Best France Poems
This is my humble tribute to our dear Soup member Constance La France, using some of her poem titles. This is, again, inspired by the "Title Wave" contest that was sponsored by our Soup member Richard Lamoureux last year. Thank you Richard Lamoureux for the inspiration and thank you dear Constance for the wonderful titles in pages and pages of poems you had contributed to Soup and I enjoyed writing this. I wish that I/we find time to read more of the beautiful inspiring poems of Constance, that she has contributed to Soup. (Below, the titles I have used for this tribute for Constance are in quotes. I have not capitalized the words within the titles as they were.)
"In my dreamy spring garden",
I often hear the "melody of dawn".
"The birds call me" as they know
how much I revel in listening to their songs.
When I close my eyes, at times, I hear
"the fluttering feather" of birds and I feel
they wish to chit-chat with me.
"Wandering in nature" in my dreamy garden
"where memories linger"
I see the "sunrise, gold and yellow":
a "breathtaking" view indeed.
"In meadows of sun", I see
a beautiful "hummingbird"
rapidly "fluttering" his translucent wings
"oh! sweet hummer".
As "the beauty of birds" enthrall me,
in a sweet corner of a tree branch,
two "birds in love" were preening each other
"oh! happy spring".
The fine "tapestry of nature"
as seen in my enchanting garden
invites all kinds of birds
with bright colourful "feathers".
My garden is a safe haven for birds
"where the bluebirds sing".
My soul is soothed by the sweet song of "nightingale".
"A bird of green is singing",
Aw! what a melody -
"Oh, the echo of birds chirping" and
the warble of "the bird vireo"
bring harmony here to stay:
"A gang of sparrows"
are seen "flying in the sky"
"oh! how heavenly"
now, "I would like to fly away", along with them!
Date: 01/17/2022
We’re monopolized by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
absorbed by the clutter of the food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom, uncomfortably numb.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls, few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting small bottles of vin de table,
butter buns.
As the aircraft plummets
and drops like a stone to certain death
we’ll still be struggling with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers, with small, molded cruets
oblivious now to anything less important.
My France, My France
How I weep for you
these tears are not of joy,
for you have let the enemy in,
they brought disaster to your shores.
My France, My France
How I weep for you
The pain you must endure.
For all those dead have,
come to you under burdening
skies.
My France, My France
How I weep for you
Who has put you through this Hell?
It has no face,
I cannot tell,
It's here in space,
the Dawning was its place.
My France, My France
How I weep for you
Your skies have turn to Black
The Peace and Security you seek,
has now suddenly turned its back.
My France, My France
How I weep for you
My tears are not of joy
I pray for you,
my heart opens too.
You may find Peace within.
When your dead are buried and
your revenge has its reward
Come together
Powers of Faith
Come together
Almighty hand and rest upon us
from this mighty land.
Give us your Peace.
We ask thee now
Give us your Peace
We ask how?
My France, My France
How I weep for you
In time of trouble,
what is it can you do?
Your borders closed
turmoil enclosed
The sadness fills the air.
For Peace is fleeting,
The enemy has come there.
Your golden arch is dim.
Your Eiffel black with sin
The City of Lights
are in the shadows for his mighty
hand has struck.
Peace you may ask,
Revenge your reward.
My France, My France
How I weep for you
For can we say, no more, no more.
When Toby removed to Paree
The people all called him Tobee.
“That’s not me,” he’d plead,
Then finally concede
To be, not to be not, Tobee.
Paris Down Under
I heard the thunder
all the kangaroos hid
children screamed in fear
the witch, her brew asunder
I calmed the innocent
peace is within my sphere
I danced with a Wolfe
Birds took a glance at philosophy
A druid mumbles
give peace a chance
I swallowed a lemon
said are crazy Sheilas in sanity?
Life full of questions
answers fly in the wind
just remember these wise words
ignore the ugly echo's
of skeletons in the wind
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
Café Terrace in Arles, France
Beneath stars of heavenly grandeur,
In a café, romance prospects dwell brighter.
Patrons’ entertaining escapades of camaraderie
Charismatically whisper away the evening.
Visible under the illuminating gas lantern
Of sulphurous yellow, revealing customers
Who say, “S'il vous plaît” to the French waiter
As passersby stare at empty tables.
At the street’s end is seen a church spiral rise,
And in-between the buildings’ windows of light,
Over the cobblestones, the calèche chatters
As people yield to the horse-drawn carriage.
Une nuit d'été de bonjours et d'au revoirs
(A summer night of hellos and goodbyes)
On Place du Forum in Arles, France.
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Note:
“Café Terrace in Arles, France” is an ekphrastic poem describing the painting “Café Terrace at Night” (1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890).
Hungry in France
Garçon, garçon
bring hot soupçon
bouillabaisse accent egu.
Qu'est-ce que c’est, qu’est-ce que c’est?
Sounds like I’m un peu coucou.
Sacrebleu, Sacrebleu
what can I do?
In French all I learned to say
was frère Jacques frère Jacques
and café au lait, olay!
Starving; I am starving;
I’m hungry as a hog
still snails will never touch my tongue
nor the legs of a frog.
Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
May 24, 2012
For Cyndi's "Un deux trois"
Ignore it if you want - I just couldn't get the poetry form down.i
“Contemplation of self” is an “Art and Love”
“water is life” and a “a walk in nature”
“Without you” i’m “Broken Hearted”
“I Can Be That Child Again”to enjoy my “quietus”
“without you” “The Pen in My Hand” prevaricates
“Essays on Eternal Pages” until “a door opens”
“changing and shifting” towards a “delicate memory”
“He Gave Her A Book” “live in a breath”
“beyond my window” “Love” “recesses of my mind”
“whispering wind” and “emerald caress”
restores my mood and reinvigorate my rind
“We See What We to Want See’ like “snow kisses”
“Peace, Love, Hope and Joy” and “roses red”
“A Bridge Called Forgiveness” and “Parakeets, I
Have Loved”
“A Silent Girl” and a “SUNFLOWER”
“This Heart of Mine” is in a “dream”
Note:
This is a statement of praise, inspired by the work of poetess Rama, and is made to honor Constance la France, the wonderful poetess, who is always ready to offer support, explain problems, and help others. I appreciate her poetry and eloquent expressions as well, and her posts do a lot to brighten my day.
The entire poem is built around Ms Constance's long list of titles, with only a few words added to present it as a poem in its entirety.
Written: June 18, 2021
Title Wave Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
They Riot.
They revel in frank spotlight,
getting drunk in a boozy blitz.
You can find them wrapped in the lush covers of pure linen on Sunday mornings,
their madness of headaches and chills covering their aching bodies as they skip the early mass.
They’re boys that play the cards of life,
gambling away any sane they have left.
If you’re a witness they’ll slip you a hundred,
and tell you to keep your champagne soaked, honey dripping lips shut.
While they sip
and throw away money,
and write what no man could ever imagine.
their celestial smiles draw you in,
and their crumbling hearts refuse to love.
they count their vices before they go to sleep,
hoping with vile smirks for just one more.
Wicked souls and radiant faces,
That’s what everyone says.
their pockets are full of blooming green trees,
That’s what everyone says.
Glass chalices filled to the brim with molten bronze.
That’s what everyone says.
Ten boys who blush at the sight of glimmering gold,
and shiver at the mere thought of dripping crystals wrapped around their necks in the thousands.
Ten boys who Rip Ruins out of each others throats,
Kissing the face of death with blackberry wine stained teeth and magnolia projected breath.
their once simple minds soak up wretched knowledge like sponges in the mediterranean sea, fathers teaching sons to trip the dance that life plays on realing repeat.
He teaches them to love one lady only, her worth is enough to buy them the world itself.
Their silk pants stretch with inherited stacks of green dye stained paper,
rendering their useless hands guilty as they count them,
slip for slip.
Have they let their hands become rough from labor?
What a silly question one might ask, they’ve never worked a sunset in their lives.
They wish on their four lucky stars that daddy won’t go bankrupt,
His money is the only thing keeping them in their right insane minds.
They scratch at their skulls in pandemonium,
searching for an oasis inside their hellish, bourbon soaked tears.
Yet they find nothing.
Screaming nothing,
ripping at their shredded vocal chords.
Wanting out,
But being trained to only go so far.
Yet they can still catch the kite that flows so far,
They are,
Empty Nothing.
?
Ecclesiastes 3 King James Version (KJV)
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
Time passes as the lay of the land calls
the tread of the seekers and penitents.
The sun God Apollo reigned overall,
beauty, wisdom, healing bought him acclaim.
The land of Provence is full of the fruit of life,
a cornucopia of bounty grows in hallowed
valleys along the slopes of the Maritime Alps-
all which can grow, will grow here.
Centuries pass and the lay of the land calls,
cross the sea from Palestine comes Maximin
to the shores, with Magdalene through the squalls
in Larzarus’ boat. A small chapel, he begins.
Dedicated to the Holy Saviour (le Saint Sauveur)
Sainted Maximinus of Aix grew his flock.
Time passes as the lay of the land calls;
the Saracens invade, fell the chapel’s hall.
No war, or plague, stopped the rebuilding of walls.
St-Sauveur rose again a place of worship for all.
A thousand years and more have passed in this sacred space,
a thousand years of birth, and marriages and death.
A thousand years and more, still song rises as the
choir sings, the organ’s pipes sound a youthful swell.
*This is a French form called Descort which
calls for the use of more than two strophes
First Published by Mused: Bella Online
Walking down to cemetery
with their pretty chrysanthemums,
the people talk their way to graves.
They hang out, if they want, all day.
With their pretty chrysanthemums,
they do make a pleasant picture -
one for Selfies if they have brought
cell phones up to cemetery.
The people talk their way to graves,
but they don't have to be sad words.
A jolly time - convivial -
cemetery jaunt, if you will.
They hang out, if they want, all day,
and headstones will be polished clear.
Lovely backdrop for the flowers!
(My small survey of All Saints' Day.)
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10/13/2015
Contest - Shall We Retourne
Sponsor - Debbie Guzzi
A win
A little piece of France has passed
away
The heavens for sure now have some gall
with smiles and all
If you no longer exist, then neither do I
longing for times long ago
Your smile captured hearts and souls
when life was more simple
Now I drink le beau dommage
c'est la vie
Her heart and voice brought us innocence
chalice of wine now deplete
We mourn the loss of her song and charm
at graves side we still adorn
Paradise she rests dressed in white
singing
Notes:
beau dommage = happy sadness
c'est la vie = That is life
Vive La France - visual #4
Weeping
half staff – full heart
stiffened - resilient
proudly applauding freedoms voice
she speaks.
1/14/2015
For Andrea Dietrich – An American Beauty Poetry contest
(french)
Le Soleil se couche derriere les Eiffel
De la promenade J’admire
Une memoire pittoresque
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(english)
**Sun sets behind the Eiffel
From the boardwalk I adore
A picturesque memory
Haiku
Miranda Lambert
4/8/2011