"provence" poems
i don't look at you,
except to steal a sideways glance
from the corner of this dance club
while you lose yourself on the floor
but i write poetry of you,
secret words of secret feelings.
and the musk and dark becomes
a garden in provence.
i would set them to song,
if there is a melody here
that could set you to dance with me
to steal from you a touch.
but you are in another world
of dimmed light and senses
and i can steal only another glance
in my faraway, medieval love
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
It started in Dublin before I was born
Crossing the Irish Sea to weather a storm.
London called through the wind and rain
Big city lights and a country's flame.
To Manchester then, a city united
At least to outsiders.
But to those within it's somewhat
Divided.
Summers in France.
Dining in Provence
Time in Toulouse
And along the Loire.
But Paris! Paris has that
Je ne sais quoi
Fine wine, fine company
It's a fine philosophy.
A German exchange
*in einer stadt namens
Bad Bentheim.*
Exposed to a culture
And the work of Rammstein.
A few days in Berlin
A fantastic city with much
History within.
Gondolas in Vienna if only for a day
Sailing down the Danube
Water wants us on our way.
We stay for a while
Within the walls of Budapest,
My first shot of Absinthe
Puts my liver to the test.
No rest for the wicked
That wanderlust I long.
Settled for a while by the lights of
Hong Kong,
A place I felt for a while at peace
High in the Monastery of Lantau's peeks.
I went once and I went again.
When wizened crones speak of golden devils,
Stroking my blonde hair on the streets of
Shenzhen.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
We walked together, found
In town centre, on the mark,
We were a bullseye, joyous,
Shy, striding opened streets,
So proudly paved, just for us,
To trip and now, here faraway,
In white shops we sprung free,
Tried on silly scarves and hats,
Imagining rendezvous in London,
Paris on the Seine, the long boot
Of Italy, sleeping inside a railway
Station on our way for Provence,
Or Barcelona, even dare Istanbul,
It was too fun, so brilliant to dream,
In return those tickets got punched,
Now we travel solo on lost avenues,
Waking up is not as nice as it seems.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 9:42 AM UTC
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too
Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.
The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.
Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.
Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.
And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
The morning sang to meadow-ed fields
mountains hummed the clouds far off,
skies went wildly blue
Strolling fragrantly in the cutting rows
lavender florets fell between dreaming toes
Scented mounds infused the path
provence, grosso, royal velvet, I chose
Woody stemmed grey, green, blue
bent breaking fragrance in the heated dew
Cabbage moths danced to singing bees
daydreaming
- I flew in lavandula breeze
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
We walked together, found
In town centre, on the mark,
We were a bullseye, joyous,
Shy, striding opened streets,
So proudly paved, just for us,
To trip and now, here faraway,
In white shops we sprung free,
Tried on silly scarves and hats,
Imagining rendezvous in London,
Paris on the Seine, the long boot
Of Italy, sleeping inside a railway
Station on our way for Provence,
Or Barcelona, even dare Istanbul,
It was too fun, so brilliant to dream,
In return those tickets got punched,
Now we travel solo on lost avenues,
Waking up is not as nice as it seems.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
If I had not met the red-haired boy whose father
had broken a leg parachuting into Provence
to join the resistance in the final stage of the war
and so had been killed there as the Germans were moving north
out of Italy and if the friend who was with him
as he was dying had not had an elder brother
who also died young quite differently in peacetime
leaving two children one of them with bad health
who had been kept out of school for a whole year by an illness
and if I had written anything else at the top
of the examination form where it said college
of your choice or if the questions that day had been
put differently and if a young woman in Kittanning
had not taught my father to drive at the age of twenty
so that he got the job with the pastor of the big church
in Pittsburgh where my mother was working and if
my mother had not lost both parents when she was a child
so that she had to go to her grandmother's in Pittsburgh
I would not have found myself on an iron cot
with my head by the fireplace of a stone farmhouse
that had stood empty since some time before I was born
I would not have traveled so far to lie shivering
with fever though I was wrapped in everything in the house
nor have watched the unctuous doctor hold up his needle
at the window in the rain light of October
I would not have seen through the cracked pane the darkening
valley and the river sliding past the amber mountains
nor have wakened hearing plums fall in the small hour
thinking I knew where I was as I heard them fall
1.8k
The muse inquires,
knowing that a question such as this is
cannon fodder, an off-the-shoulder-blouse tease,
just a hint of cleavage, a whiff of parfume,
something to make poet sneeze,
ejecting an answering essay
without a clue where to go, but,
now the fifth gear engaged,
compulsion full,
immédiatement, en ce moment, laisser's aller!
and he knows exactly what to say
what if poet possessed a special character,
to define the sadness that reflects that
summer has had its memory card wiped,
and even though today,
will be a Saturday of
jeans shorts, a halter top, sort of day,
the chill of dreaded winter is not coming,
already present and accounted for,
enchanté, déjanté,
has already encased his heart in ice so thick,
that even if poet drank a Joni case
of his fav summer quaff,
un provence rose,
his seasonal loss cannot be overcome,
the summer man~king is dead
all that in but a single character, a precise capture,
a labor and time saving device, but
a character with no character
for the labor would be love lost
yet you swear by your succinct emojis,
their immaculate efficient composition,
and I would not trade one accidental,
just-slipped-out I love you
even for ten thousand disheartening heart symbols
would you prefer
|£%!<#
instead of:
*I love you so much it is
driving me batshit crazy!*
I'm stuck with my troop of twenty six
and their multiple endless quilted rearrangements
call me old and out of fashion,
to your question,
this poem is my ask and answered at 5:13am
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 5:30 AM UTC
While dancing through the floral fields,
where pungent scents abound--
My soul is filled with loveliness,
like nothing else around.
The gentle breeze caresses,
each row of colored flowers--
A place where one could lie alone,
and meditate for hours.
I've wandered daily to the hills,
where green and gold tones meet--
And the light fresh touch of lavender,
remains the ultimate treat.
Faintly blue and purple hues,
enliven nature's scene--
Each soft wisp of lavender dust,
recalls a Provence dream.
Imagining a little French girl,
skipping merrily down each aisle--
With tall strands of native flowers,
while wearing an enchanting smile.
Someday I'll visit this country town,
in rural, rustic France--
And comb the lacy fields of lavender,
whenever I have the chance.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
He wrote standing up, doubt if
kneeling would have been his
forte, yet, he had one, bought it
in 1955, five years prior to a fatal
accident en route to Paris from
Lourmarin in Provence where I
currently reside. Catherine, his
daughter, gifted me the stool with
a letter of provenance, both of which
are still in my possession. But why,
one must ask, did Albert Camus
purchase Un Prie Dieu, he being an
atheist. Is there anybody out there
able to answer this question ?
In poetry form!
Here is a challenge for you.
So, first, google Camus and
find out what you can, then
get writing.
Ps. Photo of Stool on request.
[email protected]
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC
*Are you just going to stand there and
Watch me peel this garlic*, she asks.
I shrug with a slight smile.
Beer to my lips, and I catch her moving
The way a dancer does when she doesn't
Dance.
What is art?
This.
The juggling of seconds that contain
Something more than all of those
Without her.
We could be on a midsummer
Balcony in Venice, or
In a barley field in Provence, mid-
Kiss and laughing so soothingly the
Sun doesn't even feel like it takes.
Red skinned by sun-down, sipping
Local wine and asking ourselves
How the Hell life became so
Liveable. But she's in my kitchen, not
Dancing across the worn down linoleum
With a freshly peeled piece of garlic in
Her hands, and I just found the key to
The treasure chest that contains
All the reasons I have to keep
Breathing instead of not
To.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
She lost her
husband in
Quang Ngai
Provence
fifty years
ago.
Now, a
lifetime,
another
husband
and two
children
later, in
retirement
she pushes
a coffee
cart and
makes small
talk at a
local VA
hospital—
her way
of giving
back.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC
The Genoa Bridge
engineer was dead
and buried long
before his creation
collapsed.
The same fate is in
store for Peter, just
a matter of time and
his Year in Provence
will be antonym-ed.
<>
29th November 2018.
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Since moving back to Ireland
from sunny Provence, I have
become somewhat anxious
about our hidden pots of gold.
I met a Leprechaun in Mallow
yesterday who told me that all
the holes in the road, were due
to trial digs by The World Bank.
Cork County Council are waiting
for an EEC grant before they even
consider backfilling them, for now,
they are being used as bird baths.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
Shadows murmur
across the hills --
voices, faint,
an ancient chorus.
A tired season
slowly enters
sleep's provence.
Sighs linger,
caught ephemeral,
in vapors or
in dreams.
Secrets, older than
centuries,
long to be revealed.
Smoke and dusk
embrace;
old eyes strain --
deaf ears fall
short
of forgotten lore,
the meaning lost.
Silent footfalls
follow vague
whispers.
Fires flicker, fade.
This landscape,
growing dim,
transverses night
and time.
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 11:17 AM UTC
Automnes de Luchon
Phébus s'était lové sur le val de Luchon,
Les arbres rougeoyaient comme sous le pinceau,
D'un Van Gogh qui aurait amené la Provence,
Dans les vertes Montagnes des Pyrénées centrales
Non **** de l'Aneto et très près du Vénasque.
Mais tout ce verdoiement laissait place à l'automne.
Avec ses rougeoiements, ses mauves et ses dorés.
Et les fins cheveux roux donnés par des buissons.
La nature semblait avoir changé d'atours.
Pour nous faire oublier l'été et ses douces torpeurs.
Les Erables, les Tulipiers et les Cerisier sauvages se parent,
D'atours d'or ou de rouge sang,
Comme pour les noces des feuilles et de la lune.
Oui, les derniers rayons sont toujours les plus beaux !
Dans les futaies et les clairières pourpres.
Et l’automne tendre a ce goût de châtaignes,
Grillées dans les jardins ou embaumaient les roses.
Et de flambées heureuses et de baisers brûlants.
La montagne est si belle que l'on voudrait figer.
Ces splendeurs éphémères et suspendre le temps.
Afin de contempler toujours ces beautés vives
De la ville Coquette et du val arboré.
Les jardins de «la Pique» faisaient belle figure,
Si près de la rivière aux eaux vivifiantes.
Et l'ancien Casino nous donnait à songer,
Aux beautés d'autrefois alanguies, sous la soie,
Dans les bals bien réglés parés d'un luxe doux
Ou il faisait parfois bon savoir jeter bas,
Les fausses les convenances pour le beau Cupidon.
Aujourd'hui; riantes et bronzées, les belles
Sont sportives, parcourent la Montagne.
Et viennent au «vapo» pour bien se délasser.
Oh; Reine d'autrefois, toujours ville de charmes.
Tes automnes suggèrent des rêves de bonheur,
De vies épanouies et de soins pour les êtres.
Ou il est reposant de venir t'admirer.
Parmi tes fleurs, les arbres et ton air vivifiant.
Paul Arrighi
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 5:25 PM UTC
Through the towns and country lanes
fortress walls and ancient stains
Roman treasures, aquaducts
the running bulls, a stroke of luck!
Cobblestone and feudal cracks
the culture weaves and summer smacks!
enchanted ramparts, medieval ruins
coliseums and communes
Aigues Mortes to Avignon
the rolling hills and castles strong
fields of grape and olive trees
cicadas singing on the breeze
Tranquil rivers, lost lagoons
horses prancing at high noon
flora and fauna in lofty decree!
say the sycamore and cypress tree
De Lumières in tomb-like calm
illuminating sounds of Brahm
Vermeer, Picasso and Van Goh
the ghosts of Voltaire and Rousseau
Les Baux-de-Provence's immersive stage
brush strokes wide from another age
chambers deep at quarry rock
the mesmerizing notes of Bach
Sacred figures, holy shrines
monestries in grand design
blocks, arches and polished stone
gladiators at the throne
Castle turrets and dungeon bars
the ancient bridge of Pont du Gard
chapel bells across la ville
spiral stairs where time stands still
Scrolls and chronicles filled with scars
church and state with dark memoirs
scholars, artists and dignitaries
in pursuit of God...and all his glory
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 12:00 PM UTC
Body
NoT funny-
See, this poem will be CHAOS;
Sliding along in front of my
eyes
a shiny cabinet of dusty and non dusty Polaroids
like you used to Show me
like your photo art and huge light
in the cellar
move me now
they do
the cabinet opend and my veins fill with the blood of my
childhood
pulse paces up
mum calls from upstairs to stop reading practice and come up
Food gonna get cold
next slide
pacing through the cold autumn forest and behind me a huge
deer
but I am not scared because we know him
we seen him many many times before in autums here in the wild park
cklick
you in your motorbike Fashion and helmet that used to scare me
make me cry because I cannot see your face
and the other Polaroid where you wear the full gear in front of
your motorbike
click
Flash - Flash - Flash
move you up the bed
up
up
I help you; you cannot do it anymore, not always
says mum, not a good day, she saiys
she lying?
click
you and me and my childhood friend in the local Swimming pool
and you unashamed bottom turned to everyone
pulling up your Swimming Pants
click
Flash-flash
you turn and Keep turning
not seeming to know where your room is
your room and your bed and thus the place you spend
most of your days and hours now
crack
goes my heart
crack
the next Polaroid is one
where I did not exist yet
where you and mum slide down the map of
Southern France, maybe Provence, in your White Reno? Or Alfa Romeo? Or any other
car you had back then.
And now;
crack - crack - crack
goes my heart
and yours and maybe our family's heart
But I will Keep you in
and I will hold you up and if I ******* have to pull off
your shoes again then I might as well, dear, I might as well
do it.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
L'amour est à réinventer, on le sait.
‒Rimbaud
Pauvres amants
se croient pour toujours
et à jamais.
Se mêlent dans l’extase;
s’embrassent;
Claire de lune,
Beethoven et bougies.
S’enfichent de l’avenir.
Ombres pourpres
et vagues mélodies
font tomber des larmes
de tristesse, de bonheur,
d’absurdes épanouissements
qui vont hiberner
jusqu’au printemps nouveau.
Mêmes marins incessants –
travaux mutuels,
divertissements corporels,
nuls rapports d’esprit
sauf les jeux éternels
qui se jouent.
*© Lewis Bosworth,
Aix-en-Provence,
1963*
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC
.Heat.
Must hold on,
Closer, until, meld ontop of-
Body against, heat of body,
Holding on, to someone,
Someone I love- like a ladybug,
Like a lizard, so cold, just want,
Body heat. Just need reptilian comfort,
Drunk, cuddled, human to human,
Hold me. One sec more. One more minute-
Such strong arms-
Wrap around me, I drape across you
You don't mind? Do you?
Only us, no other, no one else in all
In all the city, the country, provence, world
Just us. So just. Please
please.
Remember it was just us, once.
And you, you couldn't tear yourself away from me and I
I tried to slip away but now I
I can't move away for all the
Motivation in the world
warm
Let me be a lizard
Let me be dependant upon your warmth
.Let me..
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 5:33 AM UTC
a week ago i lost my mind in the aisle of the grocery store
between the trash bags and the nail polish
i haven't found it yet but i'd like it back
so i can try to think about
what my life could be without you
and what i could be without you
where i could be without you
and who i would be without you
if i could be without you.
sixteen years ago i was compliant and my brain was too.
we were cool,
no fighting no screaming no cursing
no nothing, we were cool.
we were so cool.
(nothing was cool in 1997.)
six years ago i grew up, grew into myself and into my world.
grew out of my world,
into a new one a bright one a better one.
grew into my world.
(i am still growing.)
six months ago i thought i was fine.
i thought i was fine,
thought i was on task on schedule on point.
i was not fine.
(you were not fine either. do not act like you were.)
six weeks ago i packed a suitcase.
i filled it with you,
filled it with your voice your laugh your smile.
i should not have filled it with you.
(i should have packed another sweater.)
i left you on a beach in provence.
i hope you like the weather.
i do not love what does not love me back.
i will not waste my time on you again.
(you are not worth it. i am worth it.)
it was raining when we got on the plane,
i hope it's pouring now.
i hope you're gasping for air.
(i want you to choke.)
tomorrow at the grocery store i will search the aisles for my brain
between the trash bags and the nail polish
i haven't found it yet but i'd like it back
so i can think about
how much better i am with you
drowning across an ocean.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
some sounds and guttural expressions,
unique property of individual & groups,
no, won’t explicate this
too much further
but…
anyhoo, in the realm of naked laughter ,
undisguised, unhooded,
a modest-ly hand-covered giggle,
primarly but not exclusively,
the propety of the feminine wile,
so much so, a ‘girlish giggle’ needs no
hyphenation, or hydration,
just imagining grinning
eyes and lips, crinkling
and the ability to easy while
through one’s
nose breathing
well understood it is the
la feminine,
this witty twitty
in the provence, of women,
particularly the younger at heart
who titter with the glee
of reckless uninhibited unlimited
gig-gig-gigl-ling-ling
(N.B. young st heart is an ageless concept)
the Frenchies in their
Frenchified (1)
(alt.; frenchfried) ways
call a giggle, a puff of laughter, (2)
which sounds so modestly ladylike,
but in the US of A, a girl giggle,
a really good GG,
needs not be so demure,
and can possibly extend into a raucous cackling infectious,
yet discreet
uncontrollable belly slapping laugh,
given the kerrect circumstances
love me them GG’s
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 9:18 AM UTC
Poursuivi par les rafales
les cyprès se penchent au soleil –
Mistral
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC
The first cicada
and a glass of Côtes du Rhône –
Summer is here
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC