"cabarets" poems
By A Foreigner
I like Canadians.
They are so unlike Americans.
They go home at night.
Their cigarettes don't smell bad.
Their hats fit.
They really believe that they won the war.
They don't believe in Literature.
They think Art has been exaggerated.
But they are wonderful on ice skates.
A few of them are very rich.
But when they are rich they buy more horses
Than motor cars.
Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town.
But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal
In Chicago.
Nobody works on Sunday.
Nobody.
That doesn't make me mad.
There is only one Woodbine.
But were you ever at Blue Bonnets?
If you **** somebody with a motor car in Ontario
You are liable to go to jail.
So it isn't done.
There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars
In Chicago
So far this year.
It is hard to get rich in Canada.
But it is easy to make money.
There are too many tea rooms.
But, then, there are no cabarets.
If you tip a waiter a quarter
He says "Thank you."
Instead of calling the bouncer.
They let women stand up in the street cars.
Even if they are good-looking.
They are all in a hurry to get home to supper
And their radio sets.
They are a fine people.
I like them.
5.4k
When I first sold myself there were
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All the marks of war
All that searing heat
With all that pretty malice
Spilling Paris in the street
‘Twenty marks’ I called
‘Twenty marks’
That was 1943
And Piaf was doing well
Nurse, do you know what it is like:
To have a man inside of you
that you could never love?
There was, once upon a time, a pretty little ****
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
Lying on my floor
And Maman was starving, and my sister, too
Dignity wasn’t half the tax it seemed before
He gave me a baby, and a disease,
That was 1944:
Piaf was quite successful, then
Doctor, can you fathom:
Having sores all over you?
Yes, down there, and
all up and down your thighs, your body burns.
Can you feel that?
Then, the Germans left, and the Allies came, all
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All of that decor
Fleeing, running out
On the French horizon
Retreat
The Allies were the same
‘Three dollars’ I called
‘Three dollars’
That was 1945:
Piaf was languishing
Paris had died
Jacques, my dear:
Those were our times
smoky cabarets, sculptured croons, fine wines
your rifle on your back could wind my morning with worry
and with my scourges, you took me all the same
but what I remember is:
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
then:
nothing
“Monsieur Boursin - she has passed.”
He sobs,
it sounds like
war.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:25 AM UTC
By the run of wine, by Champagne's flow,
Swine did dine and watch the show,
'tween Squelch and Squeal, they Screamed, "Bravo!"
As merry went, did jolly go,
They drink their drinks, they oinked along,
To cabarets enchanting song,
So hypnotized, it won't be long,
'til Something goes horribly wrong....
For how were the jolly hogs to know
That butchers sat in the fifth row?
As blades grew sharp, their haste did grow,
Impatient to get on the go,
The sows were deafened by the tune,
The boars blinded by drunkards view,
But tact is what the butchers do,
But time at hand is profit due...
So nice the price of pork these days,
And chops and ribs are all the craze,
A roast in beer with honey glaze...
Makes fortunes for the butchers blades.
Had the swine been wise, for moments thought,
To greed they are cash to caught,
They could have run, they could have fought
And not been swine to the onslaught,
But they danced and sang, stupid and heavy
As butchers killed the swine of many,
That now sit in pieces, at a deli,
Their wage in wallet, meat in belly.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 7:36 AM UTC
Tout est pris d'un frisson subit.
L'hiver s'enfuit et se dérobe.
L'année ôte son vieil habit ;
La terre met sa belle robe.
Tout est nouveau, tout est debout ;
L'adolescence est dans les plaines ;
La beauté du diable, partout,
Rayonne et se mire aux fontaines.
L'arbre est coquet ; parmi les fleurs
C'est à qui sera la plus belle ;
Toutes étalent leurs couleurs,
Et les plus laides ont du zèle.
Le bouquet jaillit du rocher ;
L'air baise les feuilles légères ;
Juin rit de voir s'endimancher
Le petit peuple des fougères.
C'est une fête en vérité,
Fête où vient le chardon, ce rustre ;
Dans le grand palais de l'été
Les astres allument le lustre.
On fait les foins. Bientôt les blés.
Le faucheur dort sous la cépée ;
Et tous les souffles sont mêlés
D'une senteur d'herbe coupée.
Oui chante là ? Le rossignol.
Les chrysalides sont parties.
Le ver de terre a pris son vol
Et jeté le froc aux orties ;
L'aragne sur l'eau fait des ronds ;
Ô ciel bleu ! l'ombre est sous la treille ;
Le jonc tremble, et les moucherons
Viennent vous parler à l'oreille ;
On voit rôder l'abeille à jeun,
La guêpe court, le frelon guette ;
A tous ces buveurs de parfum
Le printemps ouvre sa guinguette.
Le bourdon, aux excès enclin,
Entre en chiffonnant sa chemise ;
Un oeillet est un verre plein,
Un lys est une nappe mise.
La mouche boit le vermillon
Et l'or dans les fleurs demi-closes,
Et l'ivrogne est le papillon,
Et les cabarets sont les roses.
De joie et d'extase on s'emplit,
L'ivresse, c'est la délivrance ;
Sur aucune fleur on ne lit :
Société de tempérance.
Le faste providentiel
Partout brille, éclate et s'épanche,
Et l'unique livre, le ciel,
Est par l'aube doré sur tranche.
Enfants, dans vos yeux éclatants
Je crois voir l'empyrée éclore ;
Vous riez comme le printemps
Et vous pleurez comme l'aurore.
1.5k
Je veux donner l'idée d'un divertissement innocent. Il y a si peu d'amusements qui ne soient pas coupables !
Quand vous sortirez le matin avec l'intention décidée de flâner sur les grandes routes, remplissez vos poches de petites inventions à un sol, - telles que le polichinelle plat mû par un seul fil, les forgerons qui battent l'enclume, le cavalier et son cheval dont la queue est un sifflet, - et le long des cabarets, au pied des arbres, faites-en hommage aux enfants inconnus et pauvres que vous rencontrerez. Vous verrez leurs yeux s'agrandir démesurément. D'abord ils n'oseront pas prendre ; ils douteront de leur bonheur. Puis leurs mains agripperont vivement le cadeau, et ils s'enfuiront comme font les chats qui vont manger **** de vous le morceau que vous leur avez donné, ayant appris à se défier de l'homme.
Sur une route, derrière la grille d'un vaste jardin, au bout duquel apparaissait la blancheur d'un joli château frappé par le soleil, se tenait un enfant beau et frais, habillé de ces vêtements de campagne si pleins de coquetterie.
Le luxe, l'insouciance et le spectacle habituel de la richesse, rendent ces enfants-là si jolis, qu'on les croirait faits d'une autre pâte que les enfants de la médiocrité ou de la pauvreté.
À côté de lui, gisait sur l'herbe un joujou splendide, aussi frais que son maître, verni, doré, vêtu d'une robe pourpre, et couvert de plumets et de verroteries. Mais l'enfant ne s'occupait pas de son joujou préféré, et voici ce qu'il regardait :
De l'autre côté de la grille, sur la route, entre les chardons et les orties, il y avait un autre enfant, sale, chétif, fuligineux, un de ces marmots-parias dont un œil impartial découvrirait la beauté, si, comme l'œil du connaisseur devine une peinture idéale sous un vernis de carrossier, il le nettoyait de la répugnante patine de la misère.
À travers ces barreaux symboliques séparant deux mondes, la grande route et le château, l'enfant pauvre montrait à l'enfant riche son propre joujou, que celui-ci examinait avidement comme un objet rare et inconnu. Or, ce joujou, que le petit souillon agaçait, agitait et secouait dans une boîte grillée, c'était un rat vivant ! Les parents, par économie sans doute, avaient tiré le joujou de la vie elle-même.
Et les deux enfants se riaient l'un à l'autre fraternellement, avec des dents d'une égale blancheur.
1.4k
I am really not passible
Just **** as possible
For a well-worn *****
And, they call me Missy
Because I don’t think I can
Act like a masculine man
So spare me your hissy fit
Go someplace and get over it.
I can walk well in high heels
Don’t need any training wheels.
My taste in clothes is excellent
Not the slightest bit recalcitrant.
I’m fully into the new club scene
About half way to a drag queen.
One more piece of women’s wear
I’ll be ready to go about anywhere.
My movements are very delicate
And that is, of course, deliberate.
You get more if you advertise
And some assets I can’t disguise.
I’m six feet tall in my stocking feet
As spicy as Red Hots and twice as sweet.
If you don’t like your she-girls tall
Then you don’t know what’s good at all.
You’ll find me in cabarets, everywhere.
We’ll be up at the bar or in a chair
Showing off our legs and swinging
Lip-synching the words the juke is singing.
We’ll appreciate a drink, if you are buying,
We’ll make your day complete without trying.
We’re full of fun and know lots of jokes.
We’re a short vacation for the right blokes.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
Mid *** shots from vacant lots, which strike and ricochet
A painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
To tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
And indiscreet along the street she gives her pride away
To any guy who’s passing by with cash and time to pay.
