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Long Paris Poems | Long Paris Poetry

Long Paris Poems. Below are the most popular long Paris by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paris poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Victoria Anderson-Throop | Details |

FRENCH GIRLS

                                                    FRENCH GIRLS  


                                                  Thru the eyes of an
                                                          innocent 
                                               17 yr old American Male

 

                                                   Midwestern American
                                                        Sweet naive
                                                   Raised in sheltered armed
                                                   Where twin beds blessed marriage
                                                   Where no good girl kisses---
                                                   Unless it's dark.

                                                   Young American
                                                   Adored in sheltered arms
                                                   Adorned usually in sweat suits...
                                                   Where demurely mini skirted knees touched--
                                                         &   Pouting cold lips occasionally smiled--

                                                   Where he
                                                   Secretly dreamed
                                                        of Red Sexed lingerie....

                                                         Young American
                                                         wrote long letters Home--
                                                         Said he loved Paris
                                                                  For the Eiffel
                                                                  For the Louvre
                                                                  For the Seine
                                                                  For the wine.

                                                         But 
                                                         He never left Paris---
                                                         For the Come Hither
                                                         Black laced panties
                                                         Barely hiding
                                                         Knowing smiles
                                                         led by
                                                         Whimsical strides in
                                                         Short tight skirts.


Victoria Anderson -Throop
rev written from poem of 2012


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

A reluctant Sayonara

« She must suffer to her last breath. (…) They’ll all soon be as Dead as 0-Ren Ishii. »
« That woman deserves her Revenge. And we deserve to die. »
From « Kill Bill Vol. 1 »

I

Two French girls in Paris
one aged thirteen
the other fourteen
together take wing.

The police bring them back home.

Then hand-in-hand they jump
from their seventeenth floor flat.

They leave behind a note :
« This life has nothing to offer.
What are we living for ? »

An Austrian socialist philosopher-journalist in Paris
in perfect physical health
lies down beside his terminally ailing English wife
never to wake again together
after bequeathing their papers and wealth
not to the Socialist Party
but to a Catholic charity.

He leaves behind a long love letter
his very last remember-me book.

 Till death does not do us part. 

A Stateless poet passes through Paris
with his Spanish putative spouse
and infant boy.
Paris casts a covetous eye on the mother.
She plans the poet’s murder
and maims her son for life.

The People’s protectors pressgang her
and daily pound the poet to pulp.

Vive ! la France ! Viva ! la Francia !

II

A lone coyote trumpets over the sakura strewn snow
A moanful flute tugs at nostalgic heartstrings
Meiko Kaji comes on with her plaintive lilt :

Urami yibushi
We’ve not long to go in this void

The still frozen air gasps through swishing slices
Spurting Strüwel-Peter blood and bones
cherry blossoms on the snow-clad parapet
struck down by the lethally-chilled sheen
of the Hattori Hanzo steel

To kill there need be no will
The will to kill resides in the sill
of the vengeful white of the eye

III

Even if we can’t stand it any longer, Lady
We’d rather not leave just yet in a hurry
Would we see the likes of this world again
Ever know what’s better than this domain

Unknown to us the slow melodious dirge
Tugs at us : stay yet a while, it whispers !

Who knows who’d be there to receive us
Yes, yes, stay yet a while, little lady !

Hum a sentimental ditty
Recall even a fated memory
Revive some moments of levity :
A friend a face an outing
A little tenderness
A tiny moment of harmony
Together in this wilderness

© T. Wignesan – Paris November 14 2007 (Rev. 2012)

From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©:  T. Wignesan – Paris November 14, 2007 (Rev. 2012)


Long poem by Ryan McCabe | Details |

Paris Of Plaster

Close your eyes, my Helene, and I'll take you
on the most romantic of all journeys,
where we'll flee somewhere that makes all previous beds
seem as mere hospital gurneys.
Ah, come closer, we'll ignore those dire warnings
of  the Weather Forecaster.
Mais non. Je dire, je sais, Non! C'est pas comme ca,
not our Springtime In Paris Of Plaster.

