Who would you like to have lunch with?
With Mylène Farmer, I think,
Love is important,
But less than a beautiful rondeau,
Who would you like to have lunch with?
You have to sleep alone at night
Or drink a good whiskey,
Should you think about friends?
With Mylène Farmer, I think,
Or this cousin Catherine,
His voice is a touching sapphire,
Love is important,
But less than a beautiful rondeau.
Avec qui aimeriez vous déjeuner ?
Avec Mylène Farmer, je crois,
C’est important l’amour,
Mais moins qu’un beau rondeau,
Avec qui aimeriez vous déjeuner ?
Faut il dormir seul la nuit
Ou boire un bon whisky,
Faut il penser à ses amis ?
Avec Mylène Farmer, je crois,
Ou cette cousine Catherine,
Sa voix est un touchant saphir,
C’est important l’amour,
Mais moins qu’un beau rondeau.
I don’t like cats, really,
They scare away birds, pretty ****,
The robin, the blackbird so smart,
They think only of eating weaker than them,
That to jump the balls of innocent wool,
My garden had a sweet music yesterday,
Today it is quieter than a grave,
Cats scare away, nice birds,
They don’t see much further than their pretty nose,
Oh the caresses they expect, what false money,
Turn your back; they devour all your friends.
Je n’aime pas les chats, vraiment,
Ils font fuir les oiseaux, les jolies mésanges,
Les rouges gorges, les merles si intelligents,
Ils ne pensent qu’à manger plus faibles qu’eux,
Qu’à sauter les pelotes de laine innocentes,
Mon jardin avait hier une douce musique,
Aujourd’hui il est plus silencieux qu’une tombe,
Les chats font fuir, les gentils oiseaux,
Ils ne voient pas beaucoup plus loin que leur joli nez,
Ah les caresses qu’ils attendent, quelle fausse monnaie,
Tournez le dos, ils dévorent tous vos amis.
Merry Christmas, my poet friends
Nicaraguans or Spanish
May God love you tomorrow,
That cats purr in front of the tree,
American or Iranian, Portuguese
That Santa drops off gifts
In your shoes or socks,
Make a good meal of foie gras
Grilled snails with parsley, oysters,
The world needs everyone,
Merry Christmas, my poet friends,
The world needs so much peace,
Write this word wherever you go.
Slip this word into Santa’s hood.
Joyeux Noël, mes amis poètes
Nicaraguayens ou espagnols
Que Dieu vous aime demain,
Que les chats ronronnent devant le sapin,
Américains ou iraniens, portugais
Que le père Noël dépose des cadeaux
Dans vos souliers ou chaussettes,
Faites un bon repas de foie gras
D’escargots grillés au persil, d’huitres,
Le monde a besoin de chacun,
Joyeux Noël, mes amis poètes,
Le monde a tant besoin de paix,
Écrivez ce mot partout où vous allez.
Glissez-le dans la hotte du père Noël
Ah, the birds,
Our faithful friends,
They know everything,
Your dear friends,
They Went away,
Oh birds,
Have understood it
Tell them
Your loves,
Your concerns,
Oh birds,
They welcome
At dawn,
Your loves,
Your cats, your dreams,
The birds
Know everything.
Ah, les oiseaux,
Nos fidèles amis,
Ils savent tout,
Vos chers amis
S’en sont allés,
Ah les oiseaux,
L’ont compris
Dites-leur
Vos amours,
Vos soucis,
Ah les oiseaux,
Ils accueillent
Le lever du jour,
Vos amours,
Vos chats, vos rêves,
Les oiseaux
Savent tout.
In the tapestry of time, where friendships bloom,
Mes amis, like petals, dispelling life's gloom.
Brothers, firm anchors in the sea of existence,
Une soeur agaçante, a tempest, a relentless insistence.
Parents, the roots, firmly grounding my being,
Leaves of wisdom, in the breeze, foreseeing.
Enemies, shadows that dance in the moonlit night,
Igniting the fire, propelling toward the light.
Obstacles, sculptors shaping destiny's mold,
Dans leur défi, a story to be told.
Life, un cadeau sacré, a gift from above,
Not a right to claim, but a testament of love.
In the symphony of struggle, where melodies intertwine,
Chutes et ascensions, a rhythm so divine.
Gratitude, a dance, through joy and despair,
Dans chaque souffle, God's presence in the air.
Number one on the list, au sommet, divine,
Grateful to Dieu, the source of the grand design.
In the dichotomy of good and bad, the ebb and the flow,
All glory to Lui alone, in the afterglow.
Of the people we hated,
We end up loving them,
I’m talking about movie actors
That I wouldn’t quote,
By Jacky Berroyer too,
I certainly don’t speak
Murderers, rapists,
I certainly don’t talk about it,
Thieves, dictators,
Bad guys, pedophiles,
No one likes them.
Of the people we loved,
We end up hating them,
I’m talking about some friends,
I’m talking about some actresses
Like Alice Taglioni,
May God forgive me!
PS Alice Taglioni and Jacky Berroyer are minor French actors
Des gens qu’on a haïs,
On finit par les aimer,
Je parle des acteurs de cinéma
Que je ne citerais pas,
De Jacky Berroyer aussi,
Je ne parle pas certes
Des assassins, des violeurs,
Je n’en parle pas certes,
Des voleurs, des dictateurs,
Des malfrats, des pédophiles,
Nul ne les aime..
Des gens qu’on a aimés,
On finit par les haïr,
Je parle de certains amis,
Je parle de certaines actrices
Comme Alice Taglioni,
Que Dieu me pardonne !
Where one goes to change one’s dull face,
Catching up try in the fun’s race:
Of sad worries leave no big trace;
See how he might quicken heart’s pace…
High Blood Pressure some kind of shark -
We all need an Amusement Park:
The best: a non-stop until dark
When ears start to pick a dog’s bark.
Musician for you with soft voice
But you could say “Actors” my choice.
The main thing: to often rejoice
With Dennis, Amis, Franca and Joyce…
Don’t be surprised: a spitting contest
By kids styling as Snakes for test,
Excused ‘The Dirty Game of Spitting
As part of spoiling them a little…
But mainly families spend cash,
Which gets sweeter as it gets rash
“Mummy, I need sweet lollipop.”
And Mummy their sellers would stop…
To the rest children like it more
And it use to their parents score:
A pair that shuns it an eyesore;
Would others join to say they’re pen…
You tell folks Amusement Park helps,
Warmer makes one from the Cold Alps…
Les bras du cœur sont grands ouvert
C'est le temps dit chanté
Venez en profiter
Lance-moi vos sourires
Je vais même vous faire rire
Notre destin est libre
Voilà, l'équilibre
Dieu protège et rejoint
Seigneur, je te retiens
Au fond de mon cœur
Où demeures
La profondeur
Merci Seigneur
La suprématie
Bonjour mes nouveaux amis
Avec grande amour
Joyeux Noël et bonne année
Faut toujours bien se rappeler
Notre sourire est précieux
Au bon Dieu
Réjouir
Des beaux souvenirs
Les liaisons
Parmi nos chansons
Chaque note
Nous emporte
J'admire
Vous faire rire
Bonne humour
À tous les jours
Passion d'amour
Chacun son tour
C'est bien Moi
J'ai confiance en soi
Venez mes nouveaux amis
J'ai les chaises sorties
Author Kingsley Amis
also gave poetry his literary kiss
Ever an enemy of pomposity
as in his light verse we see
A Collection of Sentiments
To the whole world:
I hope for thou and pray there’s still good left
Yet no matter how low my expectations go,
Thou still manage to disappoint me.
Sometimes I see a light out in the darkness,
But not long after,
It’s tainted.
To all my friends:
Thou art the reason I still hope for the world,
Despite the evidence of the abysmal.
A true friend is hard to come by,
And harder still to keep.
But the times we’ve had
Will be with me till the end.
Yet I love you all,
Friend or not,
Victory or failure,
Disappointment or satisfaction,
And I wish I had time enough in this world to know and understand
The way thou think
The way thou feel
And how thou see thyself
But alas,
I must go.
I am but adrift in this world,
For a tiny speck of time,
And my path is sundered from thine in one way or another,
And as such my eyes never see the workings of thy mind.
Not really.
And as such thou fall short of my lofty expectations,
And dreams are my only solace.
A Tout Le Monde,
A Tout Mes Amis,
Je Vous Aime.
Je Dois Partir.
If these are the last words I ever speak,
Then I’d be free
The Farmland
The mid-west of the USA flat plain many farmers
tilling rich soil; red barns under a blue sky.
The community thrived, cows and horses in the fields
the Amis people lived nearby in peace with God.
There was harmony here and whispering grass.
Agricultural – business moved in, bought up land
the farmers could not compete and sold out.
Empty barns, fading colours, falling into disrepair
No cows in the field, no horses or dogs
Silent despair of ruined homesteads hangs
In the bitter wind telling of failure.
This is the way we live the strongest always wins.
The other night as every
night since and before
My weary eye's drifted into
wonder sleep and i began
to snore
And then of 12 frog's i eventually dreamt
Belly down crawling stuck
on a concourse prison floor
And once awake i took the
time to look it's meaning
and definition up
And this is what i read
This it what it said
Rebirth
Transformation
Hope
Evolution
Positivity
Good luck
Yet somehow all i see is
prison bar's and the inside
of 4 wall's
On Cell Door Number 12
For i fear in reality i am a
lonesome tadpole trying
ever far to hard
To find a frog princess willing
enough to let me even near
let alone kiss them
As clearly somehow something
must obviously be amis way down
deep inside me
The nature of the leaves
praising thee
On this fine Sunday morn’
the church are we
Each one as we do our bit
in the sun
That shines through the pane
lighting our knees
Songs, like the breeze,
move us
To care for those who
join us
Barely a city or town between us
bon amis*
Our steepled hands, sealed eyes
aloft
Generosity of mind and spirit, toward
our God and fellow man
How warmly greets this third day of May
a peaceful quarantine
A quaint building at rest awaits
our crestal voices
The blessings of a room filled to
overflowing
Like a bride’s exorbitant train, pure
and angel white
The groom grinning ear to ear. Guests
dabbing their eyes
Shall we be as we arrive on
that jubilant day
The doors thrown open with prayer,
with praise
Favourite Novelists
Of all the American writers I knew of
some favourites remain, like Theodore Dreiser.
John Dos Passos, John Steinbeck and
Ernest Hemingway. I mentioning him the last,
although I admired his writing, still does
immensely, he was a master, like Dos Passos,
in short sentences, but I disliked his theme
often about hunting and shooting, personally
I think he was a big softy never killed
A thing in his life. These days if I read a novel
I rarely do – lack of patience- I prefer
the way John Steinbeck wrote.
I`m thinking of writers using the English
language, I find some English writer like
Martin Amis practically unreadable as he
appears to need to impress
readers with his erudition; in all should know I sit
down and read I would prefer an American
novelist
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.