In concert halls, beyond the sprawls 'round shabby cabarets,
Unjaded thoughts of Camelot imbue divine ballets.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC
dilapidated memories of
porters holding luggage
pointed north, south, east, west
till above greasy lighted seas
a semblance poses:
broken windows hanging in
melancholic cadences of
dank repair and
doors of half remembered cabarets open and
close on treacherous gardens seething
tiny bones of lost dreams
a lover's whispered kiss hiding betrayal
a ballerina's advent through billowing pink clouds
a yacht moored to the docks of a mansion
slow winter sunsets kindling false yearns
naked summer skin now
expanse of cautious smiles and tender smokes
beneath the azure skies of
answered praise and fall
to each gathered day
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
My last night at the Moulin Rouge
Was spent coated in heartbreak,
Regret, and tears
Which would have overflown the Seine.
I can never return…
The dead have no need
For cabarets, alcohol,
And the world’s amount of exotic women.
But most of all,
The dead do not pine for
Lost chances
And a fate written in error.
The dead do not have to forgive
And make amends.
The lights will go out…the conflict…
Resolved.
My last night in the Moulin Rouge
Was spend covered in absinthe,
And the other poisons I needed
To remain alive…
If even temporarily.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
I am really not passible
Just **** as possible
For a well-worn *****
And, they call me Missy
Because I don’t think I can
Act like a masculine man
So spare me your hissy fit
Go someplace and get over it.
I can walk well in high heels
Don’t need any training wheels.
My taste in clothes is excellent
Not the slightest bit recalcitrant.
I’m fully into the new club scene
About half way to a drag queen.
One more piece of women’s wear
I’ll be ready to go about anywhere.
My movements are very delicate
And that is, of course, deliberate.
You get more if you advertise
And some assets I can’t disguise.
I’m six feet tall in my stocking feet
As spicy as Red Hots and twice as sweet.
If you don’t like your she-girls tall
Then you don’t know what’s good at all.
You’ll find me in cabarets, everywhere.
We’ll be up at the bar or in a chair
Showing off our legs and swinging
Lip-synching the words the juke is singing.
We’ll appreciate a drink, if you are buying,
We’ll make your day complete without trying.
We’re full of fun and know lots of jokes.
We’re a short vacation for the right blokes.
(And, no. It is not autobiographical.)
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Baby, don't you remember we love instant coffee?
Last summer, we explored the back roads of Texas
They were so dark and dry
Texas with its wild goats and red clay dirt
Its taxidermy and wind mills
Its faded billboard signs advertising
Boiled peanuts, adult cabarets or something else random
We spent all our money on gas and sugar
The stars never looked so big
Your face never looked more like heaven
We thought the world of each other
Last summer. Before the seasons changed the color of the leaves
Before we were forced to wear long pants and closed toe shoes
Before the cold air forced us to hide in our apartments
The landlord told me to lock my door
Strange things went on in that place at night
All they took were the broken hearts I kept in my big book of love
I hid in the closet
I had no time to get away
Last summer. When the morning sun shined through curtains in vain
And we laid in bed all day
Telling each other our dreams
I taught you how to be romantic
You taught me how to be brave.
I told people to keep in touch. Last summer.
They never do as I say
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Sur le bord d'un canal profond dont les eaux vertes
Dorment, de nénuphars et de bateaux couvertes,
Avec ses toits aigus, ses immenses greniers,
Ses tours au front d'ardoise où nichent les cigognes,
Ses cabarets bruyants qui regorgent d'ivrognes,
Est un vieux bourg flamand tel que les peint Teniers.
- Vous reconnaissez-vous ? - Tenez, voilà le saule,
De ses cheveux blafards inondant son épaule
Comme une fille au bain, l'église et son clocher,
L'étang où des canards se pavane l'escadre ;
- Il ne manque vraiment au tableau que le cadre
Avec le clou pour l'accrocher. -
534
Le bruit des cabarets, la fange du trottoir,
Les platanes déchus s'effeuillant dans l'air noir,
L'omnibus, ouragan de ferraille et de boues,
Qui grince, mal assis entre ses quatre roues,
Et roule ses yeux verts et rouges lentement,
Les ouvriers allant au club, tout en fumant
Leur brûle-gueule au nez des agents de police,
Toits qui dégouttent, murs suintants, pavé qui glisse,
Bitume défoncé, ruisseaux comblant l'égout,
Voilà ma route - avec le paradis au bout.
421
With a new day may come yet another way of lifting our hands in praise
Usually formed fondly,friendly even fictitious, a goal to show people internal passions
Pick or choose from a season ,another's passing will bestow a ration ,many way's that your heart plays
Break out with festival or feast ,way above not with our least ,leaping as one to form stronger liaisons
An anniversary of a day others overcame adversity ,they did not know it would become a day of cabarets
Take a break visit a lake often unknowing why it was originally laid on our plate ,the thoughts lost like so many cliches
Fantastic fantasy enjoyed by young & old,winters yield to May day bouquets
Santa & Jesus co-mingle & enjoy a smore, a Big Bunny lays pastel eggs while the other hall is for those that sing praise
Cheers with beer for the rockets red glare don't tread on me no don't you dare ,strength takes time this isn't just some phase
Our for-bearers strife left us talking Turkey, conversations with in-laws a bit murky,what would they think knowing football was the over riding craze
Surviving another year affords you a cake, simple gesture considering what is at stake ,some of the former days now left in a haze
So send a card ,light a tree,carve a squash,blow a candle ,fill a stocking or basket say your prayers ,but remember we're keeping memory's you can't replace.R.C.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 7:15 AM UTC
Ami, le temps n'est plus des guitares, des plumes,
Des créanciers, des duels hilares à propos
De rien, des cabarets, des pipes aux chapeaux
Et de cette gaîté banale où nous nous plûmes.
Voici venir, ami très tendre qui t'allumes
Au moindre dé pipé, mon doux briseur de pots,
Horatio, terreur et gloire des tripots,
Cher diseur de jurons à remplir cent volumes,
Voici venir parmi les brumes d'Elseneur
Quelque chose de moins plaisant, sur mon honneur,
Qu'Ophélia, l'enfant aimable qui s'étonne,
C'est le spectre, le spectre impérieux ! Sa main
Montre un but et son oeil éclaire et son pied tonne,
Hélas ! et nul moyen de remettre à demain !
376
Je veux en vider un grand litre.
C'est très chic le cidre, et d'abord
C'est le tien ! je l'aime à ce titre.
Il est clair, derrière sa vitre,
Comme une aube des Ciels du Nord.
C'était le cidre de Corneille,
Ne pas confondre avec le Cid :
Le premier sort de la bouteille,
L'autre, le casque sur l'oreille,
Doit venir de Valladolid.
C'était le cidre de Guillaume,
Duc des Normands pleins de valeur,
Qui fit, sur leur nouveau royaume,
Flotter les plumes de son heaume,
Plus doux que les pommiers en fleur !
Ah ! vos pommiers criblés de pommes,
Savez-vous qu'ils ne sont pas laids !
Il me semble que nous y sommes,
Non **** des flots, où sont les hommes,
Près du sable, où sont les mollets.
Et les pommes donc ! qui n'adore
Leurs jolis rouges triomphants !
Qu'elles soient deux ou plus encore ;
Sans les pommes que l'on dévore,
Personne ne ferait d'enfants.
L'humanité serait peu flère ;
Vos cœurs, Femmes, seraient glacés.
Sans les pommes... qu'avait ton père,
Sans celles qu'adorait ma mère
Oh !... plutôt trop, que pas assez.
Ah ! bienheureuses sont les branches,
Qui cachent, dans leur *** fouillis,
Le cidre d'Harfleur ou d'Avranches,
Que l'on boit gaiement, les dimanches,
Aux cabarets de ton pays !
Et bienheureux sont ceux qui portent
Ces fruits dans toutes leurs saveurs ;
Que jamais, jamais ils n'avortent,
Puisque aussi bien c'est d'eux que sortent
Les Buveuses et les Buveurs !
377
REGULATION OF CELEBRATION
With a new day may come yet another way of lifting our hands in praise
Usually formed fondly,friendly even fictitious, a goal to show people internal passions
Pick or choose from a season ,another's passing will bestow a ration ,many way's that your heart plays
Break out with festival or feast ,way above not with our least ,leaping as one to form stronger liaisons
An anniversary of a day others overcame adversity ,they did not know it would become a day of cabarets
Take a break visit a lake often unknowing why it was originally laid on our plate ,the thoughts lost like so many cliches
Fantastic fantasy enjoyed by young & old,winters yield to May day bouquets
Santa & Jesus co-mingle & enjoy a smore, a Big Bunny lays pastel eggs while the other hall is for those that sing praise
Cheers with beer for the rockets red glare don't tread on me no don't you dare ,strength takes time this isn't just some phase
Our for-bearers strife left us talking Turkey, conversations with in-laws a bit murky
what would they think knowing football was the overriding craze
Surviving another year affords you a cake, simple gesture considering what is at stake ,some of the former days now left in a haze
So send a card ,light a tree,carve a squash,blow a candle ,fill a stocking or basket say your prayers ,but remember we're keeping memory's you can't replace.R.C
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 5:25 PM UTC