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!
|
|
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 |
|
Napoleon Bonaparte was born in Ajaccio, Corsica on August 15th, 1769, exactly 250 years ago.
|
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. |
|
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 |
|
|
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. |
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 |
|
Bonaparte at the Pont d'Arcole, age 27
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 ... "
"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 ... "
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
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
|
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 |
|
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 |
|
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. |
|
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?............ |
|
|
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 |
|
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
|
Day 1
|
|
|
|
|
|
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! |
|
|
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 |
Painting by: Claude Monet
|
|
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. |
|
|
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.
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 |
|
|
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 |
|
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
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
|
Bordeaux Kiss
|
Midnight in Paris
|
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 |
|
Thibault
|
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?
|
