Long Madeleine Poems
Long Madeleine Poems. Below are the most popular long Madeleine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Madeleine poems by poem length and keyword.
(On 28 June 1914, in the Balkan town of Sarajevo,
an attempt to assassinate a royal Austrian duke
failed miserably ... or did it? Gabriel Princips, one
of the plotters, stopped for a coffee and by chance
saw the duke, sitting in a stalled car, and shot him
dead. This triggered the First World War. Here,
the cafe owner fails to grasp the significance of
what is unfolding.)
Komm hier, Nannerl. Put down that tray. Observe.
It's thus we take the skin off warmed-up milk,
just so. But where's that little fellow gone?
The one stood there. This is his coffee. Look.
The small one, dark and oval in the face,
with piercing eyes ... I know - but will he pay?
One coffee and a madeleine he had,
and looked the type to linger for an hour.
How strange! Go, look. He might be on the street.
Some twenty years, a feeble black moustache.
No, not the corner door - look out the side.
A Slav, of course a Slav! No manly Teuton
would leave by side-street exit. Go and see!
It's typical of them. I know them well.
My name's not Moritz Schiller if I lie.
They're children - so impulsive, petulant -
incapable of seeing anything through.
That's why they need us. Isn't it obvious?
We're like the English, it's our Ireland,
we're here to civilize them. At what cost?
I'd rather train a cat. They're sulky, dull,
perpetually ungrateful ... what was that?
Good God, such noise! You'd think a war was starting,
or the crack of Judgement Day. Nannerl, was gibt?
(In Paris in 1904, Lily - deserted wife
of composer Claude Debussy - recounts
her suicide attempt among the statues.)
What do you do?
I couldn't bring myself
to write a "you're untrue"
type letter. It wouldn't do.
They're coming
back from Jersey now,
he and his fat old woman.
What did I do?
How did I let him down?
I would take him back
in a heartbeat,
despite this indiscreet
and ugly business,
the talk of the town.
What did I lack?
Next Wednesday marks five.
If I'm still alive,
I'll pass it alone.
He's got his old crone.
How did it come to this?
How did I miss?
He begged me
to be his wife.
If not, he'd take his life.
What does anything mean?
I didn't have a plan.
Just insupportable pain.
I wandered about in the rain,
nursing the revolver in my purse.
I passed the Madeleine
and Strasbourg, in black,
and knew I wasn't going back.
Between the Obelisk and Brest
I held the damn thing
to my chest.
The rest's a blur.
I woke up here in the Hotel Dieu.
They said it's lodged,
the lump of lead,
behind my heart.
It has to stay there.
Far too near
a vertebra to operate.
At any rate,
I'll wear his souvenir
until I'm dead.
Amy Green, Poet Destroyer and Skitty S.K.A.T. Pooh.
Just a few of the Great Women I've made love to here at the soup.
Carolyn Devonshire and Sara Kendrick too
and Andrea Dietrich, you fire cracker you.
A Rambling Poet, Constance too
and Lena "Lolita" Townsend just to name a few.
There's also Linda "Sweetheart" Marie
and the ever so sweet Audrey Carey.
Colleen Bono, how great are you?
Carol Brown & Loopylu Loopylu,
Charmaine Chircop, Dane Ann Smith-Johnson and Doris Culverhouse too.
What a passionate love affair I have had with all of you.
Carrie Richards, Simone Segal, Deborah Guzzi,
Bathsheba Bathsheba, Ashley Rapanut, Brittany Larson and Faleshia Murphy.
Susan Palli, Jessica Arteaga, Diane Christian, Caroline Cecile Paczynski,
Ann Rich, Mercedes Jordan, Kimberly Hilliker and Catie Lindsey.
Audrey Rollins, Joanna Smith, Patricia Adams, Karen O'Leary,
Janette Fisher, Madeleine McLaughlin, Nicole Sharon Brown and Carey Sakolowski.
Amanda Governale, Nicole King, Rhoda Galgiani, Laura McKenzie,
Bernadette Ignaciuk, Amanda Governale, Izzy Gumbo and Judy Riley.
Sue Mason, Pamela Griffiths, Karen Dominick, Donna Golden, Iolanda Scripca & Royal Royally.
I've even made love to that vile Sylvia, aka Stephanie.
Am I forgetting anybody? I don't really know.
Oh yes, one more comes to mind. Nikko Palmario
So many Great women to make love to here at the soup
and so many many more that theKidster must get to.
I've had a sweet romanticism reading all your poetic words.
Some of the most beautiful verses I've ever read or heard.
BILLYTheKidster wants to thank all of you
for this passionate cerebral love affair with all of you.
There's more Great Woman here at the soup
that theKidster can't wait to make love also too.
This Soup Laundry List Will Just Have
...To Be Continued.
PS: Adeleke Adeite, since this contest is sponsored by you
I guess it wouldn't hurt to say that I've made love to you too
here @ the soup, and enjoyed it too.
(Hey, there isn't anything wrong with Poetic Male Affection, even Poetic Genderless Affection)
I better stop sucking up. I suck at it.
Sonia Esmee Florence Butt ( work in progress )
The year 2014 comes to a close
Another unsung hero passed on, from a time long ago
Poets free to express our thoughts
Due to the bravery of Sonia D'Artrois
The day was may 28, 1944
A parachute and Sonia fell from the sky
Cropte, France, behind enemy lines
Her code name Madeleine, terrifying times
Explosives, and weapons, she understood
Training the Maquis to fight, in Charnie the forest hood
A woman who earned the respect of all around
For she was the leader of the underground
Great distances on Bicycle she would ride
Courier and messenger delivering supplies
Right in front of the Nazi eye
They never discovered this lady, Blanche the spy!
D'artois she met in the war in France
Explosions of love, this great romance
After D-Day, more explosions too
Many a Nazi was felled in his shoes
This British heroine when victory was assured
Across the sea to Canada she went
Married her lover
Met in danger, in the resistance of France
Notes Sonia d'Artois passed away on Dec 21, 2014 at the age of 90, a British woman who at a very young age joined the SOE ( Special Operations Executive ) She was parachuted behind enemy lines in France nine days before D-Day to lead a group in the french resistance (The Maquis) There she met a Canadian an officer in the Canadian army Guy d'Artois. They fell in love and later settled back in Montreal Canada.
I write only for you,
Not for the king, so smart,
Not for Paris,
Not for the mirrors of the sky,
I only write for you.
I do not write for the abbot
Who weeps before God,
I don’t write for the publisher
Crying without Morand
And believing only in money,
I write only for you,
By for my dead mom,
Not for the general
Of the armies of Ukraine,
I only write for you.
I don’t write for the devil,
Often in need of love,
I don’t write for the city,
Who thinks only of butter
And for your money,
And steal our thoughts,
I write only for you,
That haunts every morning,
Not for the king, so clever,
Not for the blue angels,
I write only for you,
I write only for you,
Not for the French,
Not for the liars,
Neither for the Parisians,
They eat our cauliflower flowers,
I write only for you,
Not for the thieves,
Not for the picards,
Nor even for glory,
Nor even for the sky,
I write only for you,
Not for Saint Germain des Prés,
Not for the church of Madeleine,
I write only for you,
Not for the dear friends
Who went up to heaven,
I only write to please you.
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour le roi, si malin,
Pas pour Paris,
Pas pour les miroirs du ciel,
Je n’écris que pour toi.
Je n’écris pas pour l’abbé
Qui pleure devant Dieu,
Je n’écris pas pour l’éditeur
Qui pleure sans Morand
Et ne croit qu’à l’argent,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Par pour ma maman,
Pas pour le général
Des armées d’Ukraine,
Je n’écris que pour toi.
Je n’écris pas pour le diable,
Souvent en mal d’amour,
Je n’écris pas pour la ville,
Qui ne pense qu’au beurre
Et à l’argent du beurre,
Et nous vole nos pensées,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Qui hante tous mes matins,
Pas pour le roi, si malin,
Pas pour les anges bleus,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour les français,
Pas pour les menteurs,
Ni pour les parisiens,
Qui mangent nos choux fleurs,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour les voleurs,
Pas pour les picards,
Ni même pour la gloire,
Ni même pour le ciel,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour Saint Germain des Prés,
Pas pour l’église de Madeleine,
Je n’écris que pour toi,
Pas pour les amis si chers
Qui sont montés au paradis,
Je n’écris que pour te plaire.
(after Charles Baudelaire)
Around me hurled and roared Place Madeleine:
and you were tall and svelte, in funeral dress,
majestic in your grief. One deft caress
set your hem dancing. And I knew it then.
Such elegance! Those legs, so statue-like!
I drank you, like a furious alcoholic:
that brow of yours, where tempests breed and frolic!
The sweetness which enchants, before it strikes!
A lightning flash ... then night. Elusive beauty
who, with one look, gave me my life anew,
will we not meet again in all eternity?
Elsewhere? Far off? Too late? Let's face it, never.
I lost you in the crowd. The thread was severed.
I really could have loved you. And you knew.
Sometimes we take a turn with others in the dance club.
It’s fun and friendly but when it’s over - you know it.
He stepped on my foot
and I winced in pain
he’d stepped on my foot
and then he did it again
That's the danger in dancing
a slow dance - being too snug
his hands on your back
and you're pinned like a bug
I should wear combat boots
when cutting a rug
with guys I'm not sure of
I’d finally had enough
The last guy ended our dance
by adding a hug - I don’t know,
a bit extra, but I went with the flow
Why am I sweating in strange men’s arms?
Then again, what exactly is the harm?
The social oddity of public touching,
of course, is that if we weren’t dancing,
would I even stand close to them?
p.s.
If you’re looking for a Summer, French-café coded, it-girl drink to put out your fire of thirst, try a ‘Diabolo menthe,” it’s made of lemon soda plus mint syrup and obviously non-alcoholic. Pair it with a vanilla Madeleine, a petite, shell shaped pastry with a lot of charm. YUM
.
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A song for this:
I'll Call You Mine by girl in red
August by No Vacation
Four Cafes
Winter mists swirl up from puddles on the cobblestones blurring the names of the four cafes facing the narrow boulevard. Townspeople and visitors walk briskly with their heads down, collars up, against January’s invading chill.
From my apartment window I gaze hypnotized as people scurry through invading night like fallen leaves.
Madeleine and her small son, in a shopworn cap, wait outside darkened How Wheat It Is for day old bread. Breakfast.
Light from the bistro next door, scattered through the raindrops, makes prisms. A couple, identities disguised by distance, celebrate new love over chardonnay in bright blue like a rain painting reflecting on the street.
Old Charles slowly pushes open the heavy doors of Four Seasons Café, white paper box, leftovers for lunch in his apartment next to mine, clutched in arthritis molded hands. His apartment still smells of Marie’s Bellodgia and Arpege.
A golden glow scampers into warm corners of dimly lit Aubergine’s at the end of restaurant row where Jacqueline, Michelle and Annette share secrets of young women over rich expresso and lemon tarts to the strains of Mood Indigo.
January swirls above the street’s night life like a parasol holding this portrait in time.
3-4-23
Contest: Four Cafes
Sponsor: Julia Ward
200 Words