Long Poem Topics

Check out these short poem topics. Find short poems by topic or form.

abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
allegory allusion
america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
anxiety appreciation
april arabic
art assonance
aubade august
autumn baby
bangla baptism
baseball basketball
beach beautiful
beauty bereavement
best friend betrayal
bible bio
bird birth
birthday black african american
blessing blue
boat body
books boxing day
boy boyfriend
break up bridal shower
brother bullying
business butterfly
cancer candy
car care
career caregiving
cat celebration
celebrity change
chanukah character
cheer up chicago
child child abuse
childhood children
chocolate christian
christmas cinco de mayo
cinderella city
class clothes
color columbus day
community computer
confidence conflict
confusion cool
corruption courage
cousin cowboy
crazy creation
crush cry
culture cute love
dad daffodils
dance dark
daughter day
death death of a friend
december dedication
deep depression
desire destiny
devotion discrimination
divorce dog
dream drink
drug earth
earth day easter
education emo
emotions encouraging
endurance engagement
england environment
epic eulogy
eve evil
fairy faith
family fantasy
farewell farm
fashion fate
father father daughter
father son fathers day
fear february
feelings film
fire firework
first love fish
fishing flower
flying food
football for children
for her for him
for kids forgiveness
freedom french
friend friendship
fruit fun
funeral funny
funny love future
games garden
gender giggle
girl girlfriend
giving god
golf good friday
good morning good night
goodbye gospel
gothic graduate
graduation grandchild
granddaughter grandfather
grandmother grandparents
grandson grave
green grief
growing up growth
guitar hair
halloween happiness
happy happy birthday
hate health
heart heartbreak
heartbroken heaven
hello hero
high school hilarious
hindi hip hop
history hockey
holiday holocaust
home homework
hope horror
horse house
how i feel howl
humanity humor
humorous hurt
husband hyperbole
i am i love you
i miss you identity
image imagery
imagination immigration
independence day innocence
insect inspiration
inspirational integrity
international internet
introspection ireland
irony islamic
january jealousy
jesus jewish
jobs journey
joy judgement
july june
kid kindergarten
kiss language
leadership leaving
life light
little sister london
loneliness lonely
longing loss
lost lost love
love love hurts
lust lyric
magic malayalam
marathi march
marriage math
may me
meaningful memorial day
memory men
mental illness mentor
metaphor metrical tale
middle school military
miracle mirror
miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
morning mother
mother daughter mother son
mothers day motivation
mountains moving on
mum murder
muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
mythology name
native american natural disasters
nature new year
new years day new york
nice niece
night nonsense
nostalgia november
nursery rhyme obituary
ocean october
old onomatopoeia
pain paradise
parents paris
parody pashto
passion patriotic
peace people
perspective pets
philosophy places
planet poems
poetess poetry
poets political
pollution poverty
power prayer
prejudice preschool
presidents day pride
princess prison
proposal psychological
purple quinceanera
race racism
rain rainbow
rainforest rap
raven recovery from
red relationship
religion religious
remember remembrance day
repetition retirement
riddle rights
river romance
romantic rose
roses are red rude
sad sad love
satire scary
school science
science fiction sea
seasons self
senses sensual
september sexy
sick silence
silly silver
simile simple
sin sister
sky slam
slavery sleep
smart smile
snow soccer
social society
softball soldier
solitude sometimes
son song
sorrow sorry
soulmate sound
space spanish
spiritual spoken word
sports spring
star stars
storm strength
stress student
success suicide
summer sun
sunset sunshine
surreal sweet
symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
teachers day technology
teen teenage
thank you thanks
thanksgiving thanksgiving day
tiger time
today together
travel tree
tribute true love
trust truth
universe uplifting
urban urdu
usa vacation
valentines day vanity
veterans day violence
visionary vogon
voice volleyball
voyage war
water weather
wedding wife
wind wine
winter wisdom
woman women
word play words
work world
world war i world war ii
write writing
yellow youth

Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!
Get Your Premium Membership

Long Paris Poems

Long Paris Poems. Below are the most popular long Paris by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paris poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details

