"tuileries" poems - Hello Poetry

*"Claim me," she whispers in a plea "claim my soul as I wilt" Crimson lips parted, head thrown back in ecstatic ache jugular bared she needs to feel that sharp -edged love, skin and barriers broken as she melts into the underworld of a new grace a magenta cry into the inky sky sacred silence penetrated as only gasps are heard milky ******* decorated with red liquid ribbon, his nourishment, her demise ******* pierced with beads of her sunset life flow as he ***** and bites... and howling into heaven's delicious gate, she writhes Her soul dissolving into his night and as his spirit absorbs her vermilion soul their power rises, black as coal ……………. your lips stick black sanguine smile tremulous murmurs oh happy blood blossom of deaths surrender sacrificial lamb cats sparrow entranced thighs on fire sobbing from a thousand needled kisses ******* tearing blood each wound a weeping mouth licking milky white alter of cold stone saturated alizarin rust legs wide feet and ******* trussed in chains and drenched rags for cruelties arrow o crimson queen, pomegranate half eaten mouth smudge black agape snake tongue dancing through cherry lips twisted darkened eyes of fire and blood a wash in devils incense beloved veiled in evils cradle bind not the demons kiss then face down my love upon the crypt of mist black heavens gate pupa vampires bate a blood moon shaking a scourge you are now goddess of pleasures wretched in the Tuileries of the abyss consort your every piercing fang duck tail **** a boiling cauldron desire spills out dark cupid witch legs tied to throat devil ***** twitch ******* in a mote ive got the itch feet scorched in rope hot ******* ***** hells dark pope vampiress ***** dark girl feeding the sun is no more loves the bleeding*

0

Apr 24, 2017

Apr 24, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC

zebrablack

VAMPIRIC LOVE

*"Claim me," she whispers in a plea "claim my soul as I wilt" Crimson lips parted, head thrown back in ecstatic ache jugular bared she needs to feel that sharp -edged love, skin and barriers broken as she melts into the underworld of a new grace a magenta cry into the inky sky sacred silence penetrated as only gasps are heard milky ******* decorated with red liquid ribbon, his nourishment, her demise ******* pierced with beads of her sunset life flow as he ***** and bites... and howling into heaven's delicious gate, she writhes Her soul dissolving into his night and as his spirit absorbs her vermilion soul their power rises, black as coal ……………. your lips stick black sanguine smile tremulous murmurs oh happy blood blossom of deaths surrender sacrificial lamb cats sparrow entranced thighs on fire sobbing from a thousand needled kisses ******* tearing blood each wound a weeping mouth licking milky white alter of cold stone saturated alizarin rust legs wide feet and ******* trussed in chains and drenched rags for cruelties arrow o crimson queen, pomegranate half eaten mouth smudge black agape snake tongue dancing through cherry lips twisted darkened eyes of fire and blood a wash in devils incense beloved veiled in evils cradle bind not the demons kiss then face down my love upon the crypt of mist black heavens gate pupa vampires bate a blood moon shaking a scourge you are now goddess of pleasures wretched in the Tuileries of the abyss consort your every piercing fang duck tail **** a boiling cauldron desire spills out dark cupid witch legs tied to throat devil ***** twitch ******* in a mote ive got the itch feet scorched in rope hot ******* ***** hells dark pope vampiress ***** dark girl feeding the sun is no more loves the bleeding*

88

Bury me in Paris, when my heart stops and my eyes open wide, next to Beckett or Sarte & de Beauvoir, ménage à trois. Bury me in Paris, where the tourists go, on the Champs-Élysées, or near the home of Picasso. Bury me in Paris where the Seraphs scoff and roll their brown eyes and the saints sell paints on the edge of the Seine’s grime. Bury me in Paris between the pavement and le Métro, take my body to whatever stop, just go. Bury me in Paris on a winter’s night, beneath the Louvre pyramid light. Bury me in Paris with Lady Liberty in tow, make my bed next to de Balzac, next to Marceau. Bury me in Paris at the foot of l’Obélisque accompanied by pharaohs, exhumed. Bury me in Paris, leave me there, I guess, in the hotel room overlooking the Arc. I, fully dressed. Bury me in Paris while listening to Robespierre’s final scream, the silence drowned out only by the guillotine. Bury me in Paris, Montrouge, your angel calls to me, that one who serves macarons at the head of the Tuileries. Bury me in Paris, with the Angel, unimpressed, next to her, I, in eternal rest. Bury me in Paris, toss me off Bir-Hakiem, splashing, or under tour Eiffel in the springtime night, waking. Bury me in Paris, my body yearns to be free and true, but if I am to die in New Orleans, bon Ange de Montrouge, Bury me there with the jazz worms, singing: “Angel, come to me, come to me, Angel, come.”

0

Jul 31, 2013

Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC

colt

bury me in Paris

Bury me in Paris, when my heart stops and my eyes open wide, next to Beckett or Sarte & de Beauvoir, ménage à trois. Bury me in Paris, where the tourists go, on the Champs-Élysées, or near the home of Picasso. Bury me in Paris where the Seraphs scoff and roll their brown eyes and the saints sell paints on the edge of the Seine’s grime. Bury me in Paris between the pavement and le Métro, take my body to whatever stop, just go. Bury me in Paris on a winter’s night, beneath the Louvre pyramid light. Bury me in Paris with Lady Liberty in tow, make my bed next to de Balzac, next to Marceau. Bury me in Paris at the foot of l’Obélisque accompanied by pharaohs, exhumed. Bury me in Paris, leave me there, I guess, in the hotel room overlooking the Arc. I, fully dressed. Bury me in Paris while listening to Robespierre’s final scream, the silence drowned out only by the guillotine. Bury me in Paris, Montrouge, your angel calls to me, that one who serves macarons at the head of the Tuileries. Bury me in Paris, with the Angel, unimpressed, next to her, I, in eternal rest. Bury me in Paris, toss me off Bir-Hakiem, splashing, or under tour Eiffel in the springtime night, waking. Bury me in Paris, my body yearns to be free and true, but if I am to die in New Orleans, bon Ange de Montrouge, Bury me there with the jazz worms, singing: “Angel, come to me, come to me, Angel, come.”

28

This winter air is keen and cold, And keen and cold this winter sun, But round my chair the children run Like little things of dancing gold. Sometimes about the painted kiosk The mimic soldiers strut and stride, Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide In the bleak tangles of the bosk. And sometimes, while the old nurse cons Her book, they steal across the square, And launch their paper navies where Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze. And now in mimic flight they flee, And now they rush, a boisterous band— And, tiny hand on tiny hand, Climb up the black and leafless tree. Ah! cruel tree! if I were you, And children climbed me, for their sake Though it be winter I would break Into spring blossoms white and blue!

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2.5k

Oscar Wilde

Le Jardin Des Tuileries

This winter air is keen and cold, And keen and cold this winter sun, But round my chair the children run Like little things of dancing gold. Sometimes about the painted kiosk The mimic soldiers strut and stride, Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide In the bleak tangles of the bosk. And sometimes, while the old nurse cons Her book, they steal across the square, And launch their paper navies where Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze. And now in mimic flight they flee, And now they rush, a boisterous band— And, tiny hand on tiny hand, Climb up the black and leafless tree. Ah! cruel tree! if I were you, And children climbed me, for their sake Though it be winter I would break Into spring blossoms white and blue!

20

*are you my lover in a dark heaven come to me my beloved kneel at my feet naked as i penetrate your veil that shrouds cryptic ravenous ardor and ask of me your hearts desire dissolution you say that i may be eternal for loves sake bowing at the knees as you tremulously brush and sweep your fragrant hair over my thighs and run your pink tongue across my butter filled velvet sheath our kisses will be born over and over again a spinning ring of desire are there not the debts of love will you promise not to anguish to much as one harm heaps upon another you swear to give yourself fully thrill to kisses crepuscular aching to be bitten and bitten and bitten through your scent blood perfume everything about you excites me long stretches in a stained white gown wet summer fruit and spilling seed your body filled with waters mellifluent and lush yield unto me you are a titillating voluptuous awe Palisades of wild torments dancing on a floor that melts scorched feet from hallucinations invisible shadows of burning witches ************ sweet girl incandescent brooding ridge pole bending throat swollen parched crude hair pulling Medusa vipers in the grip of a god fist loving you with a hard drubbing your all squeals and caresses stay with me through the long night of tender kisses and worship and then prepare for release to paradise shall it be fast spiraling will you spread wide and plead for all and more what does it matter fluttering with wild abandon in the temple of rituals dark to see you writhe inviting ruin we are a party of hydras writing in blood and thunder in the book of wonders our hungers endless Gods and Devils thrill to our theater of mortal coils unraveled in the thick torture tuileries of Dark Heaven*

0

May 29, 2017

May 29, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC

zebrablack

DARK HEAVEN

*are you my lover in a dark heaven come to me my beloved kneel at my feet naked as i penetrate your veil that shrouds cryptic ravenous ardor and ask of me your hearts desire dissolution you say that i may be eternal for loves sake bowing at the knees as you tremulously brush and sweep your fragrant hair over my thighs and run your pink tongue across my butter filled velvet sheath our kisses will be born over and over again a spinning ring of desire are there not the debts of love will you promise not to anguish to much as one harm heaps upon another you swear to give yourself fully thrill to kisses crepuscular aching to be bitten and bitten and bitten through your scent blood perfume everything about you excites me long stretches in a stained white gown wet summer fruit and spilling seed your body filled with waters mellifluent and lush yield unto me you are a titillating voluptuous awe Palisades of wild torments dancing on a floor that melts scorched feet from hallucinations invisible shadows of burning witches ************ sweet girl incandescent brooding ridge pole bending throat swollen parched crude hair pulling Medusa vipers in the grip of a god fist loving you with a hard drubbing your all squeals and caresses stay with me through the long night of tender kisses and worship and then prepare for release to paradise shall it be fast spiraling will you spread wide and plead for all and more what does it matter fluttering with wild abandon in the temple of rituals dark to see you writhe inviting ruin we are a party of hydras writing in blood and thunder in the book of wonders our hungers endless Gods and Devils thrill to our theater of mortal coils unraveled in the thick torture tuileries of Dark Heaven*

74

I've been going right on, page by page, since we last kissed, two long dolls in a cage, two hunger-mongers throwing a myth in and out, double-crossing out lives with doubt, leaving us separate now, fogy with rage. But then I've told my readers what I think and scrubbed out the remainder with my shrink, have placed my bones in a jar as if possessed, have pasted a black wing over my left breast, have washed the white out of the moon at my sink, have eaten The Cross, have digested its lore, indeed, have loved that eggless man once more, have placed my own head in the kettle because in the end death won't settle for my hypochondrias, because this errand we're on goes to one store. That shopkeeper may put up barricades, and he may advertise cognac and razor blades, he may let you dally at Nice or the Tuileries, he may let the state of our bowels have ascendancy, he may let such as we flaunt our escapades, swallow down our portion of whisky and dex, salvage the day with some soup or some *** juggle our teabags as we inch down the hall, let the blood out of our fires with phenobarbital, lick the headlines for Starkweathers and Specks, let us be folk of the literary set, let us deceive with words the critics regret, let us dog down the streets for each invitation, typing out our lives like a Singer sewing sublimation, letting our delicate bottoms settle and yet they were spanked alive by some doctor of folly, given a horn or a dish to get by with, by golly, exploding with blood in this errand called life, dumb with snow and elbows, rubber man, a mother wife, tongues to waggle out of the words, mistletoe and holly, tables to place our stones on, decades of disguises, wntil the shopkeeper plants his boot in our eyes, and unties our bone and is finished with the case, and turns to the next customer, forgetting our face or how we knelt at the yellow bulb with sighs like moth wings for a short while in a small place.