Free, we'll walk the tin-foil Champs D'Ellysie,
past vibrant green Rhubarb Cafes at night,
lit by crazed halos of teaspoon lamp-posts
setting the mood, je ne sais pas? Just right.
We'll pay homage as Wilde Morrison's grave,
fallen corroded tailpipes of respect,
see the flower off'rings, burnt graffiti,
insolently shrug with all due aspect.

Then, we'll follow the shag crimson carpet,
that most revered of all rivers, the Seine,
to get lost 'midst it's gentle, constant flow,
mais, marche pas trop longe avec cette moyen,
because we'll miss seeing Victor's Hugo
swinging atop the old Eiffel Tower,
His Miserables pull hard to ring them bells,
begging, scowling, a racket of power.

Let's storm our Bastille, the Janitor's door,
find freedom and bottles of white-wash bleach,
rid ourselves of this place, and become clean,
all that, and more, is still within reach.
Je t'aime plus que tous Doctors and Nurses,
we're not slaves to such over-done masters,
nes pas des mots pour ci nous comprendre,
let's discover our Paris Of Plaster.

Forget past promises, long since broken,
we'll run 'neath the Arce Du Triomphe's shadow,
it's passage, a short, conceded distance,
our ev'ry step will, of course, ring hollow.
We'll both embrace Redemption in callous crypts,
underground grottoes, those of short sips,
resurrected, we'll climb up to the streets,
breathing Paris Of Plaster past our lips.

Rains will come, melt all that is of worth,
a candy-cane taste of mist in our mouths,
the Weather Forecaster may chuckle in mirth,
not knowing our love's above his souths.
Our simple vacation's become a voyage,
coupled, we'll laugh as rains fall faster,
a l'atar du Notre Dame Puis Fromage,
we'll witness, pray in Paris Of Plaster.


Long poem by Carl Halling | Details |

Bouzingo: The Gathering of the Poets

The boy was aged about eighteen,
Pale and pensive, 
Weary and frail in appearance. 
He could have been 
Goethe's Werther, 
Senancour's Obermann 
Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero, 
Embraced by a generation, 
And about whom Sainte-Beuve said:
"Rene, c'est moi."
Tortured by a new mal du siecle, 
He sought refuge 
In the Club Bouzingo.
Two young poets, 
One dark, the other fair, 
Drifted past. The first, 
Whose black hair 
Hung in ringlets over his shoulders, 
Wore a small pointed beard, 
Black velvet tails, 
A white linen shirt 
Loosely fastened at the neck 
By a thin pink taffeta tie;
The second wore a tight coat 
That opened onto a silk crimson waistcoat 
And a lace jabot, white trousers 
With blue seams, 
And a wide-brimmed black hat, and 
In one of his hands 
He carried a long thin pink-coloured pipe.
They were soon joined 
By some of their dandified companions.
The music had stopped playing, and
The poet-leader in cape and gloves,
Dark and pomaded 
With a Theophile Gautier moustache, 
Took to the stage,
Where he proceeded to declaim 
Selections from his subversive verses
To delirious cheers, 
As if sedition was imminent;
Only the boy-poet remained silent, 
His pale cheeks
Soaked by the freshest tears.
"Apres nous, le deluge,"
He said under his breath,
"Our leader preaches revolution
But provides no solution
As to the fate of coming generations,
Should the infant be cast out 
With the bath water that is so filthy
In his sight
That, intent on doing right, 
Gives no thought to the future,
Nor to what might supplant
The society he claims to despise."
The boy was aged about eighteen
Pale and pensive 
Weary and frail in appearance. 
He could have been 
Goethe's Werther, 
Senancour's Obermann 
Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero, 
Embraced by a generation, 
And about whom Sainte-Beuve said:
"Rene, c'est moi."
Tortured by a new mal du siecle, 
He sought refuge 
From the Club Bouzingo.

(The origins of "Bouzingo: The Gathering of the Poets" lie in an unfinished tale, possibly dating from around 1979.)


Long poem by Carl Halling | Details |

Tales of a Paris Flaneur

Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple 
On the Metro
When I was still innocent 
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe 
In new blue denim, 
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau 
Stared straight through me 
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke 
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne 
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.
 
Being screamed at in Pigalle, 
And then howled at again 
By some kind of wild-eyed 
Drifter who told me to go 
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek 
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting soused in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
                                                                    
Cash squandered 
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush, 
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books 
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes 
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from 
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
                                                                    
Metro taken to Montparnasse, 
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
                                                                    
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!


Long poem by Peter LeBuhn | Details |

Premiere Passion (French)

 Première Passion(French)
   
 
  Consacré à Sabrina, la belle de Paris qui m'a enseigné ce qu'est l'amour Je 
vous ai rencontré au beau matin ensoleillé de Cafe de Margots A à Paris je... 
l'homme américain dans une terre étrangère vous... la belle de la terre. Nous 
takled et rai de la vie et vous aimons avons pris ma main et avons fait votre 
stand. 'rencontrez-moi à vous de L'Hotel D'Paris que ledit craintif j'a fait une 
pause mais mon coeur a indiqué oui. Je conviens. Les approches d'heure je 
porte les couleurs de votre veste bleue de pays, pantalon blanc, chemise rayée 
rouge. DÉFAUT DE LA REPRODUCTION SONORE! Mes battements de coeur 
comme je vous vois porter vos sundress de taffetas de turqoise. Nous devons 
diner chez L'Tour de Eiffel I vis un rêve que j'offre au salaire... elle exige qu'elle 
doit pour elle m'a demandée. Nous osons en bas des rues de Paris que nous 
embrassons dans une chute d'eau. Vous m'avez enseigné la signification de 
l'amour. La marche de concert... bras dans le bras approchant l'hôtel de 
l'égoutture de Paris whet monter à la salle déshabillant et se séchant outre 
passionément... simultanément de vous usage ma chemise de robe blanche de 
coton et une belle lanière rose mettant la belle musique française dessus. 
Sabrina... que vous dansez autour de moi me portez dans des vos bras cet 
homme dans une proie tombée étrangère de terre... à vos charmes. Nous 
faisons à amour toute la nuit à l'intérieur de chaque autres les corps de soie. Le 
matin vient des choses tôt pour faire... l'Arrangement d'études en avant que ceci 
peut se terminer 'Sabrina que je comprends si vous n'êtes pas ici quand je 
renvoie 'répondre rapidement 'non, aucun je serez ici je voulez être avec 
vous 'Sabrina, merci de vous m'ont enseigné que quel amour est vous m'avez 
enseigné ce qu'est l'amour. 

Peter B LeBuhn Copyright ©2006 Peter B. Lebuhn 

Peter LeBuhn 
 
 


Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details |

Parisienne Night

   MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - Parisienne Dream
Quite suddenly you've fallen through the seams
from very life, to stroll here by the Seine,
dropped from reality into my dreams
where you've loved me forever now and then.

You taste the fragrance of Parisienne night
and hear the distant singing all too clear,
it's just a dying nymph, in her delight,
one of the dead who knows her death is here.

Be as it may, your love tries not to speak,
as we enjoy the streetlamps' shadowings,
I press you to the stone and kiss your cheek,
and you can feel the sorrow midnight brings;

you echo words that concertina's say
only at night when love has lost her way.

My searching leads to parting of your hair,
as gentle hands reveal a neck too white,
and you can feel the pain, it lingers where;
I've set my teeth, and then you feel the bite,

and there I nurse, your suckling tiny child,
of blood and life, the nourishment I crave;
that keeps me seeking you, but drives me wild;
and makes me civilized, but mis-behave.

In your surprise, your feigning now and then,,
expecting sex; this is no mere foreplay;
you go beyond the limits of the Seine,
to yet another dream that will not stay.

Your struggle to reality is brief,
and you succomb into my time of grief.

The draining of your love into my own
is secondary to the love you take,
you'll fall from here, back to the life you've known
and that's the choice you have, it's yours to make;

you'll waken in the night and you'll forget;
safe in your bed, your pensione's gloom,
but on your neck, the trace of blood and sweat
leads you to feel each shadow of your room.

Remembering the locking of our eyes,
that made you cross the line into the dead,
will make you cry, but never realize,
that where you've been lies hidden in your head.

