"piaf" poems
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
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
Tears from dusky lowered lids
crystallize and scintillate in the
flames of the guttering candles.
(Walk away, love, walk away!
Kiss my cheek and turn.-
A shattered heart beats, ****** in your breast.)
We love, and yet we return to our 'others'.
We pray we never hurt them. Pray we never break.
I cannot stop this love! I do not regret it. There!
I only hope that we hide it well enough that it not disturb the innocents...
because, we were innocents too, when it came crashing into our lives.
Bien! Non Regrets Rien. Sing the song, and Edith will sing with us. ...
Or Aznavour will. Or Lara Fabian, or Jacques Brel...
Sing on le chanteur et les chanteurs,
then come and weep with me.
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 5:31 AM UTC
creek in th'dark
w/brightest stone baubles, dappled riverbottom pebbles under moon-water,
a thousand faces glinting, smiling upwards.
school of carp in the reeds, the stalks rasping in the warm air
as the tails swish them back and forth.
the unheard steady **** of flapping, feeding mouths --
drawing in of algae, snails, waterbeetles;
soft crunch of shell and exoskeleton.
two legs on the dune by the stream wishing
there was two more legs on the dune, angling
down toward the stream.
a tender accompanying voice singing maybe Piaf
avec un accent provincial (de châtillon?)
hair wet, tangled;
sporting powder-white two-piece,
fresh from having swam with strong, slow kicks of slender pale legs,
long in that green water.
legs that look good in black heels.
their clicking imagined in the head.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Yesterday for my birthday,
I started off
with a bottle of wine...
I took the train
into town...
I had half a bitter
at the Cafe de Piaf
in Waterloo...
I went to work
for a couple of hours or so;
I had a pint after work;
I went for an audition;
after the audition,
I had another pint
and a half;
I had another half,
before meeting my mates,
for my b'day celebrations;
we had a pint together;
we went into
the night club,
where we had champagne
(I had three glasses);
I had a further
glass of vino,
by which time,
I was so gone
that I drew an audience
of about thirty
by performing a solo
dancing spot
in the middle
of the disco floor...
We all piled off to the pub
after that,
where I had another drink
(I can't remember
what it was)...
I then made my way home,
took the bus from Surbiton,
but ended up
in the wilds of Surrey;
I took another bus home,
and watched some telly,
and had something to eat
before crashing out...
I really, really enjoyed
the eve, but today,
I've been walking around
like a zomb;
I've had only one drink today,
an early morning
restorative effort;
I spent the day working,
then I went to a bookshop,
where, like a monk,
I go for a day's
drying out session...
Drying out is really awful;
you jump at every shadow;
you feel dizzy,
you notice everything;
very often,
I don't follow through.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
first musical memory
playing Mary Poppins
over and over on my portable suitcase
phonograph
not convinced that
a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
went over to my friends house
to play Barbies
heard B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets
on her record player
began my life long
love of rock music
grew up attending a Southern Baptist church
if my faith continues to evolve in and out of specific creeds and dogmatic beliefs
right arm will never fail to involuntarily rise
towards the Heavens
whenever i hear
How Great Thou Art being sung
parents were in their late 30's
by the time i was born
was exposed to big band music
show tunes
mom's favorite
French operatic singer Edith Piaf
Riverview Elementary
in music class
taught how to do The Hustle and The Bus Stop
to disco records
got to bring in
on Fridays
love of guys with
long hair
blame
on the big hair
bands
the 80's
the 90's
such a kinship to the dark depressing sounds of grunge
believed Scott Weiland
Kurt Cobain and
Jerry Cantrell
plagiarized my thoughts
mad or need to clean
my house
the 2 often go
hand in hand
heavy/nu metal blaring
at maximum volume
Currently
am at a crossroads
need of direction
helps me to undergo the deep soul searching
inecessary
major life changes are required
give myself vehicular therapy,
driving around Wilson Lake
symphonic classical sounds from the radio
surprisingly
maybe not
blaring
maximum
volume
brainstorming
my options
to the
music
overheard
ppl say
they wished that
their life
came with
a soundtrack
Mine does.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC
Come here.
Let’s.
Let’s?
Let’s…
Let’s.
Come here.
Listen to Edith Piaf
(So hipster, n'est-ce pas?)
and the scratch of her
voice on the turntable,
will be ours
to keep in Moleskine
notebooks of memory.
