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Best French Poems

Below are the all-time best French poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of French poems written by PoetrySoup members

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French Fry by Water, Diet
Empathy French by lanus, trish
Note from a Failed French Hornist by Anish, Matthew
Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe by Wignesan, T
French bistros by Salzano, Julieta
Incident at the French Open by bauer, ilene
French Fries by Ellison, Jack
French Fry With An Attitude by Jones, Cynthia
The Challenge Of Eating French Onion Soup by Hinshaw, Robert L.

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The Best French Poems

Details | French Poem | |

Paris in Turmoil

held the
hand of a 
stranger lying 
face down with flying
bullets spraying the room, 
killing, striking so many
innocents frozen in terror.
As I fled I realized she was 
dead from terrorist's merciless melee.

© Connie Marcum Wong

Note: I wrote this about a recent story on the news that 
touched me deeply. I am praying for all those who are suffering.

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong

More great poems below...

Details | French Poem | |

Pray For Paris

I’m all shocked and confused
after watching the news
hostages, bombings and shoot-
ings, this is really too much
I can’t do much
so my mission
is to pray for all the victims
their families and the millions
of French people all over the world

Copyright © Elis Artis

Details | French Poem | |

Passage du temps

I sit on a chair
The chair is by the table
The table is against the wall
On the wall is a clock
The clock goes tic toc
As surely as time passes
I, do not move
The chair does not move
The table does not move
The wall just stands there holding up the clock
A bookcase on the other side of life, there full of knowledge
Useless in the antiquity of stagnation
As we are all one, object and man
Not one of us moving
Except for the clock
Tic toc

Passage du temps
Le bruit du silence
Noyade dans la tranquillité
En solo
Parmi tous mes livres
Mort chante à mon oreille

Copyright © arthur vaso

Details | French Poem | |

Terror in France

A terrorist attack in France – 
We know just how they feel.
To hear about it somehow seems
Both awful and surreal.

It took a long, long time to put
Our own attacks behind us
And now the news from Paris
Is a harsh way to remind us.

The city is on high alert;
Let’s hope it’s calm tomorrow.
For now, we must extend our hearts
To Frenchmen in their sorrow.

Copyright © ilene bauer

Details | French Poem | |

Long Live Peace

Another night, where we young live life
An act of war on the happiness we strive
The Paris streets again where blood is spilled of the innocent
An act of war against humanity and religion be their hide
Don't give us all your bullshit of the policies you hate
Don't give us all the bullshit of the Islamic State
You don't discriminate against any creed or fucking faith
You'll never bring us down for peace is where we play

Peace is where we still play
Peace is where we still stay
How many lives you take
You'll never see us break
Peace is where we still play

Long live France

Copyright © Si Villan

Details | French Poem | |


Jude Kyrie

I remember the first time I met her
It was at the orphanage.
I was going through rehabilitation
after running away for what
turned out to be last of many times
I was a lifer.
Who wants to adopts fourteen
year old boys?
Apparently no one.

She was assigned as my counselor
I don't think I have
ever seen anyone as beautiful as her.
That lovely angelic face.
Oh! her smile,
it was like sunshine.
Unsure of how to address a Nun
I always called her Ma’am.
She did not seem to mind
Her heart was full of kindness
I was hooked.

I think that was when I realized
she was the only friend I had.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with her.
That confusing rite of passage
from Boyhood to Manhood
left me dazed and confused.
Or perhaps I just needed
someone to love.

I have never seen
as much kindness
before or since.
It flowed from her
like honey.

She stopped me
from running away again,
and taught me
how to read books
great books
by important authors.

To learn poetry
and to talk about
its meaning.
At this point I knew
for sure I loved her.
She took me to
the mission where
the homeless lived
and we served
in the free kitchen.
I would have followed
her to the moon
or anywhere.

She was relocated
after a couple of years.
To a mission in Africa.
I was desolate
Begging to go with her.
I even asked her to marry me.
She smiled and said
if she was free
she would marry me
in a heartbeat.

But she explained gently
to my young heart
that she was already
married to her faith.
Showing me her gold ring.
She whispered see
I am a bride of Christ.

She died a few years later
her letters stopped coming
It was a bout of malaria
that took her.

Now when I feel
alone or sad.
I open an old shoe box
that I kept from
the orphanage
And I re-read her
stacks of letters.

one by one.
Always in the order
that she sent them to me.
And as usual
I feel warm and safe again.

Copyright © Jude Kyrie

Details | French Poem | |

A Clock Face

a clock face of stone
and by it a Marianne -
worldly-wise, her eyes


1) There is such a clock
in the rue Rivals, 
Toulouse, France.

2) The Marianne
is the symbol of France.

Copyright © Julia Ward

Details | French Poem | |

Villanelle: What do you do if the Culprit's the Country

Villanelle: What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country

What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country
Will the Head of State turn against the Police
Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal* tree

Which country faults on its own territory
When It cracks down citizens or migrant mice
What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country

Take the oath if it bolsters the Enemy
No pious paean will wash sins away, please
Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree

Your life’s not yours to take if not for Patrie*
Ribbons and medals on chest consecrate vice*
What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country

O! for the belles bells tolling the reverie
Look! My Country’s crown towers above cloud’s fleece
Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree

No country’s worth the life of one family
If the force that protects corrupts the Police
What do you do if the Culprit’s the Country
Go hang yourself on the nearest pipal tree

•	pipal: since the pipal tree has no prop roots, at least,
in death you can serve to prop it up

•	Patrie: French for Mother Country
•	vice: French pronunciation, please!

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2015  

Copyright © T Wignesan

Details | French Poem | |

Candles Burn In Memory

~ With thoughts of those who died by the hands of evil ~

                      candles will burn bright

              when we feed their fragile flames

                      with God's healing fire

Copyright © Lin Lane

Details | French Poem | |

Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe

Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
     Dedicated to the great French actor, Off Course!

French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Must you invite high breeds to the Hebrides
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!

Starved Loch Ness Monster kept well out of view
For this Gourmet eats even monster breeds
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe

Medieval monarchs gulped innerns – rest threw
To the serfs lords ladies dogs and hybrids
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!

French Gourmand let Scots talk their tartans through
Venison loins he carved out for his needs
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe

Goths Visigoths Vikings Normans or Dieu*
Falstaff nose and paunch hide much actor’s deeds
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!

Eiffel Tower Louvre Versailles nothing new
Mountain Man kept apart Scylla Charibdis
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!

•	Dieu: God, but French pronunciation, please!
He might take exception.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2015

Copyright © T Wignesan

Details | French Poem | |

Why France

France gave America the Statue of Liberty,
In 1865, from Edouard de Laboulaya, his act;
It begot Joan of Arc who insisted that,
Nationality bet religion as a matter of fact.

The Free French were renown in WW II, 
For an innate determination which alit,
The will of those sinking around them,
For the democratic heart that was split.

It produced Thomas Piketty with his book Capital,
Which called for a global tax of all richer states,
To redistribute income for egalitarianism,
For freedom and for the poverty liberation straits.
The death of Jihadi John set it all off,
As he was the symbol of the Islamic State,
Most definitely and without reservations,
He was the one with the credal slate. 

But France today has an interventionist policy,
In Syria, and is the most vocal nation of all,
Insisting that President Assad needs to go,
To enable free democracy to stand tall.

In 2010 Qatar, an Arab state with oil and gas,
Won the bid to host the 2022 FIFA World Cup;
When a UK government employee questioned this,
In November 2014, he caused a very real hiccup.

France was said to have validated Qatar,
To chief Sepp Blatter who was eventually removed;
I can’t dismiss that Qatar would have reciprocated,
With gifts of money for the French to be proved.

With some of Qatar’s money, flowing and free,
France would’ve strengthened its foreign policy,
Doubled its presence in Syria, or even tripled it,
With the USA and others following likewise - oui.

So the French people’s ability to fight ISIS,
Is important to Syrian Islamists who are fully aware,
That the size of an army determines its success,
Thus Qatar’s allegiances are ISILs concern to beware.

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan

Details | French Poem | |

Shadowed Heart

The sun went down on yesterday.
When evil had it's horrid way.
A new day dawn's around the world.
As a bloody flag has been unfurled.

Somehow our joy is not the same.
A little dimmer burns the flame.
We carry on and do our part.
But we're reminded with a shadowed heart.

Jesus said there would be trouble.
That no one lives inside a bubble.
But how many lesson's must be taught?
To learn that action is not a thought.

As we go on and live our lives.
And simple pleasure still survives
As we are left to now restart.
The past is cast in our shadowed heart.

Prayers, peace and hope for Paris and this world. Amen

Copyright © robert johnson

Details | French Poem | |


Humanity grieves with Paris, comforting her with sympathetic eyes;
the brutal attacks of November have reunited the City of Lights:
pictures, flowers and candles can attest!
Let the strongest ones seek revenge, and capture the fleeing coward;
always pray for freedom, pray for world peace and feel so empowered: 
sing your Anthem, put your anger to rest!

Copyright © Andrew Crisci

Details | French Poem | |

Black Friday in Paris

Black Friday is hovering over the wet alleys of Paris
Scratching its nails against the brick walls, holding in grimes
With his every breath, dies a red tulip on the pregnant terrace
Lovers shiver in their empty rooms, chocking on  the echoes of innocents’ shrieks
Terror screams and birds scatter into the suffocating air above
Their feathers still wet, dipped in the blood 
Pebbles shake as Fear steps on them, having a grin on his face
Rain can’t even wash what has marked peoples’ grieving hearts
The best Wine is now spoiled where music is standing still in the air
The hands of agony are digging the grounds of despair
I pray for Paris and for the great light to shine
For courage and love to be resurrected at once
I pray that His light will shine and overcome the terror
He is the true conqueror and the world’s only savior
He will come riding on the clouds, shushing the terror, making it crawl
He will restore love and will lay down peace
People of Paris will smile and listen to His tender music!
Lovers will fill the alleys once excruciatingly dark
They whisper I love you, beholding the Eiffel right at dusk

 November 16, 2015

Copyright © Rahy Hy

Details | French Poem | |

Darkness follows

In the dark of night
All falls silent.

The screams of the day, gone away
As the light becomes dark
Shielding us from the storm before

Faces go bleak,
The blood hardly seen

Children hold on to their mothers,
Mothers hold on to their lovers.
A world in pain, just floating away…

Midnight brings the calm,
As we’ll try to forget about the fall

The ones who’ve left us,
The one’s who hurt us.
Gone away, 
With the shadows of the day

Copyright © Amber Chafer

Details | French Poem | |

Whores of La Rive Gauche

      THE WHORES OF La Rive Gauche
To talk of love, in such a time as now
is letting loose the devil in his day
for what is love is what life will allow
in search of feeling good in any way;

in sweet temptation of the heart and mind
we jump into what love has come to mean
then wrap our lives in what there is to find
and swear that it's the best there's ever been;

too late, discovery makes our hearts to see
we've let our beds to whores who want to stay,
and love, the joke, has layed so casually
where we have slept the night, and thru the day;

it's easy to be here in loves embrace
and so we never look love in the face.
© ron wilson arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa

Details | French Poem | |

The Way Of The Wood Pusher

There's a game known as Chess that I learned as a lad
But in spite of the passage of time I'm still bad.
I can not see ahead seven moves like some do;
If you say, "Bobby Fischer" I'll just come back with, "Who?"

I speak French when I must, as in terms like, "J'adoube,"
But it's all a charade, for I think like a boob.
I don't know who invented this mind-wasting sport,
But I'm sure many law books would deem it a tort.

You can find "Chess For Dummies" on shelves in bookstores,
And I once tried to read it, eliciting snores.
See, I'm trapped in the middle, 'twixt Firsties and Plebes;
It is called Mediocre, and it ranks me with Dweebs.

But this thing's got me hooked; I just can't walk away;
It's a weird fascination that's always in play.
I don't care if you trounce me in ten moves or less
When I trot out my Queen in a desperate press.

My intent is to smash you like ANVIL on bone,
But it's not very often that I'm in the zone.
And I have other schemes that I'm willing to try;
GARIBALDI's the Gambit that might make you cry.

When I'm lazy I mimic your opening game;
MIRROR MOVES, my descriptive, alliterative name.
Metaphors just delight me as labels for ploys
To deprive my opponents of all of their joys.

If I were only equally good with my men
I could teach all of you a sore lesson, and then
I would not have to channel my fear of defeat
Into tirades like these that sound like a goat's bleat.

Copyright © Roderick Molasar

Details | French Poem | |


All evening fog is settled from the ground,
not right in where it goes, nor where it's found;
the Seine makes distance to each barren tree
unmeasured from the mind to what should be,
and blended to the world that's all around.

And from the limestone walls, echos the tap
of femininity, in evening wrap;
she's hurried, lest the night finds her alone
and vulnerable to legends she has known;
yet she's desirous of what couldn't hap.

The corner street lamps lend their halo'd light
grotesque in their own way, as if they might
leap out of time and drag her by the throat
and cast her down into a timeless moat,
where she would die alone 'for ends this night.

She clutches to her breasts, where minds go mad,
as if it's all the love they've ever had,
but she will cry all night, when she's alone
into the pillow love has never known,
and that's what makes her tale so very sad.

Her plea's for love, that doesn't have to end,
like only dreamers deem to comprehend,
but all she finds are bodies falling on
what she has sold from evening to the dawn,
and not a one could be even a friend.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa

Details | French Poem | |


You touch the light that no one sees
and see winds whisper through the trees
deep in the night you think on these
few things, but everywhere.

You curse at life, the constant bore
but give it all you have and more
you're right on time but ask what for
when no one else is there?

You see the faces never shown
and bare the soul no one has known
but what you find are hearts of stone
who ask how could you dare?

You look too deep where no one goes
to feel the pain that on one shows
you know all things all Paris knows
when no one else would care.

You see each rain drop to the ground
and all night long you hear each sound
of mystery of what you've found
and hold them close and dear.

But you must hide these secrets of
what life's about, the pain, the love
and no one wants what's really there
though free--and everywhere.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa

Details | French Poem | |

My Parisienne Girl

You will be the forest and the trees
every leaf that whispers in the breeze
and be one of those who always sees.
You will understand.

You will be the whisper of the wind
and become part of your only friend
singing songs that never have an end
you will understand.

In the night you'll be the shining star
my love is there and always where you are
becoming all you've known in life before
you will understand.

You will be always, eternity
from where you have come and have to be
and you'll be in love, and that is me
you will understand.

You will be all things you'll ever do
and all I want, is all the you of you
yes ev'ry breath of life already planned
you will understand.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa

Details | French Poem | |


Jean and I share
The same vision
The same king.
I don't know if old age
Or a family will be granted me,
Or if my heart will pour out on the ground
In the great clash
Which will soon be upon us once again.

Copyright © Dean Marais