Monsieur L'Vampyre and the Dark Lady

Just south of Paris, lives the soul of me,
at my chateau, where few will ever see,
I'm compensated for the way
death lingers on from day to day
and makes each night a night of tragedy.
   All dark as hell, from trees that block the light
   so as to make the day deep as the night
   I'm free to come, and free to go,
   without the sun that hurts me so
   and this, my home, is hidden from all sight.
Now I would never have you think my way
is shunning life, and hiding from the day,
and though I live a tragedy,
it's quite the way I'd have life be,
as all alone leads only to decay.
   One night I'd settled in for mystery,
   my candle lighting words my mind could see
   and authored by a lightning mind
   who knew his words were of my kind
   and as I turned my pages, what should be?
All feminine, the hesitating sound
of just a tapping, to the door it's found
of fingers slim, but in distress
or she'd be home, that was my guess,
but still I raised myself to stand my ground.
   Anticipating what--I didn't know--
   for what fair damsel knocked at my chateau?
   and so I grasped my deringer
   all cocked and ready, as it were,
   and set upon the path where I should go.
The tapping grew to be quite indescrete
and hurried, as if one about to meet
a harsh and catastrophic end
without the slightest hope or friend,
and so I pulled the door, but braced my feet.
   December winds came freezing to my skin
   and lightning lit the winter nights' begin,
   an omen I supposed to be
   a blessing of the night for me,
   and so I welcomed her, and asked her in.
She shed her wrap, one tatterred by the years
but fondly placed it to my hands, in tears,
and dark was she, as any night
her skin so black, a blessed sight
for beauty's in beholding what appears.
   There showed no blood, upon her neck for me,
   though not a mark was there that I could see,
   and questions raced all through my head
   if hers was warm, and damp, and red?
   Or did her blood flow black--how could that be?
What brought her tears, once placed into the past,
I set upon to make here smile at last,
and asked her if she'd like to stay
at my chateau, near Poitiers,
and spend the night, for it was waining fast.
   Of all the beauty, ever to be here,
   in all  my life, not one could come so near
   as when her cloth fell to her feet
   in candlelight, love made complete
   by flesh and blood, as dark as they appear.
My mark was bit, and I could feel the flow
of life that made my heart not want to know
an end to this, a special night
so red that flowed from just the bite,
but dark as sin--I begged she never go!
   But overcome with joy of all she was
   my pounding heart gave in to what it does,
   and drank of her until she knew
   the bite of death, I brought her to,
   and all that I can say, is just--because.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details

Monsieur L'Vampyre THE SAPSUCKER

   MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - the Sapsucker
When the daylight was done and the set of the sun
was aflame and a deep prophesy,
I awoke to the spell of what's brewed deep in hell
and I drank what gave new life to me.

T'was a burning desire down my throat as a fire
and it settled down deep in my breast,
as mine eyes cast a glow to the dark that I know,
all the world was a weight on my chest.

I relaxed with a toke, then I dressed to my cloak
and I ordered my black limosine
for the dark was at hand, and a storm came unplanned
with such lightning like I've never seen.

There is nothing I love--more than rain from above
if it's dumped all at once in the night
and the thunderous roar makes my feelings to soar
such a night was this one going right!

For my driver my word was to drive til she's heard
where I'd yet to decide we should go,
so she drove through the storm on a way not our norm,
past some chateaus that we neither did know.

So we drove all of  the way, from my home, Poitiers,
into Lyons, a town I hold dear
it's just south of Paree where I thought we should be
and I wondered what fate's brought us here.

In the headlights ahead, on a street looking dead
was a figure I barely could see,
with the squint of mine eyes, I could not realize
anyone who could be here but me.

All the closer we grew, my dear driver, she knew
and she pulled to the side of the street
next to one mad'moiselle, she was young, I could tell,
and was drowned from her head to her feet.

With my door made ajar, I asked her to the car,
and she lept although we'd never met,
her long hair not a trace, of the rain, nor her face,
but a beauty I'll never forget.

Through the night we conversed as if it was rehersed,
and she said we were like deja vu,
so I searched through her mind for a moment to find
if we'd met in a time we both knew;

she said "be at your ease, I'll reveal, if you please,
if you just settle back in your seat..."
what she said was all lies, I could tell from her eyes,
but her voice had me soon in my heat.

Now I cannot recall, not a word, not at all,
from the way that she spoke I was lost
to the will of her voice, as if I had no choice,
and I knew I'd be paying the cost.

Though her blood was my need, just one taste to be freed,
she had me in her hand, hypnotized!
then she bit to my soul, with her teeth, and her goal
was to drink me right there mesmerized.

But the blood that's my own isn't red, and it's known
that it's sap and it tastes just like glue,
and she soon had her fill, so she passed on the kill,
and she left on the wing, as I do.

Though the night was all dark, I could not see a mark
on her neck, so she wasn't undead,
but that sapsucker had everything that I had
now I can't get her out of my head!

© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Victoria Anderson-Throop | Details


                                                    FRENCH GIRLS  

                                                  Thru the eyes of an
                                               17 yr old American Male


                                                   Midwestern American
                                                        Sweet naive
                                                   Raised in sheltered armed
                                                   Where twin beds blessed marriage
                                                   Where no good girl kisses---
                                                   Unless it's dark.

                                                   Young American
                                                   Adored in sheltered arms
                                                   Adorned usually in sweat suits...
                                                   Where demurely mini skirted knees touched--
                                                         &   Pouting cold lips occasionally smiled--

                                                   Where he
                                                   Secretly dreamed
                                                        of Red Sexed lingerie....

                                                         Young American
                                                         wrote long letters Home--
                                                         Said he loved Paris
                                                                  For the Eiffel
                                                                  For the Louvre
                                                                  For the Seine
                                                                  For the wine.

                                                         He never left Paris---
                                                         For the Come Hither
                                                         Black laced panties
                                                         Barely hiding
                                                         Knowing smiles
                                                         led by
                                                         Whimsical strides in
                                                         Short tight skirts.

Victoria Anderson -Throop
rev written from poem of 2012

Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Villanelle: Who's afraid of Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth

Villanelle: Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth

(As unlikely as it may sound, this happens to be the TRUTH: the foremost French journalist, André FONTAINE of Le Monde; an illustrious  Academician poet, Pierre EMMANUEL*; President de Gaulle's Prime Minister-President George POMPIDOU; de Gaulle's Minister of Foreign Affairs, Maurice SCHUMANN; a State Counsellor, brother of de Gaulle's Minister of Justice, Paul TEITGEN - all in one day on December 16th, 1972, out-manoeuvred a dastardly plot by the French Left (Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, André Gorz, Me Jean-Jacques de Félice, Michel Foucault and an ex-Tunisian lawyer, etc.) to deprive me of any rights - while I was on my way from Madrid to London - at obtaining residence papers in France, so the constant persecution and attempts on my life - the first attempt in January 1977 having reduced/maimed my then infant son with a serious lifelong handicap - continue without respite. Others from the Left joined in, however, to ward off total destitution.) * I met Maurice Schumann and Paul Teitgen at Pierre Emmanuel's house on the evening of the day André Fontaine published my "Témoignage: Sans Patrie Ni Asile" in the Le Monde, p.2 (16/12/1972. A few days later, while I was being grilled at the Paris Police HQ, President Georges Pompidou intervened directly by special courier from the Elysée Palace, and I was granted my papers on the spot, hardly twenty minutes later while (for the anecdote) a Black Panther who had hijacked a plane to Algiers was kept waiting at the door.– T. Wignesan, May 29, 2017

Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth
   Its sage bite makes even more wise the scum bag
Oh What a state the State's in hiding the Truth

Wisdom teeth sink not well in scum bag for sooth
   No, the Great State first hoists its colours not flag
Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth

Scum bag the State drags on nails to give It worth
   Ride with medical care the wheezing old hag
Oh What a state the State's in hiding the Truth

Champion of noise nuissance the State drills tooth
   Keeps all scum bags sleepless till they sag and lag
Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth

The State drugs spouse rams her makes her rotten sleuth
   Takes into custody sons too weak to brag
Oh What a state the State's in hiding the Truth

Silly the State that lifts its glass of Vermuth
One foot on scum bags the scourge of its Reichs tag
Who's afraid of the Virgin Wolf's wisdom tooth
Oh What a state the State's in hiding the Truth

©  T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Nileisha Giselle Deliz Diana | Details

Nicholas, Sophie, and Paris

Nicholas and Sophie were in Paris
Under the big city lights
The crowd that passed by so quickly
But they are left in a time in which stood still

Nicholas had a great admiration for Sophie
And Sophie knew the great heart of Nicholas

But suddenly on one night
A small hint of sadness was upon Sophie

Nicholas grabbed her hands and asked...