So that we’ll try to believe,
love is actually a thing.
Let’s.
Come here.
This quaint room will be
ours,
our guest, as we breathe life
into the coffee cups, wooden chairs.
We’ll give it a nose, yes.
Lightbulbs will smell red
wine in fingerprinted glasses.
Windows will drink
us,
to us.
And we’ll laugh, our faces
hot and sad, mouths
crammed with French
fries.
A scene blurred with happiness.
Let’s.
Come here.
Trash the hands of every
boy, who’s spread himself
out on marginalia of our days.
Slathered himself on pieces
of time we wish we had hugged to ourselves.
Hate, hate, hate
him, we’ll say.
And his **** hands.
Let’s.
Come here.
Our eyes will be fireflies
behind our glasses,
in this cinema’s night, as we ‘swoon’
at rom-coms as buttery
as the popcorn we bought in the interval.
Life’s too short, we say.
Eat about it, drink about it,
maybe even talk about it.
Forget about it.
Let’s.
Come here.
Talk, about nothing.
We’ll all be dead one day.
Let’s.
Come here.
We can be friends.
Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s.
Let’s?
(And your giggle will end
all and every verse written.
I’m **** sure of it.)
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
lilt green trickles
flutters on crisp air
splashing gentle blankets
anointing dew crowned ground
Miles Davis
or
Edith Piaf
Autumn Leaves
Oakland
10/8/12
jbm
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
When I think of the way we love
I spill Shakespeare like a fountain,
I spit rhymes like a rap star,
Words dance inside my chest.
Edith Piaf's lyrics hold the most acute reality
That I have to shut my eyes and sway
Translating the words is unnecessary.
The rhythm underneath holding all the meaning I need.
I can't compare thee to a summer's day;
You are most like a solid oak tree in my life...
An essential component to every season.
Adapting with a beauty all your own.
I don't only crave your mouth, your voice, your hair;
As Neruda would have you believe.
I crave your essence-
Found in the most precise way the your head twists
As you laugh...as you overthink...as you grow drowsy.
Only your eyes could reenact the look you have
When you're feeling most giddy.
Tupac Shakur and I "prayed and watched the distant stars",
And finally you appeared.
Shining so brightly I shut my eyes often,
Stunned by you.
Like a sunny day at the beach,
When you close your eyes and the sun's glow
Pushes against your eyelids; such is your love.
Pushing at the barriers
That keep my heart my own.
I want to stop the world and melt with you, forever.
I want you to know that even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Songs! Lyrics! Because if music be the food of love, PLAY ON!
And without borrowing other phrases,
I truly believe I was made for you and you for me.
No lyric I could sing,
No poem I could quote,
No metaphor I could construct,
and not even the bold truth of plain words
could EVER express how I feel for you.
But it doesn't stop me from trying.
I want to give you the luxury of taking the way I feel
about you for granted.
It will be that constant.
It will be that reliable.
It will simply be.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC
There will always be Paris
Written For The City I love
Jude Kyrie
*There is smoke in the air tonight.
In the old city that has seen many
wars and tribulations.
But smoke clears
those left will move on.
I do not want to
remember Paris like this.
It is so easy to do.
In the cold sadness.
I want to see the sprinbgtime
on the banks of the Seine
with lovers kissing
as the blossoms appear.
I want to see the artist
creating the beauty of the old city
and its lovely ladies.
I want to hear
Edith Piaf singing
La Vie En Rose
as only she can sing it.
With her heart full of passion
and love for the people of the city
pinned to her sleeve.
I want to be young again
and fall in love
with a beautiful french girl
her kisses sweet and tender
her heart carefree.
Tonight my tears flow like rainfall.
But it cannot last
not with Paris.
Not with its life blood
spilled on the streets.
I love her too much
and I will return
For tears are not the way
for us to say goodbye.*
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
compilations of cold coffee cups,
dancing about in my candle-stained room
to French music from the 50's, today,
contrasting with the cacophony of construction
four stories beneath, below,
the day is blush.
rain as rosewater, fossilizes into flakes on the cheekbones, the lashes.
a quick reading of Kerouac reminds one to
believe in the 'holy contour of life,' whatever 'holy' means,
if it exists at all,
whether America is overrated,
whether i rather play in puddles of Scotland
or some foreign place,
how delightful it sounds, as Edith Piaf's
voice trances my loveless memory.
i'm cold. but we have to be.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
Sunt prostul lui Piaf,
Șad pe marmura neagră
Și nu-mi plac străinii
Care vin doar pentru Morrison.
