"montmartre" poems
Against too many writers of science fiction
Why did you lure us on like this,
Light-year on light-year, through the abyss,
Building (as though we cared for size!)
Empires that cover galaxies
If at the journey's end we find
The same old stuff we left behind,
Well-worn Tellurian stories of
Crooks, spies, conspirators, or love,
Whose setting might as well have been
The Bronx, Montmartre, or Bedinal Green?
Why should I leave this green-floored cell,
Roofed with blue air, in which we dwell,
Unless, outside its guarded gates,
Long, long desired, the Unearthly waits
Strangeness that moves us more than fear,
Beauty that stabs with tingling spear,
Or Wonder, laying on one's heart
That finger-tip at which we start
As if some thought too swift and shy
For reason's grasp had just gone by?
4.5k
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
I arrive at the barbers
for my weekly, my usual,
and you are there,
sitting in my seat
crying. I lift you up,
cape and all,
take you round the
corner, where you tell
me you are sorry
but we have to go to
Brighton now, even
though it is 6pm on
a Friday and we won’t
be done until 2pm
tomorrow. Is it a ruse?
I think so, because
suddenly we are in a
part of London that
looks like Montmartre
(or it could be Richmond
masquerading as Venice)
and we meet a man
called Tricks who says
he’s the new chief now
because he knows the
location of all the bones.
And then there are
scanners at airports,
walk-in health centres,
families in North Carolina
with names like Kayleigh
and Shauna. And when
we are done meeting
them we are back, you
in the chair, glowing blue
under barbicide lights.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 4:10 AM UTC
Soon after the sky had cast off
The tattered cloak of night,
And the midnight sun had set,
Helios himself climbed above the trees.
Dancing across the tops of dueling oaks,
Those primordial brothers between the ponds
Who, over time, grew up and into each other,
He sat spinning madly.
Shedding his golden rays,
As a lab shakes and sheds the water from his back,
They fell deliberately onto
And through my open blinds.
And I, stirred by the small streams of light
Cutting through the dark as if empty space,
I opened my eyes, only to close them again.
Lying, silently, I wait,
Tracing shadows as they slowly shift,
Dancing across the dull, white walls.
Fetid clothes lay protecting the floorboards.
The stale smell of smoke lingers,
Trapped in the soft cottons and polyesters
Of the cream throw pillows,
The blue waves of comforter,
The vast canyons of the corduroy futon.
Wine, fresh on my tongue,
Tells tales of the evening,
Lost of late in a world so distant.
My memories slip away like slack tide
Beneath rotten planks of a dock.
Twin cities, London and Paris,
A cold Christmas morning in Montmartre,
The warmth of the café we shared,
All hung up neatly on the wall.
Maps of emotions I never knew I had.
Only the breeze may speak here,
Whistling through the fissures in the wall.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:15 PM UTC
Disini aku masih di bawah langit milik bumiku
Tapi berbeda tempat dan aroma tanah
Aku merasa di atmosfer era abad pertengahan
Melihat banyak kastil dengan arsitektur tua
Pemandangan yang indah di Montmartre, sebuah kerajaan seni
yang siap memanjakan mataku seketika
Musim gugur menciptakan lukisan indah secara alami
Tempat itu seperti kanvas
Diciptakan oleh kuas ajaib anugrah yang kuasa
Meski Claude Monete dan Renoir sudah tidak ada lagi
Aku bisa melihat perpaduan warna cantik di musim gugur dengan mata telanjang
kuning, oranye, merah dan coklat
Lukisan yang begitu indah
Biarkan aku memakai jaket hari ini
Sebab udara membuatku cukup dingin
Aku berjalan-jalan di pedesaan Prancis
Pohon-pohon gugur di sepanjang jalan
ditemani oleh nyanyian burung yang menyemarakan hariku
Ini sudah waktunya panen
Aku menyukai labu di ladang
Memilih apel dan pir di kebun dekat benteng Talcy
Prancis seperti harta karun emas
Paris di musim gugur bulan ini
Menara Eiffel sudah menungguku
kali ini aku berjalan di atas dedaunan
Begitu renyah di bawah kakiku
Pohon maple di atas saya memayungi meski hari tak hujan
Daunnya yang tersentuh angin berputar-putar
Mengirim mereka untuk menari di udara
Sangat romantis
Aku sedang duduk di bangku kayu
Ah jika September tiba...
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
Paving the way into the future
Sharing Montmartre songs
With painters on the side
Picturesque ideals....
You were once with me
Scarred by words of yore
Said beauty was all yours
Said I'd never high cheekbones.
I look'd within and sought light
And mixed colours, all from white
Temerity to stare life in the eye
With pain(t) dashed across my cheek.
So, now the years have roll'd
And many a canvas sold
You pass by...gaunt, high cheekbones
Wanna buy a painting?
Star Toucher, 22 March 2013
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
I will find my way back to you on Montmartre’s cobblestone streets.
Imagine Hemingway right next to us, rambling on about his moveable feast.
Like free-spirited birds, I will race you to the top of Sacré-Cœur.
Before you can catch your breath,
I promise the view would steal it once more.
I want to see every inch of the Louvre, we would probably get lost for days;
But we are smiling like fools, I bet it would put Mona Lisa to shame.
We can stroll along the Seine, and haggle with bouquinistes near Notre Dame.
I will find an artist to paint you,
But first show me how a monsieur should love a madam.
I utter a prayer at Sainte-Chapelle, as I immortalize you in stained glass.
Maybe as we wander aimlessly along Champs-Elysées, Degas would teach us how to dance.
I will tell you all my secrets, the way kings and queens did once.
Even Rodin would call it treason not to cast these two lost souls in bronze.
We can have a picnic at the Tuileries, and you can bring me flowers from Monet's backyard.
I will make a wish before they wilt; Don’t we all hope for the best before we die?
And right here in the in-betweens, we have love to keep us alive,
As foolish and innocent as the way Picasso painted like a child.
Seasons are changing, and soon we will say goodbye.
The Tour Eiffel glistened in all its glory as darkness fell on the city of lights.
Paris, it has been an honor to love and be loved by you.
In a few years or maybe in a heartbeat—
I will come home to you soon.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
*blood stains her canvas
congealed crusts, fresh streaks
frayed corners and edges
the tattered toll of pain, loss
how best to depict my love on her
overlay her with beauty
to develop a patina of care over time
reduce her suffering to pentimento
her landscape shifts constantly
with the quality of her light
I must blend to the shade of her mood
her want...her need
work from the palette of my heart
in the spectrum of my love
paint her in courted color
every tone of every hue
brush her being with my caress
creatively styled to her moment
pastel tenderness...primary strength
bold strokes of passion...bright splashes of spontaneity
to portray for her a frameless existence
of unlimited intimacy and peace
but she does not rest on my easel
and I am merely dreaming of the art of love*
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my ******* oozing desire,
My groin drenched in desire for his wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my twitching buttocks;
My screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of Parisian dawnings.
My clear goal: swallow his salty comings.
Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami bozo,
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
A "Memories" poem by the immortal Barry Hodges aka Edna
Night fell on Montmartre and, gazing into my love's eyes
Over a candelit chequered tablecloth,
Beneath my belt lurked rancid lust,
The seams of my trousers oozing love's sweet song,
My groin lumped in desire for her wanton arse-flesh.
Streetlight shone through threadbare curtains
Harnessing proudly over my pounding buttocks;
Hermione's screamed climaxes echoing
In deepest recesses of her third-rate mind.
My clear goal: swallow my salty comings, cow.
Morning exposes a sordid scene to chambermaid's gawp:
Spreadeagled cold-as-chilled-salami ****
Puny synapses crushed like mashed strawberries
Blasted smithereens of overpowering *******
Like chicken's entrails in an unwashed sink.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
Paris pines
for us:
...whines for us.
Lurks outside
our window
like a great big
urban puppy.
We're being held
prisoner
( inside our room )
by a vicious sadistic
flu bug
who refuses to
let us go.
We are missing
David Sirosis's
new spoken
word night.
Indeed, all we have seen
of Paris, is:
the inside of
ROOM 411.
ROOM 411
overlooks that famed necropolis
CIMETIÈRE DE MONTMARTRE.
The dead stand
outside
ROOM 411
...and stare.
And...stare.
Envious of even
our flu-ridden life.
They crowd together
in their stone telephone boxes
like fans
at a Dr. Who convention
who have all come
as the Tardis.
"Come...come!"
they cajole.
"Come...join us as
the glorious dead!"
they plead.
See the great
Nijinksy
leap over a moon.
Offenbach, Berlioz et Degas
act a a celebrated Greek Chorus.
The flu grows weary
let's its...grip...slip &
we escape to
a poetry stage &
suddenly it's
PARIS LIT UP &
I'm on
stage.
A bemused amused
Parisian audience
wondering why
the staggery hairy
Irish post stumbles &
wanders in search of
his words &
carrying all of CIMETIÈRE DE MONTMARTRE
about in his ahhhhh...ahhhhh...ahhhhhhhhhh
....shoooooo....head!
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun
The wildness of mistral
The calmness of a Cezanne village
I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro
And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated
I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent
I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about
I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl
Whose face is like Madonna
Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body
Excite me, breaks me, creates me
I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre
Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet
I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon
And the Sacre Couer
In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise
And walk into the cemetery
Where lie in the gorgeous French sun
Vincent and Theo Van Gogh
I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?"
It is when I heard the footsteps
I turned
The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery
Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty
The French girl
We both stand there as it is
As if
framed
paused
Frozen
We, the Impressionists!
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Here.. I'm still under the sky
but different place and ground
I feel in medieval era atmosphere
Seeing lots of castles with old architecture
Beautiful view in Montmartre, the custom of art
Pampering my eyes
Autumn creates a wonderful art naturally
This place like a natural canvas
created by a magical brush from God's hand
Though Claude Monete and Renoir aren't exist anymore
I can see the blend colors of autumn with my naked eyes
There is yellow, orange, red and brown
such a lovely painting
Let me wear jacket this day
Cause the air makes me pretty cold
Strolling a countryside of French
Deciduous trees along village street
With bird song around
It's time to harvest
I like pumpkins in the field
Picking apples and pears in the orchard near Talcy castle
French is like a gold treasure
Paris in autumn this month
Eiffel tower is waiting me
I'm walking on the leaves carpet
So crisp under my feet
The maple trees above me shadowing
The leaves twirling
send them to dance in the air
Exceedingly romantic
I was sitting on bench wood
Oh.. if September comes
NA.2016
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
and there is some beauty
in listening to mouths
speak a language
that you may not understand
but at the bottom of the screen
stream the words
that leave the lips
you begin to realize
all you've got to do is read
and that you haven't
forgotten how to
take it all in
and as boys fall in love
with girls in cafes
and ride around on mopeds
and ********** their bodies
to men who needn't the money,
but the ***
because they haven't touched
their wives since
they gave birth
to their second child
you begin to realize
how beautiful
french truly is
and that you haven't forgotten
what montmartre's graves
look like in the evening's fleeting light
and as a girl falls in love
with two men at once
and they discover
how sordid lovers can be
while painting their
stories for all artistic
eyes to drink in slowly
and they lay on their
brand new queen,
because there just isn't
room for three
on a twin
you begin to
remember that spanish
is full of passion
and that you haven't forgotten
everything you learned in tenth grade
words may be formed
with different movement
of our tongues
and you may not have the
slightest idea what i'm saying
as i scrawl down these lines,
but i'm certain
that we've all found beauty
in listening to someone
pour their heart out
on the page
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 11:45 PM UTC
I. The Flitting
*just like me to
be the one to lose my nerve
I don’t even think of you
sipping your coffee and yawning*
his honey-throat spreading imagined hospitality like butter
on toast—the bard of Royal Street ringing bells of that
known once and only, that forgotten bard of Montmartre
e, e, e, e,
e, e, e, e, e, d, c, d
I walked up and down and up and down
and up and down, wrought-iron
balconies and
hanging plants and
circus clowns and
cocktails named
things like Aviator
and Little Josephine
in my ribs.
hurricane season came and went
the apartment Jacob rented painted
salmon by the new tenant
I kept walking
all I heard was jazz
II. The Splatter
I met a man all the way from Delhi
at the mismatched
butterfly-printed breakfast table.
He said
“Where are you from?”
and I said a little town near Philly
and he said
“Where are you going?”
and I said I haven’t got a clue.
He told me they let you
paint the walls with pen strokes
and they never paint it over.
He said to love thy neighbor ‘cause she looks okay
and when they ask what brings you here
to smile and tell them
“Well isn’t that just none of your **** business.”
III. The End
it was
just
like
me
to be
the one
to lose
my nerve—
I step off the plane
humming in my best
imitation honey voice
a little drunk on airplane wine
it’s raining here
and I only remember
that one line
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
I just want to be on the cliff at Tintagel
Looking to the castle, & Merlin's cave.
Or Bigbury beach, on the sea tractor.
Or hanging off a rock at Peak District
Or hanging off a tree in Holborough
Maybe further afield than England,
Coffee with her at Montmartre
Or hiking in the regions of Inca
And bathing in coves of Costa Rica
Or climbing pyramids of Cancun
A list of things to do once lockdown ends
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 5:58 AM UTC
It’s night, freezing much outside.
You’re talking about Paris…
Let me, please, sit closer to you
And I’ll move nearer to Paris.
You’re talking about Montmartre
And lo I am there by now.
I hear from all sides: “Oh, belle mademoiselle!”
I’m blushing as under the crown.
“Je suis fasciné par vous!” “Oh, merci!”
“Quelle beauté!” My feet are going numb.
“Asseyer-vous, s'il vous plait. Je veux peindre de vous!”
I can’t say no, and I sit down.
'Je marche sur Montmartre…'
And though I only dream it,
Beautiful Paris, that I see in your eyes,
Is enough for me to fall in love with it.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 6:03 PM UTC
It's summer number twenty-one
and suburbia is slow roasting,
the days turning dreamily
over the spit, as I try
not to set the sheets on fire.
Each night I drench them with
a viscous sweat, wrapping myself
in the smell of conquering Montmartre,
a rush-hour ride on the no. 3 metro line,
close calls with morning joggers
coming from the Parc Monceau.
Every morning,
lacher is collecting in my damp palms,
and quitter runs in beads down my back.
You must have tasted non plus and
confus beneath my lower lip,
je suis désolé pooling in the dip
of my collarbone, because
You were gone
three days ahead of schedule
in spite of every word held back
in spite of the afternoon drives
and the late night talks, Scott Pilgrim
forgotten on the flat screen, the raspberries
that temporarily stained our fingertips.
Slick truth seeped out somehow, through
their perfect Golden Ratio,
these invincible, nautilus spiral prints
forensically seared to my tongue.
It’s summer number twenty-one.
I will my pores to open up, for floods
of pain jardin lune fleurs printemps
to soak the linen and swallow the words
you left behind, smelling decidedly
American, popped caps of Mexican Coke
and regret.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
yellow vases shan't hold Montmartre coffee nor goldilocks no more,
brilliant sunshine wrapped around thy hair, unmoving in this unending fall.
yellow paint and quivering ink-eating, masking something for sure:
just make this bread, add spicy Dijon must-dust for show.
eat it all up, absinthe's place in your heart and soul,
toxic waste in your yellowish carnation, oozing out lemon holes.
will he really swallow the missing piece of his own (...)?
was he really the type to ponder & slaughter the only thing that he truly owned?
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 2:39 PM UTC
I can almost recall a time when I didn’t care... there was so much life laid up in store
frivolous days tossed aside:
grisly hangovers of endless nights,
I used to observe the characters of Paris from a window in Chez Camille... sun light flashing through the green of horse chestnut trees lining wide Montmartre streets-
well heeled parents guiding their chattering children past a
staggering drunk, **** marks up his trouser leg, greasy hair clinging to his beard
he’s avoided too by those girls in summer dresses, all legs and laughter and dreams
they are ogled by the old men drinking coffee outside cafes, complaining about their busy wives...
back in that time when our choices could send us anywhere-
careening into old cinemas watching movies with wide eyes,
building driftwood fires on deserted beaches
or writhing with nameless shapes in little rooms
washed in strawberry *****
back before our choices defined us and hardened into everything we are.
back when right and wrong were only whispering
and the streets of Paris called my name
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 2:03 PM UTC
I conquered every feeiing that ever felt real to me and
knelt at the feet of statues looking for deliverance,
Blood on her wings but an angel flies in and sings to me,
I cling to the tin foil
In the tack room
satin and a whisper of whips.
I unclip from the apron and try to get a game on
But the statues refuse to okay my play.
and she walks like she's sinking
on the brink or is it me thinking it's her thinking it's me?
Montmartre
next stop Kama Sutra
all aboard
tickets please,
fasten your seat belt
It wasn't that at all
It just
felt like it.
But when you start to feel and cease to kneel it all becomes incredible,
I'm a thousand lira nearer to Pisa,
she's a lot closer to me.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
Beneath the Eiffel's iron lace,
A tabby cat prowls with feline grace,
Past Arc de Triomphe, she sets her pace,
On moonlit nights down the Champs Élysées.
Prowling around cafés and bustling streets, She slips into wine-soaked conversations, Witnessing love's soft declarations,
While dodging bikes and hurried feet.
Her whiskers twitch at fresh baguettes,
As dawn breaks on the Seine's calm flow, Lounging, watching artists come and go,
From her sun-kissed, with a view parapet.
Notre Dame's gargoyles watch her pass,
Through shadows of restored spires,
In all its reverent wonder, to be admired
As pigeons scatter on morning mass.
Up to Montmartre's charm and winding ways,
She naps peacefully on warm window sills,
As church bells toll from sacred hills,
Lost in the wonders of her Parisian days.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 10:23 PM UTC
Montmartre
The harlot on the hill
Her perfume
of garlic and Gaulloises
sour in the Sunday afternoon.
~
On the Rue Laitiere
A promenade of bustles
where, from under lace parasols
Working girls glances
Survey the field.
~
In the Moulin de la Galette
The thin man in a hurry
Eager at the canvass
Licks brush on palette
and gives Estelle her eyes.
~
From a third story window
Lissette leans on her elbows
Smiles at the sunlight
Sighs with the memory
of yesterday’s lover.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 1:06 PM UTC
The Lost Generation
now lost online
Paris, a web of postings
Its cafes are fed
fresh verses unread
—new Seines left overflowing
(Montmartre Paris: March, 2009)
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC