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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Unquotable quotes: Paris, the last week of the August reprieve – XXXV Part One I Even the turtle doves secretly in love in the sticky linden wake In the still chill of the lambent dawn recalling halcyon days The broods they raised gone to roost beyond the wooded lake In wild terrain where the socialist sickle cut no customary hay Where they told and re-told without halter nor sapping fervour Their simple untrammeled joys hopping about fluttering insects Over over-grown wild scrub lawns fooling around a grass-hopper Now old cockle-warming tales turn rumble-grumble no one forgets The short aptly-rhymed refrain rolling rough on gravel stone The close-cooing couples’ complaint toss through sleep frantic The first leaves shed wilt down quilt shafts mementoes of bone Brittle the worrisome air burnt oxygen neurotic cataclysmic The Yin steal back in the witching hour of the frenzied night Lèches-culs lèches-bottes and their official vaunting supporters To hoist their flag still stewing in their murky muddy might Roasted chestnut to their undies charred looks of brazen looters Three months from June to hoist and foist their haunches Now to stomp deep in the silt of their care-may-the-devil guilt Rude thick the arteries pump up autoroutes to citadel ranches To continue to suck the sap from a world other sweat built The refuge of the kind who never seek to otherwise mind If turtle doves too may make the most of what they built Through the North and North-East passage of log-ice grind Into the region of Southwest complaisance tomorrow may find II The first signs reek tell-tale Buffer-to-buffer parking lots choc-a-bloc Long insistent hornblowing concertos announce the Yin’s arrogant blazè uppitiness Electric drillers sink deeper into the unconscious stirring unconscionable beasts still dormant Care-may-the-devil youths ride sputtering broncos rearing their muzzles revving their lawn-mower engines signaling their presences to their belles Even lordly crows scare desert languishing lawns pavements quadrangles Chinese crackers drop on the old and weary out to retrieve their morning baguettes Indoors slam the doors drop loads of toilet slam-a-dam-slam Skateboards grind parquets Dark stealthy hands whip carpets down terrace butter-cups Bumpy pubertied girls bounce basket-balls on every stilted cobble stone Harsh threats hurled by gardiennes on some lone defenceless decrepit ricochet between grainy gravely walls The monotonous neurotic beat of the rapper blares out of some open car door Stately high wooden horse-shoed chairs screech-scrape naked parquets The children upstairs take turns with parents to tap-tap with iron tongs your scalp trepanised by stilettoes Lèche-culs gather favourite crowds at your doorstep to wail their concocted woes Mothers dragging loads of holiday-gossip on steel-grip chariots scream at children they enroll for the new-born kinder-garten year Overhead cargo planes and pompier helicopters tie clouds in whirls of hurricanes The Mairie sends forth its armada of grass-cutters branch-lobbers road-washers to churn the cité in a putrefying maelstrom of carbon-monoxide Interminable garbage chariots bring lone scavengers looking for the mislaid meal their gastric growls louder than the grating wheels up and down the basement climb Heavy metal garbage vans pound kitchen utensils discarded car parts used-up batteries spades paint tubs sloppy almeirahs in the still darkened dawn Upstairs thick-skinned villains drop heavy spilling metal ball-bearings metal boxes their nasty bottoms on uncarpeted wooden resounding terrain Bulky chunky women stomp on high-heeled blocks all their way out of the entrance foyer down stoney stair steps to catch the early Metro No less than four-hundred sore throats yell into the intercom on their way in or out Late night revellers arrive in hitch-hiked cars to continue the yelling over the night-club din at the entrance patio never failing to rap on the first door Distraught women yell their chagrin into mobile cases out in the midnight moonshine Tiny tods drag school books paraphernalia through tarmac landing craft rumble The lèche-cul terrors draw tight round their scents conspirators from far Slavic lands Who said the Mediterranean didn’t flow into the Black Sea Even the thunder over the lake recedes into the rear of the ear At the Carrefour cashiers’ the queues thicken and stink longer (continued on next page: Part Two of XXXV) © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
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