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2k

Anne Sexton

The Errand

I've been going right on, page by page, since we last kissed, two long dolls in a cage, two hunger-mongers throwing a myth in and out, double-crossing out lives with doubt, leaving us separate now, fogy with rage. But then I've told my readers what I think and scrubbed out the remainder with my shrink, have placed my bones in a jar as if possessed, have pasted a black wing over my left breast, have washed the white out of the moon at my sink, have eaten The Cross, have digested its lore, indeed, have loved that eggless man once more, have placed my own head in the kettle because in the end death won't settle for my hypochondrias, because this errand we're on goes to one store. That shopkeeper may put up barricades, and he may advertise cognac and razor blades, he may let you dally at Nice or the Tuileries, he may let the state of our bowels have ascendancy, he may let such as we flaunt our escapades, swallow down our portion of whisky and dex, salvage the day with some soup or some *** juggle our teabags as we inch down the hall, let the blood out of our fires with phenobarbital, lick the headlines for Starkweathers and Specks, let us be folk of the literary set, let us deceive with words the critics regret, let us dog down the streets for each invitation, typing out our lives like a Singer sewing sublimation, letting our delicate bottoms settle and yet they were spanked alive by some doctor of folly, given a horn or a dish to get by with, by golly, exploding with blood in this errand called life, dumb with snow and elbows, rubber man, a mother wife, tongues to waggle out of the words, mistletoe and holly, tables to place our stones on, decades of disguises, wntil the shopkeeper plants his boot in our eyes, and unties our bone and is finished with the case, and turns to the next customer, forgetting our face or how we knelt at the yellow bulb with sighs like moth wings for a short while in a small place.

41

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.

0

Oct 19, 2018

Oct 19, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC

janellesentina

La Ville Lumiere

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.

23

He Told Me About Paris he told me about Paris after making love… how he once sat in the Café de Flore as a boy… awaiting his mother who danced for a living… he told me about Paris over morning coffee, and no mention of the night before he talked with love for a city I’ll never know…. strolling along the river Seine in sunsets of orange and tangerine… he told me about the The Musée du Louvre as he made Coriander omelettes … squeezing fresh lemon in glasses of ice water… la Ville Lumière… he murmured as he gazed deep into my eyes City of Light and Love… I’ll take you there… if you dare to come he promised as he lay a soft tender kiss on each toe… he told me about Paris… and the Notre-Dame Cathedral and Café de la Paix, where the streets were Prolific with revellers and the after-opera crowd… I’ll take you to The Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel he whispered as he placed a Bracelet on my wrist and we can hold hands as we stroll around the monument… I’ll take you to Paris, in the Autumn, he promised our feet will crunch the golden leaves of the Jardin des Tuileries…. … so young I was… such a dreamer… floating on visions that he wove with love- - he told me about Paris, his voice husky with longing and I too young to realise… he was dreaming too…. Sharonlee©9-

0

Jul 27, 2013

Jul 27, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC

sharonlee-goodhand

He Told Me About Paris

He Told Me About Paris he told me about Paris after making love… how he once sat in the Café de Flore as a boy… awaiting his mother who danced for a living… he told me about Paris over morning coffee, and no mention of the night before he talked with love for a city I’ll never know…. strolling along the river Seine in sunsets of orange and tangerine… he told me about the The Musée du Louvre as he made Coriander omelettes … squeezing fresh lemon in glasses of ice water… la Ville Lumière… he murmured as he gazed deep into my eyes City of Light and Love… I’ll take you there… if you dare to come he promised as he lay a soft tender kiss on each toe… he told me about Paris… and the Notre-Dame Cathedral and Café de la Paix, where the streets were Prolific with revellers and the after-opera crowd… I’ll take you to The Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel he whispered as he placed a Bracelet on my wrist and we can hold hands as we stroll around the monument… I’ll take you to Paris, in the Autumn, he promised our feet will crunch the golden leaves of the Jardin des Tuileries…. … so young I was… such a dreamer… floating on visions that he wove with love- - he told me about Paris, his voice husky with longing and I too young to realise… he was dreaming too…. Sharonlee©9-

30

Tout seul au plus profond d'un bois, Dans un fouillis de ronce et d'herbe, Se dresse, oublié, mais superbe, Un grand vase du temps des rois. Beau de matière et pur de ligne, Il a pour anses deux béliers Qu'un troupeau d'amours familiers Enlace d'une souple vigne. À ses bords, autrefois tout blancs, La mousse noire append son givre ; Une lèpre aux couleurs de cuivre Étoile et dévore ses flancs. Son poids a fait pencher sa base Où gît un amas de débris, Car il a ses angles meurtris, Mais il tient bon, l'orgueilleux vase. Il songe : « Autour de moi tout dort, Que fait le monde ? Je m'ennuie, Mon cratère est plein d'eau de pluie, D'ombre, de rouille et de bois mort. « Où donc aujourd'hui se promène Le flot soyeux des courtisans ? Je n'ai pas vu figure humaine À mon pied depuis bien des ans. » Pendant qu'il regrette sa gloire, Perdu dans cet exil obscur, Un oiseau par un trou d'azur S'abat sur ses lèvres pour boire. « Holà ! Manant du ciel, dis-moi, Toi devant qui l'horizon s'ouvre, Sais-tu ce qui se passe au Louvre ? Je n'entends plus parler du roi. - Ah ! Tu prends, à l'heure où nous sommes, Dit l'autre, un bien tardif souci ! Rien n'est donc venu jusqu'ici Des branle-bas qu'on faits les hommes ? - Parfois un soubresaut brutal, Des rumeurs extraordinaires, Comme de souterrains tonnerres Font tressaillir mon piédestal. - C'est l'écho de leurs grands vacarmes : Plus une tour, plus un clocher Où l'oiseau puisse en paix nicher ; Partout l'incendie et les armes ! « J'ai naguère, à Paris, en vain Heurté du bec les vitres closes, Nulle part, même aux lèvres roses, La moindre miette de vrai pain. « Aux mansardes des tuileries Je logeais, le printemps passé, Mais les flammes m'en ont chassé, Ce n'était que feux et tueries. « Sur le front du génie ailé Qui plane où sombra la bastille, J'ai voulu poser ma famille, Mais cet asile a chancelé. « Des murs de granit qu'on restaure Nous sommes l'un et l'autre exclus, Là le temps des palais n'est plus, Et celui des nids, pas encore. »

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904

René-François Sully Prudhomme

Le vase et l'oiseau

Tout seul au plus profond d'un bois, Dans un fouillis de ronce et d'herbe, Se dresse, oublié, mais superbe, Un grand vase du temps des rois. Beau de matière et pur de ligne, Il a pour anses deux béliers Qu'un troupeau d'amours familiers Enlace d'une souple vigne. À ses bords, autrefois tout blancs, La mousse noire append son givre ; Une lèpre aux couleurs de cuivre Étoile et dévore ses flancs. Son poids a fait pencher sa base Où gît un amas de débris, Car il a ses angles meurtris, Mais il tient bon, l'orgueilleux vase. Il songe : « Autour de moi tout dort, Que fait le monde ? Je m'ennuie, Mon cratère est plein d'eau de pluie, D'ombre, de rouille et de bois mort. « Où donc aujourd'hui se promène Le flot soyeux des courtisans ? Je n'ai pas vu figure humaine À mon pied depuis bien des ans. » Pendant qu'il regrette sa gloire, Perdu dans cet exil obscur, Un oiseau par un trou d'azur S'abat sur ses lèvres pour boire. « Holà ! Manant du ciel, dis-moi, Toi devant qui l'horizon s'ouvre, Sais-tu ce qui se passe au Louvre ? Je n'entends plus parler du roi. - Ah ! Tu prends, à l'heure où nous sommes, Dit l'autre, un bien tardif souci ! Rien n'est donc venu jusqu'ici Des branle-bas qu'on faits les hommes ? - Parfois un soubresaut brutal, Des rumeurs extraordinaires, Comme de souterrains tonnerres Font tressaillir mon piédestal. - C'est l'écho de leurs grands vacarmes : Plus une tour, plus un clocher Où l'oiseau puisse en paix nicher ; Partout l'incendie et les armes ! « J'ai naguère, à Paris, en vain Heurté du bec les vitres closes, Nulle part, même aux lèvres roses, La moindre miette de vrai pain. « Aux mansardes des tuileries Je logeais, le printemps passé, Mais les flammes m'en ont chassé, Ce n'était que feux et tueries. « Sur le front du génie ailé Qui plane où sombra la bastille, J'ai voulu poser ma famille, Mais cet asile a chancelé. « Des murs de granit qu'on restaure Nous sommes l'un et l'autre exclus, Là le temps des palais n'est plus, Et celui des nids, pas encore. »

60

I. Le nez rouge, la face blême, Sur un pupitre de glaçons, L'Hiver exécute son thème Dans le quatuor des saisons. Il chante d'une voix peu sûre Des airs vieillots et chevrotants ; Son pied glacé bat la mesure Et la semelle en même temps ; Et comme Haendel, dont la perruque Perdait sa farine en tremblant, Il fait envoler de sa nuque La neige qui la poudre à blanc. II. Dans le bassin des Tuileries, Le cygne s'est pris en nageant, Et les arbres, comme aux féeries, Sont en filigrane d'argent. Les vases ont des fleurs de givre, Sous la charmille aux blancs réseaux ; Et sur la neige on voit se suivre Les pas étoilés des oiseaux. Au piédestal où, court-vêtue, Vénus coudoyait Phocion, L'Hiver a posé pour statue La Frileuse de Clodion. III. Les femmes passent sous les arbres En martre, hermine et menu-vair, Et les déesses, frileux marbres, Ont pris aussi l'habit d'hiver. La Vénus Anadyomène Est en pelisse à capuchon ; Flore, que la brise malmène, Plonge ses mains dans son manchon. Et pour la saison, les bergères De Coysevox et de Coustou, Trouvant leurs écharpes légères, Ont des boas autour du cou. IV. Sur la mode Parisienne Le Nord pose ses manteaux lourds, Comme sur une Athénienne Un Scythe étendrait sa peau d'ours. Partout se mélange aux parures Dont Palmyre habille l'Hiver, Le faste russe des fourrures Que parfume le vétyver. Et le Plaisir rit dans l'alcôve Quand, au milieu des Amours nus, Des poils roux d'une bête fauve Sort le torse blanc de Vénus. V. Sous le voile qui vous protège, Défiant les regards jaloux, Si vous sortez par cette neige, Redoutez vos pieds andalous ; La neige saisit comme un moule L'empreinte de ce pied mignon Qui, sur le tapis blanc qu'il foule, Signe, à chaque pas, votre nom. Ainsi guidé, l'époux morose Peut parvenir au nid caché Où, de froid la joue encor rose, A l'Amour s'enlace Psyché.

0

902

Théophile Gautier

Fantaisies d'hiver

I. Le nez rouge, la face blême, Sur un pupitre de glaçons, L'Hiver exécute son thème Dans le quatuor des saisons. Il chante d'une voix peu sûre Des airs vieillots et chevrotants ; Son pied glacé bat la mesure Et la semelle en même temps ; Et comme Haendel, dont la perruque Perdait sa farine en tremblant, Il fait envoler de sa nuque La neige qui la poudre à blanc. II. Dans le bassin des Tuileries, Le cygne s'est pris en nageant, Et les arbres, comme aux féeries, Sont en filigrane d'argent. Les vases ont des fleurs de givre, Sous la charmille aux blancs réseaux ; Et sur la neige on voit se suivre Les pas étoilés des oiseaux. Au piédestal où, court-vêtue, Vénus coudoyait Phocion, L'Hiver a posé pour statue La Frileuse de Clodion. III. Les femmes passent sous les arbres En martre, hermine et menu-vair, Et les déesses, frileux marbres, Ont pris aussi l'habit d'hiver. La Vénus Anadyomène Est en pelisse à capuchon ; Flore, que la brise malmène, Plonge ses mains dans son manchon. Et pour la saison, les bergères De Coysevox et de Coustou, Trouvant leurs écharpes légères, Ont des boas autour du cou. IV. Sur la mode Parisienne Le Nord pose ses manteaux lourds, Comme sur une Athénienne Un Scythe étendrait sa peau d'ours. Partout se mélange aux parures Dont Palmyre habille l'Hiver, Le faste russe des fourrures Que parfume le vétyver. Et le Plaisir rit dans l'alcôve Quand, au milieu des Amours nus, Des poils roux d'une bête fauve Sort le torse blanc de Vénus. V. Sous le voile qui vous protège, Défiant les regards jaloux, Si vous sortez par cette neige, Redoutez vos pieds andalous ; La neige saisit comme un moule L'empreinte de ce pied mignon Qui, sur le tapis blanc qu'il foule, Signe, à chaque pas, votre nom. Ainsi guidé, l'époux morose Peut parvenir au nid caché Où, de froid la joue encor rose, A l'Amour s'enlace Psyché.

