"sacre" poems
Walk by numbers in
the Parisian palette ,
spreading the paint around
in a long line of lip red scarlet.
Pipette sized width following you
as you tread on stone, you’re new.
Sit with the trains and listen
to walls and notice small change,
loose change on the floors.
Passenger’s stare moves you from
carriage to carriage, regardless of UK, American baggage.
Surface again, the longest breath you’ve ever held
has escaped again into winter’s cold.
Steps climb and feet follow,
Anubis with a rifle watching over-
graffiti crowd control for the younger;
sad face, a smile face, Sacre Coeur white face.
Sink down along the track,
railway men hanging large and fat.
Tea for two with warm milk,
tea for two without the milk,
no tea- up and leave, tip with guilt.
**** kicker Paris scruffs her shoes
amongst the paint, the blues, the museum’s closed.
Again, we have to wait for the universe to align before we get to see her smile.
Wait, keep waiting, Mars is coming, revolving towards us.
Doors unlock and we enter a tide of tourist
and artist and the modernist futurist- lost in this department.
She sits there still, not smiling
Paris, without you no coffee would ever be deemed good.
Without you, I’d be lost and artless and heartless and broke.
Even when you take the covers from under me-
I’m still warm.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
A sip of smoke finds a path,
Around the spirals of my fate.
The blur of individuality
Stops the painful memory
Of taking my fingertips,
My identity,
Into your soft lips.
What do you think now,
naive ancient eternal love?
Do you remember waking up
To find my hair crawling towards your teeth?
I slowly felt nocturnal curls pull me back to your tongue.
So I cut it all off,
And painted my visage with impulsive creativity.
Your incandescent presence
Drips with Parisian chords of street harps
Praying Hallelujah to the Sacre Coeur steps.
Please make this tremble of blood
Return to a mortal rhythm.
These disjointed bones of our past portrait
Gaze up from the grave we carelessly built.
Now, I return to see the selfish paint
I threw upon her face.
Those golden highlights sing alongside
the praise of starlight,
Beneath the temporal dust of our separation.
I can't bare to look at you,
So I mar my own past perfection,
With some new hope to understand
The graveyard you abandoned so long ago.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:26 AM UTC
Les être, le cosmos, la terre et le vin
(Dédié à l’incomparable génie Charles Baudelaire)
Les ceps murissent longuement sous l’énigmatique lueur des cieux,
irisés par les ondes astrales du Cosmos et ses grands vents de feu.
Des gelées de janvier aux averses d’avril, le vigneron soigne ses vignes.
qui souffrent des fournaises de l’été jusqu’à la bouilloire dorée de l’automne.
Le vin est d’abord fruit des astres et des cieux, mais aussi de la patience et de l’art du vigneron.
Il y a une magie du vin qui vient sceller les noces mystiques de l’azur, de la terre, du cosmos et des graves.
Il existe dans le vin comme une consécration des noces d’or de la terre, des pierres et de l’azur,
Qui lui donne son caractère âpre ou velouté, son goût inimitable, sa vraie signature, son héraldique.
Un palais exercé saura toujours en déceler l’empreinte pour y trouver sa genèse et gouter ses merveilles.
Mais c’est le vigneron qui consacre ces noces avec son savoir, son doigté, sa manière d’opérer le grand œuvre des vendanges.
Le choix de la date des vendanges dépend de l’intuition humaine et correspond au sacre de l’automne.
Au moment où les grappes pèsent et ou les raisins sont gonflés comme de lourds pendentifs,
alors que les raisins mûrs sont prêts à sortir de leur enveloppe dorée pour se transformer en élixir.
Le vigneron prend la décision sacrale de celle dont dépend la qualité du vin à naître.
Et les vendanges vont se mener dans une atmosphère d’excitation et de sentiment de franchissement du danger.
Désormais le vin sorti du pressoir va murir dans des barriques de chêne
Le bois peut apporter sa chauffe méthodique afin que se mêlent au jus des arômes de bois et de forêts,
C’est sûr, cette année, les forces de la nature et de l’Homme nous préparent un grand vin.
Aussi quel honneur et quel rite magique que d’en boire les premières gorgées dans des coupes d’argent ou des verres de cristal,
avant même que le vin ne soit fait et tiré pour en détecter les grands traits et les failles.
Enfin, vient le moment de boire, comme une élévation des cœurs et des esprits.
L’on ne boit bien qu’en groupe, qu’avec de vrais amis, sa chérie ou des belles.
Boire c’est d’abord humer et découvrir par le nez les secrets d’un terroir et des pampres,
puis humecter ses lèvres afin de s’imprégner des sucs et des saveurs,
et puis boire surtout, c’est œuvre de finesse, d’expression de l’Esprit et de bonne humeur; qu’il y ait de l’ivresse, fort bien, mais jamais d’ivrognerie
Paul Arrighi ; Toulouse(France), le 3 novembre 2013
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
The Bodacious Blonde
she is a portmanteau a blending of thought
voluptuous yes but yet down-home too
she'll bake you a cake or a sweet tasty pie
with flour on her face a bomb shell sacre bleu
she is courageous audacious and a spirited soul
fiesty like a hornet you'll feel her sting
graceful and kind be careful not to raise her ire
and please pretty please don't ask her to sing
she can haul out the trash and mend a skirt
carry large loads and cut the back nine
she doesn't mind playing in the dirt
but when she dresses up oh my god she is fine
her grey eyes sparkle bright in the light
her long golden hair down her back
it's hard to let go when she kisses you good nite
pressing against you with her incredible rack
a friend forever and an incredible lover
who wouldn't be proud to have her on your arm
although not a spy but great under cover
yes she is bodacious and her kisses are warm
Gomer LePoet ....
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 11:43 AM 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
under the shell, inside
my chest, lies a hole,
blacked and beatting still
all the sorrow burn it down
at my 20s, later the pain becomes
a chain hollow and vain
and after all y become free,
from the chains self made
for contain the pain,
only need the one
, that breaks the spell
hearing
nutshel in my heart
he give my stregth to persist
untill im dead y will die free,
as a man not a creep or a shame,
just a ***** man, trying to be free
fromm pain and deceit.
sacre femme set my freee
fromm the pain and release me
fromm the burden of shame
and the eyes in my back, looking
some girl to wash them
and take the stains by loving me.
as a beast looking for the one, who
let him free fromm chains of the curse
just by love the sacred connection
that perhaps will set me free.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
I see no clouds
by my eyes,
no air be stills these
powder blue skies.
Smoke curls through
the sun scattered trees,
a whisper of bliss,
a touch of green.
A monumental grandness
disparages naivety
of a summer breeze.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
the shadow in the corner,
looks at me, whispers,
and whispers, at me ear,
looking for a way, to
become and merge with me.
as an insisting parasite,
as a shadow inside me,
but futile, and vain,
i'm too egotic, to let him.
enjoying my years of pain,
as a heartless man,
but the whispers, share his
childish flashes, a futile pursuit.
to myself, to be merge,
with creeps, cowards,
and annoyingly vain.
the poets secret crown, of
lovers in heaven, golden and
invisible, but made of pain.
cover my head, as a dead poet,
passing at this era, not blind or
vain, but true, and loving every girl.
even those i hate, the sexi hip bones.
the ego of a lion, never can be merge,
with a creep, pathetic and weak,
but he tries still.
wise by pain and deceit,
a lover in the prime, longing,
loving, watching, smelling them all.
with or without, gauche or droit.
tout le femme, e belle et magnifique,
comme le pleure de madeleine,
le sacre femme.
and this shadow, in me ear,
wants to be me,and make them feel,
complete and divine, as a goddess.
as y make them feel.
or a lioness, in the hand of a fouling,
and feverishly beast. burning and longing,
for the tresor, in their chalis, as mother earth,
smelling as her, as a jungle, and a door,
to infinite delights, between their thighs.
the shadow in my ear, y can see her pain,
but, it was his ******* choice, trie to be me,
and didn't make it, for being weak.
as an adult, inside the veil,
of a mouse's in a suit, the persistence
is futile, a shadow, trying in vain,
to be as me, but can't be but himself.
a lame little shadow mouse, in loved,
with a beast, can't love until she love
herself.
can't live or know anybody,
until he knows himself, and accept
his truth, until that happens, nothing,
will save him from him,
and his shame, is a cross.
as a man, can't live, as a boy either.
just as a shadow, in my body, trying to be me.
but failing at it, to weak and vain, to be me.
all y think, as i watch her, is thinking,
and for this **** almost burn my ***
and destroy my life, good choices, babes
but all wrongs, can't be forgiven,
or excused. all the pain was
hell on earth, but still unbreakable.
and loving even those that y still
hate, the lover's love even **** haters.
covered by lies, y emerge from the hell
some girls create, for the one, who wasn't.
an they where never me.
and now anyone can see. it was only
lies and deceit, little girls playing dodgeball,
for the shame of the creeps
not everything can be forgiven,
as y say, good choice babes.
