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Best Famous Marcel Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Marcel poems. This is a select list of the best famous Marcel poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Marcel poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of marcel poems.

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Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

With Tenure

 If Ezra Pound were alive today
 (and he is)
he'd be teaching
at a small college in the Pacific Northwest
and attending the annual convention
of writing instructors in St.
Louis and railing against tenure, saying tenure is a ladder whose rungs slip out from under the scholar as he climbs upwards to empty heaven by the angels abandoned for tenure killeth the spirit (with tenure no man becomes master) Texts are unwritten with tenure, under the microscope, sous rature it turneth the scholar into a drone decayeth the pipe in his jacket's breast pocket.
Hamlet was not written with tenure, nor were written Schubert's lieder nor Manet's Olympia painted with tenure.
No man of genius rises by tenure Nor woman (I see you smile).
Picasso came not by tenure nor Charlie Parker; Came not by tenure Wallace Stevens Not by tenure Marcel Proust Nor Turner by tenure With tenure hath only the mediocre a sinecure unto death.
Unto death, I say! WITH TENURE Nature is constipated the sap doesn't flow With tenure the classroom is empty et in academia ego the ketchup is stuck inside the bottle the letter goes unanswered the bell doesn't ring.


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Fleurette

 (The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

My leg? It's off at the knee.
Do I miss it? Well, some.
You see I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn.
(I rather chuckle with glee To think how I've fooled that corn.
) But I'll hobble around all right.
It isn't that, it's my face.
Oh I know I'm a hideous sight, Hardly a thing in place; Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
Nurse won't give me a glass, But I see the folks as they pass Shudder and turn away; Turn away in distress .
.
.
Mirror enough, I guess.
I'm gay! You bet I AM gay; But I wasn't a while ago.
If you'd seen me even to-day, The darndest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine, So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall -- in fine, Wishing that I was dead.
.
.
.
What has happened since then, Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men? Listen! I'll tell you all.
That poilu across the way, With the shrapnel wound in his head, Has a sister: she came to-day To sit awhile by his bed.
All morning I heard him fret: "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?" Then sudden, a joyous cry; The tripping of little feet, The softest, tenderest sigh, A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell, Fresh as the morning dews: "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!" So over the blanket's rim I raised my terrible face, And I saw -- how I envied him! A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love; As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove; Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.
Then I turned to the wall again.
(I was awfully blue, you see), And I thought with a bitter pain: "Such visions are not for me.
" So there like a log I lay, All hidden, I thought, from view, When sudden I heard her say: "Ah! Who is that malheureux?" Then briefly I heard him tell (However he came to know) How I'd smothered a bomb that fell Into the trench, and so None of my men were hit, Though it busted me up a bit.
Well, I didn't quiver an eye, And he chattered and there she sat; And I fancied I heard her sigh -- But I wouldn't just swear to that.
And maybe she wasn't so bright, Though she talked in a merry strain, And I closed my eyes ever so tight, Yet I saw her ever so plain: Her dear little tilted nose, Her delicate, dimpled chin, Her mouth like a budding rose, And the glistening pearls within; Her eyes like the violet: Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.
And at last when she rose to go, The light was a little dim, And I ventured to peep, and so I saw her, graceful and slim, And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh How I envied and envied him! So when she was gone I said In rather a dreary voice To him of the opposite bed: "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! But me, I'm a thing of dread.
For me nevermore the bliss, The thrill of a woman's kiss.
" Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, And a great light shone in her eyes; And me! I could only stare, I was taken so by surprise, When gently she bent her head: "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.
Then she kissed my burning lips With her mouth like a scented flower, And I thrilled to the finger-tips, And I hadn't even the power To say: "God bless you, dear!" And I felt such a precious tear Fall on my withered cheek, And darn it! I couldn't speak.
And so she went sadly away, And I knew that my eyes were wet.
Ah, not to my dying day Will I forget, forget! Can you wonder now I am gay? God bless her, that little Fleurette!
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Tournesol

 La voyageuse qui traverse les Halles à la tombée de l'été
Marchait sur la pointe des pieds
Le désespoir roulait au ciel ses grands arums si beaux
Et dans le sac à main il y avait mon rêve ce flacon de sels
Que seule a respiré la marraine de Dieu
Les torpeurs se déployaient comme la buée
Au Chien qui fume
Ou venaient d'entrer le pour et le contre
La jeune femme ne pouvait être vue d'eux que mal et de biais
Avais-je affaire à l'ambassadrice du salpêtre
Ou de la courbe blanche sur fond noir que nous appelons pensée
Les lampions prenaient feu lentement dans les marronniers
La dame sans ombre s'agenouilla sur le Pont-au-Change
Rue Git-le-Coeur les timbres n'étaient plus les mêmes
Les promesses de nuits étaient enfin tenues
Les pigeons voyageurs les baisers de secours
Se joignaient aux seins de la belle inconnue
Dardés sous le crêpe des significations parfaites
Une ferme prospérait en plein Paris
Et ses fenêtres donnaient sur la voie lactée
Mais personne ne l'habitait encore à cause des survenants
Des survenants qu'on sait plus devoués que les revenants
Les uns comme cette femme ont l'air de nager
Et dans l'amour il entre un peu de leur substance
Elle les interiorise
Je ne suis le jouet d'aucune puissance sensorielle
Et pourtant le grillon qui chantait dans les cheveux de cendres
Un soir près de la statue d'Etienne Marcel
M'a jeté un coup d'oeil d'intelligence
a-t-il dit passe
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

LEscargot DOr

 O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
Ten sous have I, so I'll regale;
Ten sous your amber brew to sip
(Eight for the bock and two the tip),
And so I'll sit the evening long,
And smoke my pipe and watch the throng,
The giddy crowd that drains and drinks,
I'll watch it quiet as a sphinx;
And who among them all shall buy
For ten poor sous such joy as I?
As I who, snugly tucked away,
Look on it all as on a play,
A frolic scene of love and fun,
To please an audience of One.
O Tavern of the Golden Snail! You've stuff indeed for many a tale.
All eyes, all ears, I nothing miss: Two lovers lean to clasp and kiss; The merry students sing and shout, The nimble garcons dart about; Lo! here come Mimi and Musette With: "S'il vous plait, une cigarette?" Marcel and Rudolf, Shaunard too, Behold the old rapscallion crew, With flowing tie and shaggy head .
.
.
Who says Bohemia is dead? Oh shades of Murger! prank and clown, And I will watch and write it down.
O Tavern of the Golden Snail! What crackling throats have gulped your ale! What sons of Fame from far and near Have glowed and mellowed in your cheer! Within this corner where I sit Banville and Coppée clashed their wit; And hither too, to dream and drain, And drown despair, came poor Verlaine.
Here Wilde would talk and Synge would muse, Maybe like me with just ten sous.
Ah! one is lucky, is one not? With ghosts so rare to drain a pot! So may your custom never fail, O Tavern of the Golden Snail!

Book: Shattered Sighs