Apr 21, 2022
Apr 21, 2022 at 6:05 PM UTC
*"Avant nous,
D'autres amants ont dit : "Je t'aime."
Comme nous...
Avant nous,
D'autres ont souffert, ont trahi même"*
Edith Piaf
---
You presented the evidence
Cards filled the table
Jack, King, Queen
You even threw
The Joker.
I laughed at your attempts
To pacify a self you so
Resolutely dismissed until
You realised I'd actually
Gone.
Profanities crossed
Across the desk separating us
And you owned your side
Dispersing blood on
Your hands.
I sat still with a snigger
A stare in my eye so wild
You feared my retort
A riposte shedding your
Ego.
My final offering
Twisting the knife
Plundered into my back
Before this poker game
Even began.
I remained silent
As you screeched
My own voodoo doll
With pleasure I watched your
Pain.
© Sia Jane
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
There is a woman,
so kind and great of heart,
who visits our church.
From Eastern Europe
she is tinier
than even the smallest Piaf.
When she sings
in praise and adoration of her Creator,
you can almost see
the pillars tremble
in harmony;
as her voice
totally and powerfully
pervades the innermost depths
of the entire congregation.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 11:52 PM UTC
DYNAMO
consciousness tossed
around in the heavenly night,
illuminations and poems in us all
as an asphalt drum bounds
oak to flat
dispersing lamentations to
the brain and barbwire ribcage
clawing at our lungs
PHANTASM
pain,
the behemoth cause for all inspiration
the pressing crucifixion
the shrill cry of harmonica overcast in
this bizarre moonlight
sinking an oceanic shadow
for my memory is high off melancholy
but i keep at it because the morning is beautiful
A PRAYER FOR WARMTH
(in my opinion)
nothing feels stranger than
an empty bedroom
we are each others loneliness
SOLIPSISM
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
I sat in the dining room of my home, watching the sun rise and letting it's warmth pour over me through the window.
I listened to Edith Piaf sing beautiful love songs to me as I drank my coffee black and smoked too many harsh cigarettes waiting for words to come to me.
I sat for a while watching the shy sun peek over the towering trees in the horizon, letting it inspire me and fill me with irrevocable and overwhelming hope for the day.
I had not slept for 24 hours, yet my bright eyes were wide with pure adoration for the sun and it's astounding strength to pull itself out of it's deep slumber each morning.
It was then I realized humans beings themselves are much like the sun. Regardless of the day before and it's happenings, we rise each day unknowing of what is to become of the next 24 hours.
There are mornings that it is hard peel my duvet off of my cold, slender, legs; and there are mornings I can hardly wait for the sun to rise to begin my day.
There, too, are days I don't rise from my wrinkled sheets until the sun has set itself into the highest point of the sky, announcing that it is midday.
There are even days I can't bring myself to crawl away from my pillows until the sun is setting.
But today is not one of those days. For today I have hope of what has yet to come.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
Quand elle me parle du ciel,
Je n'ais d'yeux que pour elle.
Quand elle me parle des cieux,
Je n'ais d'yeux que pour nous deux.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
I've been picturing your face
it comes and goes all day
I hope that you do that too
edeth piaf singing sweet
it takes away my grief
and then I float, a ways
down.
come home darling. I'm alone
my heart, it will never roam
I'll sing to you when you come
back
I've been desperate
to hear your voice, my love
but if I was gifted the choice
I'd take your breath far away
Oh,
hold me tightly when you're here
sweet darling, please do not fear
till then I'm fine on the shelf
and,
your love, if it fades away
I hope when you see my face
you remember and hold me
forevermore
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
MIDNIGHT FLICKS OVER INTO TOMORROW
"Henry, Henry...?"
his wife's voice
getting shriller and
shriller
he
doesn't answer
her
can't answer her.
Midnight flicks over
into tomorrow
with a little green click
from fluorescent numbers.
It seems as if
she's in the next room.
A piece of solid
reality but
she's not
only a disembodied voice.
She's been a ghost now
these 20 years.
"Henry, Henry..!"
the parrot says again
so much her it seems
she has been reincarnated
Martha
as Polly.
The parrot growing old
with him.
Edith Piaf sings
on old shellac
"Sans amour on n'est rien du tout!"
The parrot joins in on
every "du tout."
"Coming dear..!" he smiles "...coming!"
the parrot scolds him when it sees him
"So there you are!"
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
Sonya puked
in the small
white bidet
I could hear
her puked sounds
from my bed
in the cheap
hotel room
in Paris
Piaf sang
some French song
from the black
radio
we had brought
when we came
Benedict
she groaned out
I feel ill
more puke sounds
came to me
too much wine
cheap old stuff
nonetheless
I helped her
cleaned her up
got her dressed
with her help
into her
pink nightdress
lay her down
in her bed
a white bowl
by her head.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
In my private life.
I dance to myself.
In a mad trance.
Seeking a release.
From being.
Alive.
Melt into a neurotic.
Tune.
On repeat.
A nostalgic memory.
From the thirties.
Hazy.
Because I've never.
Been there.
Only.
Here.
As I always am.
Stuck.
In this repetition.
Edith Piaf.
Singing to me in a language.
I don't understand.
In my own personal.
Kali Yuga.
Without Rudra.
To stop.
My.
Destruction.
I will implode into this.
Catatonia.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 6:38 AM UTC
I made the effort from the train
And hit the platform
With my right foot first and then
My left.
The sun streaked through the rafters
Down onto the pavement, warming the hair on my head,
My skin, my face, my lips.
There were people everywhere only paying attention
To themselves and their things.
A train whistle erupted. I jumped.
A tall man, thin and grinning, laughed. He tipped
His cap to me. His shoulder leaned into the chipped wood
Of a café's doorway. People were struggling to get through.
Old men leaned on their elbows through the bay window
Sipping coffee whose steam curled up into their wide nostrils.
I figured the tall, thin, grinning, laughing, leaning man
Owned the place. He was such a presence.
He said something in French and reached out for my bag
(I think he was trying to help me carry them)
But I waved him off and revealed my watch,
The universal sign of "I am very ******* late".
The tall thin man stepped back, laughed again, and
Continued to lean on the doorway blocking traffic.
I trotted down a flight of stairs
And then up a flight of stairs, turned a corner,
To only go up another flight of stairs.
The arm holding my bag was numb while my breath
Was as short as the midgets I came upon on the street once
I had exited the train station.
They were juggling bowling pins,
Singing Edith Piaf's "Padam Padam".
Their voices were not very good, not well-trained,
But the sight made up from their vocal cords.
I dropped my suitcase in the taxi line.
The heat of the sun and the thick smog of cars
Washed over me like paint.
The sounds of the city brought back memories.
I stepped forward.
Soon, I would be home.
Soon, I would be in bed.
Soon, I would be with Him.
Soon, I would be as close to love
As I could get.
As I could ever be.
As I hoped I ever will.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
*It was so very long ago
almost a lifetime.
We were caught
inside the magic glow
of Paris in springtime
where love and youth
have no defenses.
I painted your portrait
in my tiny studio.
My God you were beautiful.
In the small room
the incomparable voice of Edith Piaf
sang the only song for lovers
La Vie en Rose.
My brushes found color and form
I had never found before.
I think your portrait
was my best work.
even today after all these years.
I have been offered large sums
of money even when I was hungry
and unknown.
But I would never sell it.
It was painted with my heart
how can you sell the first time
you fell in love.
Today I am an old man
I sit in my studio
sipping a glass of Chablis
looking at your portrait.
Something is missing of course
I flip the player on
Edith pours her soul once more
as her
La Vie en rose completes my mood.*
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
in Paris
A summer is over the night arrives with
unseemly haste, it was not a delicious season
too spent most of the time indoors
fantasising about silky sand, the sun and sea
reading brochures of adventures in Thailand.
When I get to a new place, it never is as had
Imagined it to be, say when I went to Paris
I had in mind the way it was at the time of
Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and
Ernest Hemingway, instead it was just another
overpriced city, mind I found the birthplace
of Edith Piaf and the street had a patina of
time went by, so I shall not be invited to
a literary salon, but I got two collections of
poetry accepted at Shakespeare's bookshop
I’m glad I read their books, but I’m also glad
I never met them
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC