Dancing in Boulogne-Sur-Mer
I was dancing in Boulogne-Sur-Mer
when a young woman stopped me,
and said, “Madame, you are superbe.”
She told me twice, Madame you are superbe
But I didn’t feel superb.
Hadn’t for a long time, if ever at all.
How is superb supposed to feel
when you're dancing in Boulogne-Sur-Mer?
Later I visited my doctor to
ask if there was anything she could give for
treatment of the human condition; explain the
woman had told me I was superbe.
The doctor laughed, and said
there was nothing for it I could take,
apart from anti-depressants,
if you're depressed, are you, not superb?
She asked if I needed to take a break. Shall I sign you off, she said?
Maybe some time spent, alone in bed?
No, I said. She suggested I chose values,
acceptance, rebellion, indifference or hope.
I went away, bemused
realising there is no choice
to be made, you need all values
in your armour to face despair
when you’re dancing in Boulogne Sur mer.
L'Empéreur s'amuse
(after Victor Hugo)
For the banished ones, of stubborn resistance,
France is far off. The tomb is near.
But don’t worry, Prince. Enjoy your existence.
In the Bois de Boulogne, chase deer,
chase women in the theatre. Rome’s burning incense
for you. The Tsar calls you “mon frère”.
Play on, sweet Prince. You have swans in Compiegne
and you have the wines of Bordeaux.
You seek novelty, amusement? Why then,
they’ll bring you fourchettes from Les Baux.
Swooning under your crown of grapes, tiens!
You’re something out of Caravaggio.
The convicts are building the lighthouse. Fine.
So ordered, by the King.
They’re casting bells on foundry lines.
In hellish heat, they’re suffering.
One day their light is going to shine.
Those bells are going to ring.
So dawdle, dally. Have your fun.
Put on your languid airs.
The thread of Fate’s already spun.
Who’s going to hear your prayers?
Who will save you? Where will you run,
when the people take what’s theirs?