Best French Poems | Poetry
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
Search for French poems, articles about French poems, poetry blogs, or anything else French poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
See Also:
New French Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best French poems are below this new poems list.
french
by heavingham, colin
The Older Girl Sat in the Front of the French Cafe
by Acrich, Marc
French Food as Art
by Rigoler, Maurice
The French
by Rigoler, Maurice
French
by bauer, ilene
freddie mercury george michael lisa stansfield all connected to a french baker
by low, gate
Mom's French Ascent
by Pinet, Emile
French Revolution PARODY
by vaso, arthur
Fed German Strudel To French Poodle and More
by Horn, James
FABRIC FRENCH TERRY KNIT
by Loo, Laura
View all new French Poems
The Best French Poems
Details |
French Poem
|
Listen to poem:
t e t e
a l a l
s s s s
s s s s
l a l a
e t e t
IKNITTEDAWINTERSCARF
ALARGEINTRICATECASH
MEREFANCYPANTSGENT
LEMANJIMKINDOFNECKC
LOTHESPEOPLEWEARARO
UNDTHEIRPREVIOUSLYNA
KEDSKINBETWEENTHEIRH
EADSANDTHEIRSHOULDER
SWHICHREALLYCOUNTSIF
YOULIVEINABELOWZERO
WEATHERCITYWITHAFREE
ZINGCOLDATMOSPHERE
THATWILLMAKEYOURTE
ETHCLATTERANDCLINKMA
KINGSOUNDSTHATWOUL
DRATTLEEVENTHOSEWIT
HTHESTEADIESTOFNERVES
THETYPEWITHTHOSESTRO
NGJAWSTHATPOTRUDEBE
YONDTHEIRFACESANDDRI
VEFATBOYHARLEYMOTOR
CYCLESANDCOULDCRUSH
YOUWITHJUSTALOOKFROM
WHERETHEIREYESSITONTH
EIRVISAGEWHICHISASTRANG
EWORDTOUSEHERESINCEITH
INK"VISAGE"ISONEOFTHOSE
SOPHISTICATEDWORDSOFFR
ENCHORIGINWHICHISNOTARA
WCOUNTRYTYPESLANGKINDO
FWORDWHICHWOULDBEMUCH
MOREAPPROPRIATEFORBIKEM
ANANAMEICOINEDMYSELFFOR
MARKWHOTURNSOUTTOBEAN
UNEXPECTEDLYKINDGUYWHO
TURNSOUTSUITSTHEWORDVI
SAGEINFACTONEWITHAGREATS
MILETHATOCCASIONALLYPOPS
UPONMARKSFACEIACTUALLYE
VENGAVEHIMTHESCARFASAGIFT
(PAUSE)(2)(3)(4)ASWELLASMYW
ALLETMYCARKEYSMYCREDITCA
RDSMYPINNUMBERSMYWATCH
t e t e
a l a l
s s s s
s s s s
l a l a
e t e t
THE CASHMERE WOOL I USED TO KNIT A SCARF
I knitted a winter scarf, a large intricate Cashmere
fancy pants, Gentleman Jim kind of neck clothes people
wear around their previously naked skin between their
heads and their shoulders which really counts if you live
in a below zero weather city with a freezing cold atmosphere
that will make your teeth clatter and clink making sounds that
would rattle even those with the steadiest of nerves.
The type with those strong jaws that protrude beyond their faces
and drive FatBoy Harley motorcycles and could crush you with just
a look from where their eyes sit on their visage which is a strange
word to use here since I think "visage" is one of those sophisticated
words of French origin which is not a raw country type slang kind of
word which would be much more appropriate for bike man a name
I coined myself for Mark who turns out to be an unexpectedly kind guy
the type it turns out suits the word visage in fact one with a great
smile that occasionally pops up on Marks face I actually even
gave him the scarf as a gift (pause) (2)(3)(4), as well as my wallet
my car keys, my credit cards, my pin numbers, my watch...
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
Door to Nowhere
Royalty have Chateau’s
With moats and drawbridges
Artists have colors
Paints and brushes and dreams
The poor have soup
And Marie's gateau’s
The lonely have open doors
To nowhere
I let my baguette go hard and stale
So I could stab myself with nourishment
As my blood flows slowly
Through that door with no hope
I with no rope, fade away
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
Leaves of the Dead
Les feuilles mortes
They fall like dead soldiers
Dreams knifed in the dead of night
It is as yesterday
Once more
Where love was kissing my cheek
Where hopes had dreams
One could see the blossom of loves desires
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
Ah now I am holding a cane
I have all but forgotten yesterday
I have no lovers
My friends have all but gone
To their designated places in the ground
Piano keys in soft lit lounges
I remember the vodka stingers and sultry singers
Telling me life was jolie oh so jolie
If only there was love…
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
At 3am, with burnt cigarette butts
If only there was love
When the metro finds it’s unwitting end
Reality and cubes make ugly paintings
There are only drunks
Dreamers and bums
Thief’s picking pockets of your final instructions
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
If you can sober up and face the poverty
Of your empty aspirations of hope
Come to the bois de Vincennes
Where Kings and Queens danced and dined
What better place
To splay the butter
So that the knife slides smooth
Whilst the sun fades kissing the seine
Autumn leaves will fall
Dead again
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
Lusting the passions of a secret desire
Unwinding the mystery of my needs
Funerals are for the future
Internment I ask be deferred
Timeless is my youth
Useless is my request
At seeking eternity or at least eternal rest
End of times may seem long away
Beauty we know fades, it will happen some day
So I dream of youthful moments
Isle graveyards were far away
Holy wars and loveless scores
That a soldier must endure
A desire for peace escapes this generation and more
External forces and internal woes
Death dances at my door
Dedicated to Sara Bernhardt, who slept in her coffin amongst all her love letters.
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
The moon was neither full, nor was it not
She shone down radiant lighting the misty ole night
The waves lapped the shore
As a gentle breeze streaked my face
Alone by the sea, clouds, the moon and me
The easterly winds became stronger
Whipping up sand at my feet
The gentle sea, turned,
Becoming bold and loud as can be
It seemed the wind and the sea were holding
Each others embrace in tangos graceful dance
The sand began to whip my face
As the winds become stronger still
Before my eyes, the sand itself took shape
Slowly taking form before my trembling body
Appeared a beautiful woman wearing an angelic shawl
All in pure white, staring with a smile at the likes of me
She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen
I thought to myself, this must be but a dream
I told her, you are a princess me lady, and bowed
She shyly looked back at me replying
“I am no such thing, I am unworthy, and unholy
I am dirty and un-pure
I am the whore of the sea”
I was shocked to hear these words pour forth
From such an innocent soft spoken mouth
How can this be? You look to be a Royal Queen
She answers; my looks deceive, as I have said
I am nothing but the whore of this sea”
Every sailor and fisherman who ever sailed these waters
Have had their wishes with me
I have done their biddings for 1000’s of years
I appear before you in shame
Seeking redemption
I walk the shores, tormented by my
Bodily sins
Have you a name me lady of the sea?
“I have none, simply a faceless whore”
Of course this must be a dream an illusion
How else does sand become such sad beauty?
I must be going crazy, hallucinating
Sleepwalking?
A cold wind, one huge gust
Across from the northern skies
Slapped me in the face
Ice cold clarity
This was real, she was real
Even the moment was unexplained
The shock of it, struck me
I stumbled backwards over driftwood
Bruised and lying in the sand
She ran to me
With such concern in her eyes
I saw then underneath her sadness
I felt her humility and compassion
She asked, young man?
Are you injured? Can I attend to you?
I told her I was fine, a mere slip
So to speak
Now the winds changed direction again
Westerly with utter fierceness tearing the sand
Whipped up and slashing my face
She simply gazed west
Another form appeared before us both
A sailor, a pirate, I was not sure at all
He looked menacing none the less
I asked now who the bloody heck are you?