20 years later, they still can't be me,
or not feel ashamed for their weakness,
or accepting their fate, and being without
feeling a ******* disgrace,
but nothing to
be ashamed of,
just their cowardness,
like tigers not accepting
the stripes,
creepy shadow on my wall,
you will never be me.
accept it and be free,
or you'll end up blowing lucy,
in the basement, loving the burning,
of HELL.
as THE shadow of a mouse,
in Lucy's playground,
suffering, and being only
you, the one you hate.
but you never were me.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
SO MANY STEPS IN SHADOW, SO MANY
PEOPLE DOWN BELOW, SOME BISTRO SAYS
HELLO AND COSY CORNERS WON'T LET YOU GO,
CO'INTREAU AND COFFEE DOWNED EASILY;
A PRIEST FROM SACRE COEUR HAS AN EMPTY
CUP AND LOOKS AT ME WHEN I ENTER - HE
INVITES ME TO JOIN HIM, TO PROBE MY SOUL -
TO SEE IF I'M REALLY WHOLE, IN NO NEED
OF SAVING OR PROTECTING FROM THE DEVIL,
I ASSURE HIM THAT I'M FINE BUT STILL
WAITING FOR A SIGN FROM GOD - HE TELLS
ME THAT IT'S WITHIN ME AS HE STANDS UP
TO LEAVE AND ASKS WHY I DON'T BELIEVE,
I SAY I DO NOW BUT DON'T REALLY KNOW HOW.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
High alert.
Bullets and bombs.
Terror atrocity in a cosmopolitan city.
Solidarity, unite.
Take heed we must.
Fighting terror, not leading to error.
Red white and blue.
Lest we forget.
Hath links to freedom in an Arabic Kingdom.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
(Sur l'air de Malbrouck.)
Dans l'affreux cimetière,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Dans l'affreux cimetière
Frémit le nénuphar.
Castaing lève sa pierre,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Castaing lève sa pierre
Dans l'herbe de Clamar,
Et crie et vocifère,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Et crie et vocifère :
Je veux être césar !
Cartouche en son suaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Cartouche en son suaire
S'écrie ensanglanté
- Je veux aller sur terre,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Je veux aller sur terre
Pour être majesté !
Mingrat monte à sa chaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Mingrat monte à sa chaire,
Et dit, sonnant le glas :
- Je veux, dans l'ombre où j'erre,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Je veux, dans l'ombre où j'erre
Avec mon coutelas,
Etre appelé : mon frère,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Etre appelé : mon frère,
Par le czar Nicolas !
Poulmann, dans l'ossuaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Poulmann dans l'ossuaire
S'éveillant en fureur,
Dit à Mandrin : - Compère,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Dit à Mandrin : - Compère,
Je veux être empereur !
- Je veux, dit Lacenaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Je veux, dit Lacenaire,
Etre empereur et roi !
Et Soufflard déblatère,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Et Soufflard déblatère,
Hurlant comme un beffroi :
- Au lieu de cette bière,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Au lieu de cette bière,
Je veux le Louvre, moi
Ainsi, dans leur poussière,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Ainsi, dans leur poussière,
Parlent les chenapans.
- Çà, dit Robert Macaire,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
- Ça, dit Robert Macaire,
Pourquoi ces cris de paons ?
Pourquoi cette colère ?
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Pourquoi cette colère ?
Ne sommes-nous pas rois ?
Regardez, le saint-père,
Paris tremble, ô douleur, ô misère !
Regardez, le saint-père,
Portant sa grande croix,
Nous sacre tous ensemble,
Ô misère, ô douleur, Paris tremble !
Nous sacre tous ensemble
Dans Napoléon trois !
827
IT''S AN ILLUSION: MISSED DISTRIBUTION,
BUT THE EMOTON IS REAL THE WAY I FEEL,
RUE BREY IS THE SAME: LADIES MAKING GAIN,
THERE'S A PYRAMID NOW - MR. PEI WONDERS
HOW THE LOCALS THINK - THEY DON'T LIKE IT,
TAKEN IT 'DOWN' BIT BY BIT. OH, WELL,
THE LOUVRE WAS DIFFICULT TO IMPROVE;
SACRE' COUR WAS A BLUR IN THE RAIN,
BUT GOOD TO BE BACK IN MOMARTRE' AGAIN,
THE STUDIO ETOILE ROOM HAD A LARGE BED,
WITH A DIP IN THE MIDDLE, A VIEW OF
THE ARC DE TR'IOMPHE FROM A BALCONY,
WHICH WE LOOKED AT EVENTUALLY, THE NAME
OF THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER REMAINS A MYSTERY.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
¡Señores! Hoy es la primera vez que me doy cuenta de la presencia de la vida. ¡Señores! Ruego a ustedes dejarme libre un momento, para saborear esta emoción formidable, espontánea y reciente de la vida, que hoy, por la primera vez, me extasía y me hace dichoso hasta las lágrimas.
Mi gozo viene de lo inédito de mi emoción. Mi exultación viene de que antes no sentí la presencia de la vida. No la he sentido nunca. Miente quien diga que la he sentido. Miente y su mentira me hiere a tal punto que me haría desgraciado. Mi gozo viene de mi fe en este hallazgo personal de la
vida, y nadie puede ir contra esta fe. Al que fuera, se le caería la lengua, se le caerían los huesos y correría el peligro de recoger otros, ajenos, para mantenerse de pie ante mis ojos.
Nunca, sino ahora, ha habido vida. Nunca, sino ahora, han pasado gentes. Nunca, sino ahora, ha habido casas y avenidas, aire y horizonte. Si viniese ahora mi amigo Peyriet, les diría que yo no le conozco y que debemos empezar de nuevo. ¿Cuándo, en efecto, le he conocido a mi amigo Peyriet? Hoy sería la primera vez que nos conocemos. Le diría que se vaya y regrese y entre a verme, como si no me conociera, es decir, por la primera vez.
Ahora yo no conozco a nadie ni nada. Me advierto en un país extraño, en el que todo cobra relieve de nacimiento, luz de epifanía inmarcesible. No, señor. No hable usted a ese caballero. Usted no lo conoce y le sorprendería tan inopinada parla. No ponga usted el pie sobre esa piedrecilla: uién sabe no es piedra y vaya usted a dar en el vacío. Sea usted precavido, puesto que estamos en un mundo absolutamente inconocido.
¡Cuán poco tiempo he vivido! Mi nacimiento es tan reciente, que no hay unidad de medida para contar mi edad. ¡Si acabo de nacer! ¡Si aún no he vivido todavía! Señores: soy tan pequeñito, que el día apenas cabe en mí!
Nunca, sino ahora, oí el estruendo de los carros, que cargan piedras para una gran construcción del boulevard Haussmann. Nunca, sino ahora avancé paralelamente a la primavera, diciéndola: «Si la muerte hubiera sido otra...». Nunca, sino ahora, vi la luz áurea del sol sobre las cúpulas de Sacre-Coeur. Nunca, sino ahora, se me acercó un niño y me miró hondamente con su boca. Nunca, sino ahora, supe que existía una puerta, otra puerta y el canto cordial de las distancias.
¡Dejadme! La vida me ha dado ahora en toda mi muerte.
732
Fresh from the airport taxi we take the tram up to the Sacre Coeur,
For weeks you held a dog-eared photo in your passport folder
of this place.
There were others, with rich history and lines around the avenue
but, as if heaven bound we found ourselves here.
You'd never know we were at the highest point;
because everything feels vertical with you,
like the whole northern hemisphere ignores the sun
and moves with only your gait.
Time seems to slow down,
The warm wind pushes through the cinnamon flecks of your hair
shoving it in a bushel over over your right eye
as you look back at me with a smile so big
its as if the artist had no choice but to
draw outside of the lines.
You ask,
so I take a polaroid of you
in front of the massive white domicile.
Behind your structured frame
its ancient hairs stand straight up against a pale grey backdrop
like a dim ghost in the presence of strangers,
or a wild animal behind barbed wire
that continues to pace back and forth,
never quite grasping containment.
I pull the film and allow the silver to disperse
but as the halides converge I
see the salaciousness in your eyes
and realize,
I may never be able to differentiate
between the animal and the artifact
and as you move upward toward the large equestrian doors
I understand
this is why I follow.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
This time the French have gone too far! This will not stand, you hear!
The makers of “Méthode Champenoise” are suing Miller beer.
For years their spies have regularly infiltrated in the States,
suing all who dare mislabel bubbly made from grapes.
(We cannot call the sparkling wines produced on our own shores
“champagne” according to long, well established, laws.)
Fines and penalties are paid for breaking those mandates
Although to me it seems to be a case of sour grapes.
Today their spy was shopping for a piece of camembert
When he spied a Miller ad for “the champagne of bottled beers”
“Sacre Bleu” the Frenchman cried! “what sacrilege is here?.”
How dare these “Millers” to compare our drink with bottled beer.
They seized the product off the shelf to (ahem) do some testing.
I hear it knocked Jacques on his *** but he claims he’s just resting.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
Ces passions qu'eux seuls nomment encore amours
Sont des amours aussi, tendres et furieuses,
Avec des particularités curieuses
Que n'ont pas les amours certes de tous les jours.
Même plus qu'elles et mieux qu'elles héroïques,
Elles se parent de splendeurs d'âme et de sang
Telles qu'au prix d'elles les amours dans le rang
Ne sont que Ris et Jeux ou besoins érotiques,
Que vains proverbes, que riens d'enfants trop gâtés,
- « Ah ! les pauvres amours banales, animales,
Normales ! Gros goûts lourds ou frugales fringales,
Sans compter la sottise et des fécondités ! »
- Peuvent dire ceux-là que sacre le haut Rite,
Ayant conquis la plénitude du plaisir,
Et l'insatiabilité de leur désir
Bénissant la fidélité de leur mérite.
La plénitude ! Ils l'ont superlativement :
Baisers repus, gorgés, mains privilégiées
Dans la richesse des caresses repayées,
Et ce divin final anéantissement !
Comme ce sont les forts et les forts, l'habitude
De la force les rend invaincus au déduit.
Plantureux, savoureux, débordant, le déduit !
Je le crois bien qu'ils ont la pleine plénitude !
Et pour combler leurs vœux, chacun d'eux tour à tour
Fait l'action suprême, a la parfaite extase,
- Tantôt la coupe ou la bouche et tantôt le vase -
Pâmé comme la nuit, fervent comme le jour.
Leurs beaux ébats sont grands et gais. Pas de ces crises :
Vapeurs, nerfs. Non, des jeux courageux, puis d'heureux
Bras las autour du cou, pour de moins langoureux
Qu'étroits sommeils à deux, tout coupés de reprises.
Dormez, les amoureux ! Tandis qu'autour de vous
Le monde inattentif aux choses délicates,
Bruit ou gît en somnolences scélérates,
Sans même, il est si bête ! être de vous jaloux.
Et ces réveils francs, clairs, riants, vers l'aventure
De fiers damnés d'un plus magnifique sabbat ?
Et salut, témoins purs de l'âme en ce combat
Pour l'affranchissement de la lourde nature !
663
I found your candy
in the freezer
{I knew it was there}
It's been a long time;not,
not long enough to
just ...throw...it...a// way.
&,...the seed catalogue,...
i mean.who.knew...
The beauty of a Flashy Butter Gem
(lettuce/let us)...or a Violet Jasper
(tomato/ two mate O)...you know how I tabbed all
the...pages.
&the; corks
One for every bottle
we...shared
listening to Moore
Sacre' Bleu.
&the; book. of. poems
your grandmother's
gift,...how could
you
just.leave.it...?
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
Quick to St Rita’s cold creaking pews
where throats were blessed
No rainbow’s bones caught
but walking reverie punished
with Alocoque’s Sacre Coeur
smothers communards’ ashes
27 May 1871
Ate Pollux, forty francs for his trunk,
rats from 60 centimes
bread adulterated, catacombs’ milled
bone meal commons ate,
where Sacre Coeur
raised up Commune began
Eugene Varlin, bookbinder
union organizer shot twice
Twenty to thirty thousand died thus
De Goncourt observes
solution brutal but next revolution
deferred a generation
Here beginning returned to,
only memory can go forward.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC