School French Poems | Examples
These School French poems are examples of French poems about School. These are the best examples of French School poems written by international poets.
On my first day
I met a new friend.
We had the same new sneakers
And sharpened pencils
And coloring books
And backpacks
And French braids
And rulers
And we smelled the same smells of our school.
My pencil eraser broke off and fell to the old wooden floor when I erased my drawing too hard
And she picked it up
And said, “I’ll never forget you.”
I confess that these are false memories
as I’ve never been to the Paris’ and it’s
arrondissements, and these days, I avoid
air travel what with climate change.
Yet the name evokes places and times
which filled my imagination with wonder
at the tales of Mme. Cabot would tell our
high school French class on her good days.
All this has come back to me because
I’m in the Paris section of my online
cours de français, where I vacillate
between obsidian and pearl levels
depending on my work frequency.
And though you couldn’t accuse me
of Hypermnesia, the art, literature and
songs of Montmartre, pendant La Belle Époque
have seeped into my temporal lobe and
brightened my grey matter.
But with the war in the Ukraine,
it also reminds me that in 1940,
the Montmartre fuel depot bombing
inspired the people of Paris in their
resistance to the Nazi occupation.
Anna's boyfriend comes from France
Stars in her eyes from French romance.
Now our boyfriends are all homegrown
We want a French kiss the seeds are sown.
Alain is compliant and does oblige
One by one we're starry-eyed
Anna's furious, kiss classified
Give up Alain! not possible we cried.
Young man's exhausted his lips are swollen
From the French kisses we have stolen..
Anna and the French Kiss
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I went for a morning stroll
I had a decision to make
A road to choose
I knew where I was heading
French bread and rosin bun
I took the high road first
I went the low road home
Road choice still waiting
It wasn’t a serious choice to make
I had paid my dues; gone to school
Chosen my profession; still mine
It was not the kind of roads choice
Where you can see; Route 66 ahead
Wooing; answer lightning you up
Road choice still waiting
Sun shining; brown thighs jogging by
Weeds drowning in mother nature
Smile met by another smile
The sun warmed me
The wind cooled me
Road choice still waiting
Egg and beacon; or:
Scrambled eggs and cured meat
Shrimp on toast; or:
Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon
Road choice still waiting
The morning; before Sunday
Hungry
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!
I got new shoes and style they don't lack.
But they fit oh so tight
and I think I should take them back.
My brother says they fit just right.
But they fit oh so tight
and I think they'll make a blister.
My brother says they fit just right.
He's just mean and doesn't like his little sister.
And I think they'll make a blister
when I walk to school today.
He's just mean and doesn't like his little sister
You'll see, later I'll make old smarty pay.
When I walk to school today,
I got new shoes and style they don't lack.
You'll see, later I'll make old smarty pay,
and I think I should take them back.
Author's Notes:
I got new shoes and style they don't lack.
But they fit oh so tight
and I think I should take them back.
My brother says they fit just right.
But they fit oh so tight
and I think they'll make a blister.
My brother says they fit just right.
He's just mean and doesn't like his little sister.
And I think they'll make a blister
when I walk to school today.
He's just mean and doesn't like his little sister
You'll see, later I'll make old smarty pay.
When I walk to school today,
I got new shoes and style they don't lack.
You'll see, later I'll make old smarty pay,
and I think I should take them back.
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.
Three French quatrains, Translation of Etiemble’s Trois quatrains français by T. Wignesan
Fly …fly !
For Sylvie (Etiemble) on the occasion
of commencing primary school
All cats are school-goers
watching a fly fly
but the teacher caught the fly:
one should seize the collar.
October 1978
1. Narcissus
For Sylvie who came late to the mirror stage,
but who has since made up for it… (1981)
All ducks are Narcissuses
kissing the ends of their beaks.
Comes the solstice’s rigour:
the ice clouds the dry mirror.
2. All ducks are Narcissuses
kissing the ends of their beaks.
Comes the solstice’s rigour:
the silt clouds the dry mirror.
Average high school
Namesake
A mediocre
President
Imposing square box
Towering over small frame homes
Where Mothers wait behind closed doors
And Fathers return at dusk
Newspapers tucked under
In different signs and languages
Sport side up
In blue collar tradition.
French teacher listens
Eyes shifting from side to side
As we read
In our best French accent
Copied from movies
And old TV shows.
The Staff whisper
Lips hidden
Behind pieces of paper
To keep us from knowing
Secrets
But we know
The score
Girls to be Secretaries
Boys to be workingmen
And babies at eighteen.
School's out
A fight's on
Huge crowd
Forms a circle
To cheer their side
Smaller kid
Is a fighter
Crowd whistles in respect.
Police arrive
Clubs in hand
Go home they order
One by one
We drift away
Scattered by an ill wind
Searching for a place to call home.
Years go by
We learn to bend
We survived
And never spoke French.