He exclaimed
“I am a grand sailor of the seven seas
Why I have traveled east and west,
North and south
There is little I have not seen
Little I have not tasted
Forbidden fruits, and even as you see
Before your very eyes here
The whore of the seas standing before thee”
She shuddered and moved closer to me
As if for protection
Of what or how I had no idea
I was a mere pawn in this apparition
This dance of the universe
Beyond all my comprehension I was sure
The sailor in a softer soothing voice
Ah sorry me lady
I meant no offense as to that comment
My mouth doesn’t always flow with manners
The winds have brought me to your charms
Have no alarm
Like you, I wander the sea shores
1000’s of years in hell reliving past sorrows
I bow to you me lady
In despair for tales untold
She the whore of the seas
As she so called herself
A taken aback at his candid admissions
She was not all that sure, however
She even thought there was a tear in his eyes
Here I was, between the sands of time
Between two ghosts of ancient ways
Yet it was I who seemed invisible
As they parleyed back and forth
The pirate of hearts was on his knees
He begged with his eyes
That we all listen to his heart of hearts
And I swear to you
Theses are the words I heard
Lady, tiss true, I had my way with you
Those many long lost years ago
From that moment on, my heart was broken
I left, I traveled, I roamed, I bedded
There was no one as you
No heart as pure
No soul so white
No woman so wise
No human with your compassionate eyes
I longed for you, if only you knew
What would a whore want with me?
You, who could have any man
For gold silver or want
I could not cry
Nor admit my defeat
God forgive me the battles fought
To forget the look of you
Now here I was, alone on a wind swept shore
Listening to the confessions of sand
It dawned on me, we came from dust
And so shall we one day return
As this thought passed
The women of the sea spoke back
Continued next post
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
You know sailor man,
You woke the spirit in me
I thought you were drunken and carefree
I could not hope or dream
The whore of the seas must take her place
I was of the lowest cast
The lowest morale
After you
I was with a baby you see
I had to run to the mountains
Alone and far from the salt air
To give this child more hope
Than could ever exist for me
The sailor of the seas seems touched
He truly had tears running down his face
He continued his side of the tale
Ah me lady, the winds of the east
The winds of the west
The ghosts of the past
The Moons pull
And this young mans wonder
Have aligned to bring us to a truth
Your child, was my child
Your love was my hope
For the seed of life to continue
For better times
I have walked these shores
As you
For a thousand years and more
Seeking solace
Seeking you
The gods have seen to this
I have escaped the fires below
In search of you
I knew not what was love
Until I knew you
Only upon me death
Did I see what was lost
The sea is vast
Your love vaster still
Even we, as the people of ancient times
In this moment
On this shore
We our bound by this immortal love
As they spoke the winds howled
The sands tossing in the wind
I felt nothing
Riveted to these phantoms of other destinies
Why was I here?
Did I fall upon time itself?
The answer was to become shockingly clear
The Princess of the sea was both
Sad and smiling
She touched the sailor’s hand
And said,
We have taken a thousand years to know love
To know we were loved
To know we died in sadness and emptiness
To what ends are we here
What have the gods planned?
You in hell
Me trapped upon the shores of my service?
Why, why sailor man, must we weep now
At the love we had
Yet never shared?
He smiled
He caressed her hair
Gently he whispered to her
We shall wander these shores
For a thousand years and more
We now have found serenity
Comfort
Love
We know deeply the erotic desires
Of the spirit
We are here my love
For a special reason
I await your answer she said!
He replied;
A thousand years have passed
Here on this shore
I saw your eyes fall upon the young man
Who fell at the mere site of us
I saw the love in your eyes
The love of a mother
So I say to you my love
Look into the eyes
Of your son
He is ours
Even if many generations have passed
He is the love that was us
He has now witnessed
Our bond, the universes wisdoms
We are here this windy evening
To caress both our pasts
To know the love that was always there
Yet
We are here at the whim of the unknown
To let our flesh and blood
Know that goodness
Is not ones circumstance and profession
Life offers few choices
We have shown our child of our child and so forth
His past, his future, his path
The very secrets of life
And the universe
Unfolded upon his breast
We the sailor and the whore
Implore to all men and women of honor
Listen to love
Go forth our fine young man
Knowing now from where you came
The winds shall diminish
We shall return to sand
Until another day
When fate needs a helping hand
I awoke on the beach
Had I dreamed?
I was uncertain
In my house, by the door
Lay a white shawl
With bruised knee
I smiled
I held the cloth of secret mysteries
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
Darkest of Confessions
Voices in my head
Dancing abreast with the abstract
Shattered glasses and shattered dreams
History repeats many a lovers’ defeat
I demand a duel
With my heart
I welcome the sword that shall draw first blood
Ending the torment of duel nationalities
Kissing lovers and slaying love
The ménage a trois of all duels
The sword, the heart, the opera of nothings
Graveyards hold the court, from dusk to dark
Lovers return
Some are loved
Some are slayed
Regrets in my diary of misery
Hold me true
I shall sing of you
In my darkest confessions
As my sword pieces your heart
You can bleed in tranquility
With your last breath
It’s I Mademoiselle de Maupin
That laid you to eternal rest
Julie d'Aubigny 1670Aprox–1707, better known as Mademoiselle Maupin or La Maupin, was a 17th-century swordswoman and opera singer. Her tumultuous career and flamboyant life were the subject of gossip and colourful stories in her own time, and inspired numerous portrayals afterwards
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
L'Overture
Lest we forget
Words often mouthed
For the dead of bloody war
Forgot not those great ones
Whose battles were on the home front
Seeking only equality of voice
Ray Charles to you was a singer
Backwards and long ago he was a preacher
A brilliant man of forward thought
Who gifted the world with three wise women
The teacher
The poet
The Lawyer
Flo taught many with words
Long ago and yet here today
Those who teach both young and old
Hold the noblest of positions
Steering the generations
To a higher cause
With kindness, with heart
With head held up to the skies
Standing ground for those before
Abhorring those acting immature
1872 saw the first black lawyer
A sharp mind of determined heart
Argued to the Supremes
Beauty and brains
Leading the way towards freedom
For women of all races
For in 1872 she had the social graces
The revolution of sonnets
Black woman and prose
The poem and the black rose
In 1893 to be printed by a Little
Sure meant a lot
Henrietta fought the enemy
With languages and words
Her Wordsworth more than Haitian blood
The past, the present
Merging onto our futures dreams
Hope cares not the color, none at all
Hope comes from the rainbows
Where voices and angels whisper
When we part this early soil
Make us all into one
If I had a coloring book
In it I would put these three
Who colored the freedom of women
With education, articulation and harmony
The pen indeed defeated the sword
L'Overture gagne
* L'Overture gagne = The opening , won
In Actual fact the correct spelling of the French word, would be “L'Ouverture” So I was using a play on words with the Revolutionaries last name.
Notes: Not much of a poem, however this was inspired by an old photo I saw of Charlotte E. Ray. The first African American Lawyer in United States, and the first female lawyer in the district of Colombia. When I did some digging, I found she had also 2 sisters, one a poet, one a teacher. Their father was a preacher who firmly believed in education.
Her sister was one Henrietta Cordelia Ray, an American poet. Her poetry of Sonnets was a short book of 12 sonnets on Milton, Shakespeare, Raphael, and Beethoven, among other subjects. Her sonnet on the Haitian revolutionary Toussaint L'Overture is notable for its belated engagement in black politics (absent from her earlier verse) and for its allusions to William Wordsworth's famous sonnet, "To Touissaint L'Overture”
Well now, the title makes more sense, n’est pas? However the last name also means in English “The Opening” and I thought how fitting that in the late 1800’s black women were beginning to open doors to the future.
Also now the line “Her Wordsworth more than Haitian blood” should be self explanatory and no wordsworth was not a typo! (even I am famous for them)
Now another of my passions, is French poetry, history and culture, and yes Touissaint L'Overture stood up to Napoleon and although historically he lost, and was deported to France where he died, I think its safe to say that “L'Overture gagne” meaning he won, in that he too was the “Opening” for the changes that would come later. In fact its there is some irony that all the revolution for change is often lost in the short term, when education and the pen make gains that are very hard to revere.
Ray Charles to you was a singer
Backwards and long ago he was a preacher
This of course means if you take Ray Charles the singer’s name that I am sure most know and reverse the name, you get the name Charles Ray, the father of the three women.
Argued to the Supremes
Again, Charlotte E. Ray the lawyer did argue in the Supreme Court and so the play on words with “the Supremes” and one could infer many meanings in this line.
Now the third sister was a teacher and I haven’t found out much about her, her name was Florence and Flo for short, and as I jumped periods with Ray Charles and Charles Ray, when I was reading about these strong women, and one must remember the time at which they made their accomplishments was not as today, it made me thing of another Flo, and therefore, I intermixed by thoughts of her with that of which I imagined the teacher would be.
Little, refers to the publishing company who published Henrietta’s sonnets
Not all poems are meant to be great, some are just stories, and I love adding double meanings and innuendo, because when engaging people in discussion, there is nothing that better than relating events and people they may know with those of the past they may not. As sometimes with students, we discuss poems at a local coffee shop, this type of poem makes for great discussions.
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
I
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 | Year Posted 2015
Details |
French Poem
|
Skies falling, upon the ragged heart pasquil
Tranquility ripples across the lake in plethora
She is there, in my heart, a sweet delusion
As I cross the waters wishing I was omnipotent
I drop my oars on forest floor, seeking Aurore
I run along the earth clad pathways towards the cloister
Praying that accrued love still has her beholden
Kneeling on one knee, I look up with a glint of promise
The Lantern reflects back the softness of her eyes
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
Details |
French Poem
|
White like the snow
Ice stiffened limbs
Reaching out
No saviors about
Snow flakes in the wind
I reached and reached and reached
Towards deaths cold hands
Never to see her again
I looked down
Wine of bloods holocaust
Flowing from my hands
Unto the devils abode
Whitest of Pyrenees days
I died beside her departure
Railroad tracks empty
Bloodless heart
Ashes black
Butterfly born
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2018
Details |
French Poem
|
"A Paris"
Jazz and ballet
White dresses
Red wine
Violin strings
Moulin dances, stories so grim
Le Bois de Vincennes
Castles under clouds of sin
Cafes with causal chatter
When after all
What does life matter?
Drowning, the words filled with laughter
By the Seine
Walking amongst insane dreams
Singing of things never to be
In Paris a fiery inferno
desires flame
up in smoke
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2018
Details |
French Poem
|
She wades in until the water reaches her waist,
looks out and continues into the endless sea.
Her imagined long gown floats behind her.
Her little girl shoulder blades
become hidden beneath the water.
Each time she raises her arms because
it is cold, but the sea is calm and peaceful,
too cold for the others who prefer to watch.
It is her moment alone to feel like a Princess.
She lowers her regal eyes
but not her head, to keep her crown from falling.
She sees how her feet glide on the sand,
her legs extend to touch the bottom as golden
sun reflects her movements on the water.
Sunlight penetrates the depths
as her toes penetrate pristine sands.
When water becomes chest high
her arms rise and then she lies back
to float so she can view the azure sky
in great wonderment.
Are the clouds shaped like a person ?
Translation by Connie Marcum Wong
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Original Poem:
RIEN N’EMPÊCHE D’AUTRES OISEAUX
By Ariane Dreyfus
Elle s’arrête quand l’eau lui arrive à la taille
Regarde, avance à nouveau, et la mer infinie
La suit, traîne qu’elle sent à peine, la robe elle l’imagine
S’effacent ses omoplates de petite fille
À chaque fois qu’elle lève les coudes et se hausse
Car il fait froid
Mais l’eau est calme, pas embêtante
Frileux les autres sont restés derrière
C’est donc un instant de princesse
Elle baisse les yeux, mais pas la tête
À cause de sa couronne qui pourrait tomber
Regarde comment ses pieds glissent
Sur le sable
Parce qu’il est très loin les jambes ont grandi
Elles se tordent à plein de reflets
Le soleil y va, en profondeur
Et plus en profondeur la pointe des pieds
Pour aller jusqu’au sol intouché
L’eau presqu’à la poitrine, elle étire ses bras
Ainsi flottent les mains
Puis s’allonger, sinon comment voir que le ciel
Donne un si grand vertige, et les nuages en forme de
personne?
*************************************
Rough English Translation I had to work from:
THERE IS NOTHING TO PREVENT OTHER BIRDS
By Ariane Dreyfus
She stops when the water comes the size
Look, move again, and the endless sea
Follows her, drags that she feels, the dress she imagine
Fade her shoulder blades of little girl
Whenever she raises the elbows and to increase
Because it is cold
But the water is quiet, no annoying
Chilly the rest remained behind
It is a moment of Princess
She drops the eyes, but not the head
Because of its Crown that could fall
Look how her feet slide
On the sand
Because it is far away the legs grew
They writhe in lots of reflections
The sun go, deep
And more in depth the toes
To go to the ground untouched
Water almost ' chest, she stretches her arms
Thus float hands
Then lie down, otherwise how can I see the sky
Gives a great dizziness, and person-shaped clouds?
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2017
Details |
French Poem
|
Windmills
standing still
no wind
empty windowsill
minds
at sleep
a death
of another time
heartless
flowers that never grow
no wine
tears fall silent
fragments appear
shooting stars at night
dispersed onto the dark
windmills of my mind
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2018
Details |
French Poem
|
THE DEATH OF MARIE ANTOINETTE
(MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE)
Songwriters set their words about her style
and artists make pursuit to paint her smile
but all the light that's Paris, shows,
her heart and soul to only those
who come to fall in love for just while.
But knowing this, my wondering still lies
as I recall Marie, her face,her eyes,
and she is just a memory
though what I'd have to always be,
if time was mine and not a thing that flies.
I trace my blood and line of ancestry
down through some troubled times of history
or is it that I've journeyed long
from when my life went all so wrong
but it's so far removed, my mind can't see?
These questions rake my mind and leave me cold,
Am I my father who's still growing old;
and who is she, to go away
to deju vu--to yesterday,
or has she layed our love to times' unfold?
I guess I'll find her on Champs Elysees,
or in the Champ de Mars, where children play
or where one day the guillotine
cut life away, and cut it clean,
but this is now, and that was yesterday.
O! I would lay my neck under the blade;
if there would ever be a diff'rence made
to end the pain she left in me
and stop the love for my Marie
but love--this love for her can never fade.
And so, as other loves they come and go,
as Paris says, and Paris makes it so,
I wait and wander by the Seine
but know not where, and know not when,
for love of my Marie, she'll come, I know.
© RON WILSON aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2017
Details |
French Poem
|
I opened my love to a beautiful day,
In rain, in hail, and cold,
And my heart ran off, to your open arms,
To grasp, to nurture and hold,
With love on your pillars, reaching up high,
Above all the love in the town,
My heart, in your arms, played like a child,
Played with what it had found,
And that was a freedom for happy and fun,
Freedom to do what I do,
To be a red balloon in a cluster of black,
As I happily walk beside you,
Now, since our bubble of free is secure,
We can turn our colours up bright,
And we can become the rainbow of fun,
The beautiful rainbow at night.
Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2018
Details |
French Poem
|
In the orchestra of languages
Nobody would dispute
That French, with honeyed cadence,
Would be likened to the flute.
I pass a French school every day
And hear the conversation –
So smooth and silky that from English
It’s like a vacation.
The melting pot that is New York
Enables me to hear
A wealth of tongues all chattering
Into the atmosphere.
But only French has silvery tones
Like flutes when they are playing
And I enjoy the sounds although
I know not what they’re saying!
Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2018
Details |
French Poem
|
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 | Year Posted 2015
Details |
French Poem
|
Trumps Wall
He boasts
Walls he shall build
With his generals
More weapons for the King of the Hill
Sowing hate and creating
Fascist dreams
He divides and demeans all those
Who share not his vile power dreams
I have news and its foxy news too
He can have his walls, and his shiny shoes
Hate and fear will never triumph
Trumps wall will stumble and fall
There is a secret army
Hidden under his little hands and pudgy nose
This army will defeat any wall
No matter how big, and no matter how tall
These little soldiers come from here and there
They shall stand up, were sometimes adults stall
They shall make the wall
Something Trump hadn’t thought of at all
A place to rally, a place to dance
They shall write their messages with
Love and smiles, inked with paint
They shall embrace the world
Walls and all! No giant can stop them all
Notes: He (Trump) sounds a lot like a cave man I know. Ha ha
There is no such thing as racism; we are all ONE race the human race. Racism is simply hate guised under another name.
This poem is dedicated to Kids United and specifically to the song
“On Ecrit Sur Les Murs” which means “ we write on the walls “ Even if you don’t speak French or cant read at all for that matter, the video carries the message. On a completely separate note I found a spelling error in the New York Times. Oh my! LOL
I encourage all to listen to more of their songs.
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
Pere Lachaise
Five into the Twentieth
Death is not worth the doing
Life is not worth the living
So I am in-between two worlds
Rotting above the ground
Whilst the corpses laugh in their comfy warm beds
They sleep in peace
I walk upon their heads
Trembling
Seeking solace where there is none
As the leaves fall the season will soon change
I shall remain as I am
Inebriated with ravens and fools
In cafes with strangers
Safely away from the human touch
Wine flowing through my veins
Wine caressing my very pains
The clouds float overhead
Raining on the dead and almost
Feigning hopes when there is none
Five and twenty blackbirds singing deaths song
They offer me a map at the graveyard entrance
How trite, a map to my very own hell
My journey though might be a hard sell
Tumble as I do upon so many stones
Black roses hidden where once they were shown
Bloody nights with both razor and thorn
When I arrived at the morgue
Surely I was scorned
Adélaïde Paillard de Villeneuve
You have no home, not even in death
So it’s with you I wish to hold hands
You the first and I who will never last
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
I wish I could speak in French,
Speak like I’m always in love.
Just let the words fly. Fly out from my mouth.
Fly out like a newly freed dove.
I’d say vous êtes la belle rivière dans mon rêve,
You’re the beautiful river in my dream.
We could talk all day about nothing at all,
I’d be the boat and you’d be my stream.
Even the numbers un, deux, trois,
Would make learning maths sound mega sensual.
I bet the kids at school would learn every multiple,
Learn them with each little decimal.
But the odd thing is that half of our language, to me,
Seems already stolen from France.
Words like harmony, rhythm, surreal and portrait.
Words like montage, cubism and dance.
So maybe it’s not the words themselves,
That make for a delightful lovely chat.
But rather it’s how they're said, spoken, and woven,
Sounding like music or just sounding flat.
So next time I meet my friends at a coffee shop,
And talk about rivers, music and art.
I can keep it in mind that it’s not what is said,
But that it is said from my heart.
Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
COLD NIGHTS IN PARIS
There's never been another dark on earth
quite like the dark of Paris under snow
where love, it comes and goes, for what it's worth
and no demands are made, when time to go;
where lovers slip into the hiding night
oblivious to cold or freezing rain,
anticipating love, that surely might
warm up their lives so they forget their pain.
Their love's a little warmer, from the cold
it makes two hearts to join and keep a beat
and warms the lives of both the young and old
who find their love with-in their body heat.
Though easy comes the love--they hold it dear,
without it cold is something they would fear.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016
Details |
French Poem
|
The Little People
Where do all the little people live?
Marine Le Pen lives in France
A rabbit, who has come out of her hole
Donald Trump lives in America the Great
Trump will soon enough make it a dump
Fernando Furtado
Starves all the Brazilian Indians
No rice for the dark lazy ones
What ever could the Amazon teach us?
Putin, is truly a littleput one
A puffy war chest for sure
He sits on old telephone books to seem tall
He may sit down for Turkey dinner with a smirk
Little ones soon realize when it’s too late
That Turkey will eat them.
I am sad
So many migrants in one boat
When if dreams came true
The Little people above
Should migrate to the sinking boats below
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
Details |
French Poem
|
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
L'horloge
Le bruit du silence
Noyade dans la tranquillité
En solo
Parmi tous mes livres
Mort chante à mon oreille
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
Details |
French Poem
|
BBC News Alert
Somewhere in France
In the Countryside
A farmer has been arrested
For molesting an old cow
A drunken old hag was on all fours
Crawling around in his field
He, having had his wine and baguette
Thought he had forgotten one cow
Off he went to fondle and milk her ****
Turned out they were as dry as prunes
The cow in English barked; get your hands off of me
To which the pour farmer replied in absolute shock
Merde! Why you cow who barks, you speak English!
How can this be?
She replied I am not a cow you blind old farmer
I am a mooing poet of sorts
I dropped my dictionary in some cow dun here
Can’t seem to tell the difference between the two
I understand replied the farmer
Like me looking at you and a cow
Was very confusing indeed
Well I shall take me leave you old blind fart
The farmer snorted
Let me cut the fence open for you
She crawled back onto the road
Whereby the farmer was arrested
(Alsace has left wing laws it seems)
For letting his cow wander
Upon the intellectual property
Of France
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015