The Poetry of Arthur Vaso

Peter Paul Rubens 1577 - 1640 The Judgment of Paris
How can one be a poet and not be in love with France, and Paris. I have traveled all over France, and love the history, culture, politics, architecture, art, and most of all the people. For me the film "Midnight in Paris" being the romanticized version of life, still for me is the magical joy of the real Paris today. Many of the poems I write therefore I use both Paris and France as backdrops or settings. I have also been  influenced in my writings by French music and often include innuendos referring to some songs!
Picture
Picture

Hier encore

 
Mes pensées se sont dirigées vers le passé
Aux Jardins du Luxembourg
Les jours d'amour,  de chaleur et de printemps.
Je sens encore le parfum du temps précédent.
 
Il me chuchota son amour éternel
Un avenir brillant et un mariage en blanc.
Comme les pays le font, ils envoient les hommes à la guerre
Depuis  je me sens abandonné sous les nuages des jours tristes.
 
Par-delà des mers, je le visite chaque année
J'y dépose des roses rouges, qui me font pleurer
J'essaie d'effacer ce qui aurait pu être
Désormais les feuilles tombent sur mon cœur gros
 
Sa voix était calme, douce et suave
Pendant des heures nous serpentions les cavités des rues
Je suis attiré par chacun de ses mots
Et tous les soirs l'écho résonne, j'étais son monde.
 
Maintenant, je parle aux fantômes durant la nuit
Personne d'autres n'a allumé  le désir de ma satisfaction
Par moment, je me sens folle lorsque je décroche le vieux téléphone
Hier, j'ai téléphoné sentant que je n'étais pas seul.



 
            - Arthur Vaso
 Cette jolie photo me parla, parfois le romantique en moi souhaiterait vivre dans le passé.

 
Modèle : River Doucette
Photographe : Sylvie Purdy
Traduction : JoAnne Plouffe

Picture

Napoleon Bonaparte was born in Ajaccio, Corsica on August 15th, 1769, exactly 250 years ago.

Picture
Il y a exactement 250 ans, le 15 août 1769, naissait Napoléon Bonaparte à Ajaccio en Corse. Qui aurait pu alors deviner que cet Ajaccien issu d’une famille modeste allait dominer l’Europe et fonder un empire ?

Pour commémorer sa naissance, nous vous proposons une publication spéciale dédiée à l’une des plus célèbres œuvres iconographiques le représentant : « Bonaparte franchissant le col du Grand Saint-Bernard ». Ce tableau a été peint en 1800 par Jacques Louis David (1748 - 1825) et a été commandé par le roi d’Espagne Charles IV, alors allié à la France.
Sur cette œuvre, on observe au premier plan Napoléon Bonaparte (Premier Consul de France depuis son coup d’état du 10 novembre 1799) et en arrière-plan des soldats français poussant un canon. Cette scène représente ainsi la traversée des Alpes par l’armée du Premier Consul via le col du Grand Saint-Bernard (en 1800). Drapé dans un ample manteau de couleur vive, Napoléon est idéalisé et magnifié à des fins de propagande. En bas du tableau, on remarque deux inscriptions sur les rochers : « Hannibal » et « Karolus Magnus » (Charlemagne). Ainsi, cette œuvre inscrit symboliquement le nom de Bonaparte dans la continuité de deux des plus grands conquérants de tous les temps (ayant eux aussi traversé les Alpes) et le fait ainsi entrer dans l’histoire. En réalité, le passage des Alpes par une armée était loin d’être si exceptionnel pour l’époque.
© Photo RMN-Grand Palais - D. Arnaudet




Exactly 250 years ago, on August 1769, 15, Napoleon Bonaparte was born in ajaccio, Corsica. Who could then have guessed that this ajaccio from a modest family would dominate Europe and start an empire?

Napoleon Bonaparte (first consul of France since his coup d ' coup of 10 November 1799) and in the background of French soldiers pushing a gun. This scene represents the crossing of the Alps by the army of the first consul via the col du Grand Saint-Bernard (in 1800). Draped in a large coat of vivid color, Napoleon is idealized and magnified for propaganda purposes. At the bottom of the painting, there are two inscriptions on the rocks: " Hannibal " and " Karolus Magnus " (Charlemagne). Thus, this work is symbolic of the name of bonaparte in the continuity of two of the greatest conquerors of all time (having also crossed the Alps) and thus makes it into history. In reality, the passage of the Alps by an army was far from so exceptional for the time.

Picture

La grande histoire


Je me sens renaître et je vois une nouvelle destinée s’ouvrir devant moi… je suis en train de bâtir le temple, c’est-à-dire de purifier mon cœur et ma vie.

George Sand à Franz Liszt - 22 avril 1835

Picture
Picture



George Sand  pseudonyme d'Amantine Aurore Lucile Dupin, baronne Dudevant, est une romancière, dramaturge, épistolière, critique littéraire et journaliste française, née à Paris le 1er juillet 1804 et morte au château de Nohant-Vic le 8 juin 1876. Elle compte parmi les écrivains les plus prolifiques, avec plus de 70 romans à son actif et 50 volumes d'œuvres diverses dont des nouvelles, des contes, des pièces de théâtre et des textes politiques.


Picture
Picture
Reviens par Jurga Martins

Reviens






j'attends
toujours
le rêve qui ne
vient jamais

où est ma mère  

où est la vie  
je suis petite
je sais
est-ce que j'existe?

J'attends

        
Etienne Lariviere

 
 

 
Battles
 
Flags and alliances
mighty sword and cannon
kingdoms of Europe fought
royalty or republic matters not
 
Fiefdoms battle for glories treasure
us and them under deities banners
Righteous, claimed by all sides
only the widows keep true score
 
Loyalties exchanged for golden coin
knights died in fields of horses blood
graves in fall's tranquility weep
finally peace and passion restored

Picture
Bonaparte at the Pont d'Arcole, age 27
Picture
Les Nymphes par Pierre Louÿs (1870-1925).

Danseuse par le poète de la peinture, François Martin-Kavel (1861-1931)


Les Nymphes

"Oui, des lèvres aussi, des lèvres savoureuses
Mais d'une chair plus tendre et plus fragile encor
Des rêves de chair rose à l'ombre des poils d'or
Qui palpitent légers sous les mains amoureuses.

Des fleurs aussi, des fleurs molles, des fleurs de nuit,
Pétales délicats alourdis de rosée
Qui fléchissent pliés sous la fleur épuisée
Et pleurent le désir, goutte à goutte, sans bruit.

O lèvres, versez-moi les divines salives
La volupté du sang, la vapeur des gencives
Et les frémissements enflammés du baiser.

O fleurs troublantes, fleurs mystiques, fleurs divines
Balancez vers mon coeur sans jamais l'apaiser
L'encens mystérieux des senteurs féminines..."

And, here is  very poor translation until I find a better one!

"Yes, lips too, tasty lips
But of a softer and more fragile flesh
Dreams of pink flesh in the shadow of golden hairs
That palpitate light under the loving hands.

Flowers too, soft flowers, night flowers,
Delicate petals weighed down with dew
Who bend bent under the exhausted flower
And cry desire, drop by drop, without noise.

O lips, pour me the divine saliva
The voluptuousness of the blood, the vapor of the gums
And the burning thrills of the kiss.

O troubling flowers, mystical flowers, divine flowers
Swing to my heart without ever soothing
The mysterious incense of feminine scents ... "

Picture
 

France Gall est morte, Jan 7, 2018

France Gall, nom de scène d'Isabelle Gall, née le 9 octobre 1947 dans le 12e arrondissement de Paris et morte le 7 janvier 2018 à Neuilly-sur-Seine, est une chanteuse française.
 
Elle connaît de grands succès à partir du début des années 1960, remportant notamment en 1965 le premier prix au Concours Eurovision de la chanson avec le titre Poupée de cire, poupée de son. Alors qu'elle connaît le succès en Allemagne, sa popularité s'estompe en France jusqu'à sa rencontre avec l'auteur-compositeur-interprète Michel Berger, qu'elle épouse en 1976. Elle enchaîne alors les succès avec des chansons composées pour elle par Michel Berger.
 
À partir de 1992, marquée par la mort de son mari puis de sa fille, ainsi que par des problèmes de santé, elle se fait moins présente sur la scène musicale, qu'elle quitte en 1997. Elle créé la comédie musicale Résiste en 2015.
From Wiki


Picture
France est morte
 
A little piece of France has passed
            away
The heavens for sure now have some gall
            with smiles and all
If you no longer exist, then neither do I
            longing for times long ago
Your smile captured hearts and souls
            when life was more simple
Now I drink le beau dommage
           c'est la vie
Her heart and voice brought us innocence
            chalice of wine now deplete
We mourn the loss of her song and charm
            at graves side we still adorn
Paradise she rests dressed in white
            singing

Par Arthur Vaso et Etienne Lariviere
This poem was translated by a gifted Artist/Poet in France, Rene Chabriere, merci bien Rene.

Depth of the Darkness
 
Where I am
Unknown even to me
The dizziness
Dis-orientations linger here or
Maybe there
 
I am not quite sure
Other than I have drowned
Emptiness overcomes even
The sadness
Eyelids, do I have them?
Emptiness you see is a blindness
Seeping into the nether lands of my heart
No longer caring
Or daring
Hidden in the darkness
At all the staring
 
 
Profondeur de l'obscurité
 
Où je suis
Inconnu même pour moi
Le vertige
Subsiste en étant  désorienté  ou
Peut-être ici
 
je ne suis pas tout à fait sûr
d'être autre qu'ayant été noyé
par un vide qui surmonte même
la tristesse
Des paupières, est-ce que j'en  ai?
Le vide vous voyez est un aveuglement
Suintant dans les terres les plus profondes de mon cœur
Pas plus attentionné
Ou audacieux
Caché dans l'obscurité
À tout les regards

Picture
BANG
Thunder
Struck by a fantasy
Off I go, on the expressways of tears
Lights bright, then darkness
Darkness then bright lights
 
I am sitting now
In someone's Den, maybe mine?
Caressing, holding
Yet...............
There I am so silent
Alive?
SMILING
I am smiling right into a smile
A smile stares back
Filled with a warmth
Never before felt
In this lifetime or the ones before
Seconds become minutes
Become hours
No words are spoken
There exists but a tenderness
Of thoughts
Passing from me to the smiling one
From her to me
Fear of breaking the spell
Is this the full accounting of it all?
Have the gods balanced the books?
Of all things I expose to her
The debits and credits
Why I have no idea
But she is smiling, always smiling
I see colors
Plump wonderful huggable colors
I never saw before

COUP
 Tonnerre
Frappé par un fantasme
Je vais sortir, sur les autoroutes de larmes
Des lumières brillantes, puis l'obscurité
Ténèbres ,puis les éclairages lumineux
 
Je suis assis maintenant
Y a-t-il quelqu'un dans cet antre, peut-être la mienne?
Caressant, me tenant
Encore...............
Là, je suis tellement silencieux
Vivant?
 SOURIANT
 Je souris directement  dans un sourire
Un sourire qui regarde en arrière
Rempli avec une chaleur
Jamais ressentie auparavant
Dans cette vie ou celles d'avant
Les secondes deviennent minutes
Deviennent  des heures 
Aucun mot n'est prononcé
Ils existent, mais dans une tendresse
Des pensées
Passant de moi à un sourire
D'elle à moi
La peur de rompre le charme
Est-ce le total de tout cela?
Les dieux ont-ils équilibré les livres?
De toutes les choses que je lui expose
Ce qu'elle me donne ou que je lui donne
Pourquoi n'en ai-je aucune 'idée
Mais elle sourit,  toujours souriante
Je vois des couleurs
Rebondies de merveilleuses couleurs douces
Que je n'ai jamais vu avant

Picture
My oh such wonderful thoughts
Slowly, both so fearful
Memories entwined with pains shared
Outstretched arms reaching
 
Radiant, solar is her smile
Angelic in an earthly way
A smile of all things
Filled with a bouquet of love
In eyes that have voices
 
Skies so clear
Filling with clouds
Floating
There I am
Back into the night
Of eternal darkness
As I toss the key to all in the wind
 
Having been robbed of all emotions
In a haze of nothingness
There is still a little pain
And a seed of hope
As the soul rots a little more
Into the sands
 
Lacking passion
Is humanities only crime

oh , de telles merveilleuses pensées
Lentement, à la fois si effrayantes
Souvenirs entrelacés avec douleurs partagées
M’atteignant les bras tendus 
 
Son sourire est solaire et rayonnant 
Angélique à la manière terrestre
Un sourire de toutes choses
Rempli d'un bouquet d'amour
Dans les yeux qui ont comme des voix
 
De ciels si clairs
Remplis avec des nuages
Flottant
Me voilà
De retour dans la nuit
De l'obscurité éternelle
Comme je jette la clé de l'ensemble dans le vent
 
Après avoir été dépouillé de toutes les émotions
Dans une brume du néant
Il y a encore un peu de douleur
Et une graine d'espoir
Comme l'âme pourrit un peu plus
Dans les sables
 
le manque de passion
Est le seul crime de l’humanité.

Picture

Lady of Paris

 
Into the night I marched
Into deaths grip I fell
 
Musical notes running after me
Violins weeping afterwards
 
Stars fading into matter
Nothing matters without love
 
Lights shine over there
Can I reach or do I dare?
 
I can’t get out of this repressive chair
I can’t stand the people whom stare
 
My mind is all wrapped in shrouds
Hiding within the skies dark clouds
 
My smiles stolen by royalty golden
Now my tears flow as I weep
 
Is there any hope to keep?
Or am I doomed to deaths grip so deep
 
Gargoyles yelping for their fare
Me, dangling from the air
 
Aurore are you there?............

Picture
Picture
Picture






She gazes behind, running from my sadness

Pink fields and flowers embracing happiness

She runs away from my noire writings

For my demise sent her to hiding

For tears she could not embrace

No matter how inviting

Picture
Battle Clans
 
 
They came in the night
Like twisted ninja’s
Selling their honor for terror and fright
Blood spilled on Mohamed’s hands
 
The Tower of Paris stands tall
Art and culture they shall never fall
They wounded the bodies
They murdered the babies
 
The symphonies of horrors in the key of D
Replaced by waltzes of harmonies in C
We bow in sadness to the wounded and dead
We never shall forget, the cowards who spread red
 
Tears have been shed,
Liberty for a day became stale bread
No one shall stain our integrity
The fraternity and flag shall always fly free
 
We shall mourn
We shall cry
We shall bring the devils their justice
We shall in the end forgive and never forget
 
For we are the humanity of all of France
Laying flowers at the last dance
Je me souvien
Bataclan

Je me souviens de cette sombre journée d'automne
Oct 2016

Picture
Picture
Picture

Day 1
 
I was defeated
That very first day
You held your baguette you had that Alizee sway
Love in Paris, always sweet in May
 
Days became months
Love became profound
We married and forever our loved we'd keep
In the jardin du Luxembourg I now walk alone and weep
 
Children danced and lumières were bright
Noël was heaven; we held our hands so tight
The journey was never easy, yet we knew we belonged
Our future was forever, until Lachaise called us along
 
The one day, when the autumn was almost done
From out of no where the sound of machine guns
Now its over, and the years have past
When pure evil took you, yet our love always lasts
 
I sing to les enfants, I tell them is alright
Your mama is above, in the heavens so bright
I kiss them and wrap my heart around their cuddly little souls
Only later, deep in the night
 
Do my tears begin to roll
 
 
Notes: Dedicated to the victims of the Paris tragedy in Nov 2015. Loosely based on an interview of one of the victims who lost his wife, and also loosely based on the song by Louane called “Jour 1”
 
Translations
 
Alizee means both “go” and is the name of a popular French singer
Lumieres in English means “lights”
Les enfants = the children








Quand, ainsi qu'un poète, il descend dans les villes,
II ennoblit le sort des choses les plus viles,
Et s'introduit en roi, sans bruit et sans valets,
Dans tous les hôpitaux et dans tous les palais.

— Charles Baudelaire


Bastille
 In memory of those who died on July 14, 2016.
 
Many years ago
They stormed the Bastille
Two hundred and one lost their lives
The tennis court oath however survived
 
Necker had his heart with the masses
Jacques could not be dismissed so easily
The storming of the Bastille was to be
The birth of a nation for all men free
 
And free men they were
Running naked through the streets
What they lacked in cake
The made up with in red wine
 
The Republique was born
A democracy in infancy
Would grow through trials and tribulations
To become a multicultural great nation
 
Lone angry men filled with such hate
I welcome you to Bastilles’ gate
Of medieval prisons long ago
It is there, you I shall throw
 
You kill in the name of a God
A God you do not know
Love has escaped from your very soul
Only hate tarnishes your bitter heart
 
The ghosts of Bastille are mocking
The coward who is filled with such animosity
There never shall be an escape
The soul of the dead shall eternally taunt you
 
A criminal with no compassion
You have only given us our determination
To battle for the peace of this great nation
You bring us tears; alas we shall turn them to wine
 
Naked through the streets we shall always dance!


Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture

Notes:
(Some notes extracted from wiki, why re-invent the wheelbarrow?)
 
Of course a short poem, can never do justice to such a momentous moment in history. However, I will explain the key points in the poem to give some reference; they were made to create curiosity for anyone seeking to know more.
 
July 14, 2016 is the “La fête nationale” of France. The French National Day commemorates the Storming of the Bastille on 14 July 1789 an important event many years ago in Paris in the French Revolution, which had begun two days earlier.
 
Jacques Necker, the finance minister, who was sympathetic to the Third Estate, was dismissed on 11 July. The people of Paris then stormed the Bastille, fearful that they and their representatives would be attacked by the royal army or by foreign regiments of mercenaries in the king's service, and seeking to gain ammunition and gunpowder for the general populace.
 
The Third Estate was basically the representation of the general population or the “common people”
 
On the first anniversary of this uprising, there was a huge four day feast, in which many drank wine ran naked throw the streets, celebrating there new found freedom.

I have on purpose included this event, the drinking and nudity as the extremism of today by some factions of society seek to judge and say what is acceptable and what is not, and what is not apparently is punishable by death by terror.
 
Vive la république
 
Liberté, égalité, fraternité


Picture
Painting by: Claude Monet
Picture


The Artist
 
 
I draw
The illusions inside of me
From blank canvas
I make magic
She reaches out for me
We touch, the painter and the brush
She my dreams, I her master
Painter
Wet is the paint
Wet is the desire
Now for the illusions of a noble sire
 


My creation
She rules my heart
Blindfolded we make a new start
She becomes the lady and the tramp
Intoxicating erotic barroom scamp
She is the lady in red
She is the lady I take to my bed
Yet here I am alone
The artist with his fantasy
For take away her lingerie
And the naked truth is such
I am only me
 
Invisible and gone


Circumstance of France

Circumflex
 
Global indifference
Uncaring bastards
For words and letters
Grammar and poetic letters
Stealing our roots, our tools
Our hats
Our very being
Taking us for fools
We shall overcome this injustice
As Rafael Padilla rose above his chains
So shall we restore our dignity
 
 
I fear if we left the kitchen
You'd steal our onions too
Have you no soul?
Do you know how cold the winter with no hat?
 
 
You say you are the Académie française
Yet you protect not the black letters on a page
Oh Chocolat! Oh Shame!
You care not for the revolution long ago
Nor do you care for the heart of Moliere
I of all
I am shocked
To be calling the language police
What comfort can you give a word with no hat to wear?
Have you no compassion, do you not care?
 
All my life I have dreaded that hat
Now that I have conquered my fear
You wish to behead the very essence of French
Have you no shame?
 
You wish to circumcise the grammar
Shorten the learning, make bad spelling no ones blame
I stand tall, atopthe Eiffel tower
I shall protest you, flexing my circumference
Making you see the errors of your intolerance
To murder such a small hat
Of history
You only create misery
As I open yet another Bordeaux
The Circus died yet there is one clown left

Notes: This poem is about the removal of the ^ from certain letters in the French language, this was decided in 1990 but only has become “news” now. However like all great ideas I did intertwine others, if you care to guess, and the point of the poem is not to make a point but rather to stir a social discussion on the issues of today.








Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
Pere Lachaise
 
Five into the Twentieth
 
Death is not worth the doing
Life is not worth the living
So I am in-between two worlds
Rotting above the ground
Whilst the corpses laugh in their comfy warm beds
They sleep in peace
I walk upon their heads
Trembling
Seeking solace where there is none
As the leaves fall the season will soon change
I shall remain as I am
Inebriated with ravens and fools
In cafes with strangers
Safely away from the human touch
Wine flowing through my veins
Wine caressing my very pains
The clouds float overhead
Raining on the dead and almost
Feigning hopes when there is none
Five and twenty blackbirds singing deaths song
 
 
They offer me a map at the graveyard entrance
How trite, a map to my very own hell
My journey though might be a hard sell
 
Tumble as I do upon so many stones
Black roses hidden where once they were shown
Bloody nights with both razor and thorn
When I arrived at the morgue
Surely I was scorned
 
Adélaïde Paillard de Villeneuve
You have no home, not even in death
So it’s with you I wish to hold hands
You the first and I who will never last
Seasons in the Sun - Terry Jacks
Notes about the poem:
Père Lachaise Cemetery was opened on 21 May 1804. The first person buried there was a five-year-old girl named Adélaïde Paillard de Villeneuve, the daughter of a door bell-boy of the Faubourg St. Antoine. Her grave no longer exists as the plot was a temporary concession. Napoleon, who had been proclaimed Emperor by the Senate three days earlier, had declared during the Consulate that "Every citizen has the right to be buried regardless of race or religion"
 
At the time of its opening, the cemetery was considered to be situated too far from the city and attracted few funerals. Moreover, many Roman Catholics refused to have their graves in a place that had not been blessed by the Church. In 1804, the Père Lachaise had contained only 13 graves. Consequently, the administrators devised a marketing strategy and in 1804, with great fanfare, organized the transfer of the remains of Jean de La Fontaine and Molière. The following year there were 44 burials, with 49 in 1806, 62 in 1807 and 833 in 1812.
Then, in another great spectacle in 1817, the purported[5] remains of Pierre Abélard and Héloïse d'Argenteuil were also transferred to the cemetery with their monument's canopy made from fragments of the abbey of Nogent-sur-Seine
 
The above was taken from Wiki
 
The subtitle Five into the Twentieth refers to the first person buried there, the five year old Adelaide in the 20th arrondissement of Paris.



Here is a Paris most people do not see, mon Paris!


Paris the 13th
Oct 15, 2015 je suis paris

Tears, my tears fall to wine
As I can not comprehend this horrendous crime
Men filled with such spiteful hate
Islamic teachings seal their fate
Kill and slaughter love and smiles
How I pray tell does this bring about
Any compassion of heart, have they no guile?
 
I have walked along those Parisian streets
Filled with history and diversity, such a feat
Hand in hand, people from so many lands
Dressed in darkness, blacks and grays
The massacre dancing in premonitions sway
Crusaders never win, for love will take its stand
 
Hundreds taken from Jesus hands
For nothing more than celebrating their great lands
Food and drink and lovers smiles
Stolen this night by hateful bile
We shall rise again, defend and stand
 
Our blood may flow in the river seine
However in the end its you, who is insane
We shall defend our liberty
Even if we hang evil from the tree
 
Père Lachaise has brought me tears
Such history over all the years
Yet here I am faced to visit once again
 
Paying respect to those dying in vain
My heart is fraught, with you till eternity
 
Liberté, égalité, fraternité

Picture

Picture
Letters from Paris
 

I wrote a letter

With teardrops from my heart
I walk the streets of Antoinette
My mind dances with Baudelaire
Love flutters as the pigeon’s wings on statues
I see them, so close and feel the emptiness
Like the cold stone upon which their wings rest
 
My wine glass is empty
Then full
Then empty
My veins are red like bloodshot eyes
I am tired
Confessions made
I cried
 
As I walk across the bridge of god
Over the seine
Notre dame stares back, am I insane?
Have I been alone all this time?
Perdu, in time, perdu inside my wine
Hidden words and lost letters
You shall never see
Tossed thoughts in salad dressings
Away away as the river decides to run
 
I look back inside black and white photos
How did I become this way
How did I become the stray?
Fallen spirit, burning heart
Completely and utterly torn apart
 
I stare at the Eiffel tower
A mighty spear, that pierces me
Into the million lovers of gay Paris
Angels weep, pain flows
The blood of time, the blood that becomes the wine
The pain, inside of me
For all the lost letters
Mother and father never did see

Picture










Picture
Picture
May I Caress Your Heart

Alone, in Paris
The flowers sing
Le jardin du Luxembourg
I look at all the pretty ladies
Which one of them pray tell
Is you
The one who wishes for that sweet caress
The one whose painting hangs on the wall
The one who knows beauty runs deeper
Than a river running to kiss the oceans swell
The grandest of castles with candles dim
There in the damp night would bonds begin
If only you would listen to my whispers deep
Forgiving the scars I have suffered
As in the night I have wept
Napoleon marched forth across great lands
I the knight have lesser demands
If only you, whoever you are
Would take hold of me
As we dance away our eternities
Sur le pont de Avignon
Where the river flows
Like poetry


Picture


Picture

Bordeaux Kiss


I set the table, place for one
Pour the wine, cork undone
Filet mignon, to perfection done
Topped with greens, and a sauce of rum
 
The evening sets, as it always had
A gourmet meal, aint so bad
I make a toast to the other side
As silence waits, I must abide
 
As I hold my glass
Of Bordeaux wine
I dare to wish but for one more thing
In darkened silence, the phone to ring
 
Soufflé simply will not do
There is no sweet without you
The perfect meal evades me still
The evening fades into a chill
 
Sleep evades my dreamy mind
And in the haze of wishful thoughts
Dinner was served
With a Kiss

Midnight in Paris

Picture

She was the hidden flower of the seine
She walked her sadness through the streets
The sky was grey, the wind made her shiver
She cried for her mother, to hold her pain
 
Her heart was torn
All her friends had left
Alone in Paris, like an empty bottle of wine
Her desires drained, every solitary drop
 
If, only if, a smile would appear
She laughed, she cried, all the same
The tears hidden inside
She rode the subways to emptiness
 
If, only if, she could be a painting
The museum walls could hang her thoughts
And drown the grey clouds hanging above
If, only if, her heart could beat once more
 
If, only if, the life could give peace
And sleep would become a blanket of warmth
Float away, she dreamed,
Broken hotels and empty windows
 
If  Maman I could hug you once more
Before the Eifel tour fades from view
My Paris is leaving me
As I leave you
 

Epilogue 

The Cemetery of Thoughts
 
There’s beauty in sadness
There is sadness that we don’t see
The lonely
Who need to see
The beauty of Paris
Kiss the lonely
And wake up broken hearts

Picture
Picture

Thibault        




Picture
Picture
I walk my lobster
Along the promenade
On a fine sunny spring day
Thibault he loves Paris
 
 
Tulieres is a fine garden
Of naked bodies and wet fountains
Past glories and royalty
Dreamed their dreams, on these garden walks
 
The melodies behind castle walls
I dance with the goldfish
The Queen of the ball
I am not young, I am not twenty
 
They tell me to go, I say Alizee?
I hunger for you, I desire you
Your image is the art of my thoughts
I crave you, the pastry and the cream
 
Under canopy, I hide such desires
I am not afraid of you
Yet I fear the arrow of loves wounds
Let me taste not the blood of such losses
 
I walk, with Thibault along the Seine
I see you, far away, on the other shore
A vision of le Puy, innocence and beauty
The mist fades,  the pot of life boils
 
Thibault turns red, he knows
The walk of life is about to end
He cries, as his master remains in the dark
I am not twenty anymore


Note: Dedicated to Gérard de Nerval (1808-1855), this is a mix between old and new, poetry and lyrics, with a dash of whimsical in Alizee

La fille sur le pont
 A Girl on a Bridge
 
There she was, staring into the night
Paris lights shimmering in a soft glow
Her mind lost, twirling in tears
Confusion wrapping her in a warmth of fear
 
She dreams of a knife threw her chest
To stab away the darkness of misery
She smiles with hope, so close
The river flows beneath
Blackness so inviting
The currents of death to take her away
 
It takes but a leap, of lost hopes and dreams
The depths of the river to take your breath away
And your last wishes become filled with envy
For those who still float above you
 
Many lovers cross the seine
Hand in hand in the night
Oblivious that all must end
Romantic pains, meet their end
If you are a girl on a bridge
 
She kissed the river
She caressed the shivering night
She clung to her emptiness
She danced her last fading dance
And wedded death, her last embrace
Leonard Cohen, another Montreal poet, why they say he is almost as good as Arthur Vaso! Who am I to disagree?
Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.
  • Home
  • Vaso's Blog
  • Current Poems
  • Introspection
  • Humanity-People
  • France
  • MIddle East
  • Dark
  • Gothic
  • History
    • Woman in History
  • Humor
    • Limericks
  • Love
  • Stories
    • ChildrensPoems
    • StoryTelling
  • Guest Poets
    • GuestBio's
    • Guests2016
    • In Memory
    • Collaborations
    • Dedicated To
    • Music of the Week
  • ARTGallery
  • Music
  • Support
  • Home
  • Vaso's Blog
  • Current Poems
  • Introspection
  • Humanity-People
  • France
  • MIddle East
  • Dark
  • Gothic
  • History
    • Woman in History
  • Humor
    • Limericks
  • Love
  • Stories
    • ChildrensPoems
    • StoryTelling
  • Guest Poets
    • GuestBio's
    • Guests2016
    • In Memory
    • Collaborations
    • Dedicated To
    • Music of the Week
  • ARTGallery
  • Music
  • Support