65

In a flight of fancy Felicity pronunces Her admiration for Henry Moore As we stroll in the sunshine For my part however I'm preoccupied For I have a date tonight With the 'Green Fairy' She waxes lyrical As together we admire 'Reclining Figure - 1951' In the Tuileries Garden And I have to say It breaks my reverie Returning my main vice The female form.

0

Oct 10, 2015

Oct 10, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC

david-bremner

At Tuileries Garden

In a flight of fancy Felicity pronunces Her admiration for Henry Moore As we stroll in the sunshine For my part however I'm preoccupied For I have a date tonight With the 'Green Fairy' She waxes lyrical As together we admire 'Reclining Figure - 1951' In the Tuileries Garden And I have to say It breaks my reverie Returning my main vice The female form.

16

Sonnet. L'homme pâle, le long des pelouses fleuries, Chemine, en habit noir, et le cigare aux dents : L'Homme pâle repense aux fleurs des Tuileries - Et parfois son oeil terne a des regards ardents... Car l'Empereur est soûl de ses vingt ans d'orgie ! Il s'était dit : "Je vais souffler la liberté Bien délicatement, ainsi qu'une bougie !" La liberté revit ! Il se sent éreinté ! Il est pris. - Oh ! quel nom sur ses lèvres muettes Tressaille ? Quel regret implacable le mord ? On ne le saura pas. L'Empereur a l'oeil mort. Il repense peut-être au Compère en lunettes... - Et regarde filer de son cigare en feu, Comme aux soirs de Saint-Cloud, un fin nuage bleu.

0

407

Arthur Rimbaud

Rages de Césars

Sonnet. L'homme pâle, le long des pelouses fleuries, Chemine, en habit noir, et le cigare aux dents : L'Homme pâle repense aux fleurs des Tuileries - Et parfois son oeil terne a des regards ardents... Car l'Empereur est soûl de ses vingt ans d'orgie ! Il s'était dit : "Je vais souffler la liberté Bien délicatement, ainsi qu'une bougie !" La liberté revit ! Il se sent éreinté ! Il est pris. - Oh ! quel nom sur ses lèvres muettes Tressaille ? Quel regret implacable le mord ? On ne le saura pas. L'Empereur a l'oeil mort. Il repense peut-être au Compère en lunettes... - Et regarde filer de son cigare en feu, Comme aux soirs de Saint-Cloud, un fin nuage bleu.

15

Tu les feras pleurer, enfant belle et chérie, Tous ces bambins, hommes futurs, Qui plus **** suspendront leur jeune rêverie Aux cils câlins de tes yeux purs. Ils aiment de ta voix la roulade sonore, Mais plus **** ils sentiront mieux Ce qu'ils peuvent à peine y discerner encore, Le timbre au charme impérieux ; Ils touchent, sans jamais en sentir de brûlure, Tes boucles pleines de rayons, Dont l'or fait ressembler ta fauve chevelure À celle des petits lions. Ils ne devinent pas, aux jeux dont tu te mêles, Qu'en leur jetant au cou tes bras, Rieuse, indifférente et douce, tu décèles Tout le mal que tu leur feras. Tu t'exerces déjà, quand tu crois que tu joues, En leur abandonnant ton front ; Tes lèvres ont déjà, plus faites que tes joues, La grâce dont ils souffriront.

0

326

René-François Sully Prudhomme

Aux Tuileries

Tu les feras pleurer, enfant belle et chérie, Tous ces bambins, hommes futurs, Qui plus **** suspendront leur jeune rêverie Aux cils câlins de tes yeux purs. Ils aiment de ta voix la roulade sonore, Mais plus **** ils sentiront mieux Ce qu'ils peuvent à peine y discerner encore, Le timbre au charme impérieux ; Ils touchent, sans jamais en sentir de brûlure, Tes boucles pleines de rayons, Dont l'or fait ressembler ta fauve chevelure À celle des petits lions. Ils ne devinent pas, aux jeux dont tu te mêles, Qu'en leur jetant au cou tes bras, Rieuse, indifférente et douce, tu décèles Tout le mal que tu leur feras. Tu t'exerces déjà, quand tu crois que tu joues, En leur abandonnant ton front ; Tes lèvres ont déjà, plus faites que tes joues, La grâce dont ils souffriront.

20