll down lower for the .english version...)


sur moi,
et encore, vous
un r e nulle part
n e r. C'est l'
q u i e u t d e que
b r i n g s à l'esprit tout
il est à propos de vous. vous
s'animer si je regarde vers le haut
le plafond, ou directement à travers
t h e murs, je ferme les yeux et je
vous trouverez toujours là. À ce stade, pas
la moindre s o u n d pourrait briser
le flux des souvenirs, ni ne pouvait distraire

la sérénité que j'ai toujours connu quand je suis seul,
pour, c'est dans le silence, que je vous trouve plus proche de moi ...

(Publié 1997)


Droits d'auteur 2014
Rosalia Rosario A.Bayan



you all
over me,
and yet, you
a r e   nowhere
n e a r.  It  is  the
q u i e t u d e   that
b r i n g s  to mind  all
there is  about you.  You
come alive whether I  look up
the ceiling, or straight   through
t h e  walls,  I close my eyes, a n d
I still find  you there.  At this  p o i n t,
even the slightest  sound couldn't  shatter  
the flow of m e m o r i e s, nor could it distract
the serenity I have always  known when I'm alone,
for, it  is in  S I L E N C E  that I find you closest to me...

(Published 1997)

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A.Bayan

I had fun with google translate :))

Dancing through the streets of a French little town
The old church shimmering yellowish brown
The September night sky and my brand new dress
I can't wait to see you and I'm feeling fearless

September memories
Sarah May 28

Everyone has secrets
Nobody can truly be an open book
But you turned through my pages
And started to read
Then handed me your story
Unfinished like mine
So let’s write them together
I trust you to be there till the ending
Promise we’ll make it there

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