One day, you'll meet a boy I cannot be, 
but making love to him, you're making love to me.
© Ron Arbuthnot.


Long poem by Leo Larry Amadore | Details |

Gertrude -- Gertie -- Gertrude Stein

-- Re:  Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --

What would Gertrude.What Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what
thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse?Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister.  Positively looming;enormous in brown.Brown,in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice, quiet beside her.
Quiet; always, Alice.Alice always. And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude;Gertie to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de
Fleurus.Not at 27 After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo.But there was Alice.Alice
was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.Alice
next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein. Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice
always.And a great Gertrude.A great brown Gertrude.A leviathan. A passing ship; a
great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice, just Gertie.


Long poem by Just That Archaic Poet | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/why_cant_i_be_young,_rich_and_thin_511094' st_title='Why Can't I Be Young, Rich and Thin'>

Why Can't I Be Young, Rich and Thin

That answer to that is painfully simple: I’m a disabled, thirty-something individual with compromised mobility…and I’m a lazy S.O.B...

But, oh, how I fantasize! And loath am I to torture myself by looking at all the exquisite, fabulous fashion creations by Versace, Comme Des Garcons, Missoni and Vivienne Westwood; elegant creations I will never be able to wear, let alone afford. Though I enjoy being a man and would have it no other way, I envy women and sometimes wish I was one, just so I could wear a Versace gown, even if it were just to take out the trash.

I worship fashion and models; they are my demigods. They embody all that is outwardly beautiful. I don’t mind the shallowness of it. I wish I was Coco Rocha, Naomi Campbell, Janice Dickinson, Linda Evangelista, Tyra Banks, Milla Jovovich, all rolled into one. I wish I could strut and stomp the catwalk; to pound the runway in some outrageous creation by Rei Kawakubo. To jet-set to Paris, Milan, Tokyo, London…! I would die and go to fashion heaven, and see Gianni, and I would be his Muse. Poor, Gianni; why did that bastard kill you? Genius was lost that day and fashion has since suffered in your absence.

I wish I was as skillful with sewing as I am with words; since I’ll never be a model, I’d at least like to design clothes that would echo my influences. A mesh of the sex of Versace, the elegance of Missoni, the insane artistic destruction and anti-fashion of Comme des Garcons and the hipness of Vivienne Westwood; yes, that would be my style, as my poetry echoes Poe, Shelley, Keats and Dickinson. 

But, alas and alas again! For these are all but mere dreams and fantasies that shall never be fulfilled! But a gay boy can dream, can’t he?


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/paris,_translation_of_paul_verlaines_poem_paris_506902' st_title='Paris, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Paris'>

Paris, Translation of Paul Verlaine's poem: Paris

Paris, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : Paris

( For those who may be interested, this poem by Paul Verlaine presents more difficulties than his other rhymed quatrains I have read, but then this may only be a personal feeling. T. Wignesan)

Paris cannot lay claim to beauty but through its history,
But this history is by beauty all through possessed !
The river Seine lies so absurdly sheltered,
Yet its bright green hue all on its own deserves glory. 

Paris cannot be thought gay but by virtue of its chatter
Yet this loquaciousness, a teeming vulgar vice,
Springs from a throng of tongues in its voice,
Stirring this insipid linguistic stew into spicy banter.

Paris can hardly be considered wise but by the demure
Flux of its populace and its diverse factions,
Even if it can engender revolutions
It lies in ambush in the shade with its sense of Order.

Paris can boast not just with its charming Girl
Who has no need to envy those who’re Exotic
But for harmless wrongs and sins not quite endemic   
Such that they come to pass in a detached swirl.

Paris thus may be held to be good but for its flighty
Inebriation with lust and with pleasure,
Nothing much more than a flirtation with desire
Such pleasure as at the expense of a brother be duty.

Paris doesn’t display anything as sad and as cruel
As the poet we see by the year or at random
Dying of ennui under clinical surveillance
Not far from the old worker fraternal.

Long life to Paris, likewise for its history,
For its eloquence and its Girl, naïve
Products of an art both perverse and primitive
And die the poet purging himself by duty !

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013   


Long Poems