"Why are you sad now, when you used to be happy?"

Being fixed upon the eyes of Nicholas
Sophie's heart was pounding
It's not known if it was the feeling of admiration
Or if maybe it was the feeling of love...

"There are hopes for happiness dream
But even with confidence...
You never have something for sure"

These were the thoughts of Sophie

So thoughtful of the way she is
So thoughtful of the way she feels
So thoughtful of the way she lives
Just like the bright lights of Paris

Holding his hands, Sophie said...

"Nicholas, I love you and you are a very good person
But... If you value your own life and your happiness
You will have me forever in my heart"

Nicholas's life is always full of challenges
Challenges in which always changes his destiny

And that is what it is... honor...

The honor is Nicholas's life
The honor of Nicholas is his only belief

But the mysterious magic of Sophie
It is the one that marked deeply into the life of Nicholas

No only it will be marked in his life
But even in death and eternity

Setting deep into her eyes, Nicholas said...

"Sophie, I will always have you in my heart
But your heart belongs to Paris
If I have to wait for your love... then I will wait for you forever"

With a gentle caress to Sophie
He knows what he really needs to be done
Nicholas took his hand with hers
And with his soft lips touched her skin

The kiss from Nicholas to the hand of Sophie
It means Sophie's happiness with Paris

But also...

It's like a seal of confidence
For the hand of Nicholas along with Sophie
It was taken to the chest, close to the heart of Nicholas

It's like a sacred promise
In which God is the only witness

Witness of their destiny...
Witness of their unity...
And witness through a city of angelic lights

Yes, Paris will always be the heart of lights
And the heart of Sophie are like its diamond lights

Sophie dropped a silent tear
Nicholas saw her tears without words
But just like the stillness of time...

Nicholas gently kissed Sophie on the forehead
Hoping it will not be the last goodbye
And prayed silently to God
That Paris will now protect his beloved Sophie

Copyright © Nileisha Giselle Deliz Diana | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Free advice to those who would be King from the THIRUK-KURAL with Notes

Free advice to those* who would be King from the THIRUK-KURAL with notes
[*like presidents and prime ministers of declining (falling or fallen) nations]

K381: padaikudi kuulamaiccu nadpuaran aarum
            yudaiyaan arasarul eeru

An army, people, wealth, a minister, friends, fort:
Who owns them all, a lion lives amid the kings. (Transl. G.U.Pope)
[army= the most formidable air, sea and land forces; wealth= minus the eighteen (?) trillion debt and not counting his own well-earned piddling billions; a minister=read as Prime Minister (V.P. or Sec. of State?); people=less by three million-odd democratic votes; friends=dwindling, save for staunch Israel by marriage; fort=impenetrable nuclear shield. ]

K448: idippaarai illaatha eemaraa mannan
           keduppaar ilaanum kedum

The king, who is without the guard of men who can rebuke him, will perish, even though there be no one to destroy him. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)

K444: thammit periyaar thamaraa olukuthal
           vanmaiyul ellaam thalai
So to act as to make those men, his own, who are greater than  himself, is of all power the highest. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)

K447:  idikkum thunaiyarai aalvaarai yaaree
            kedukkum thakaimai yavar

Which king who (encourages and) heeds the criticisms* of his henchmen fears conspirators? (Transl. T. Wignesan)
[*not-heeding the advice of Ivanka and son-in-law on climate change commitment in Paris, even if the polls show a majority in favour of polluting the planet.]

K448:  iduppaarai illaatha eemaraa mannan
           keduppaar ilaanum kedum

The king who insulates himself from his helpers'* critiques will perish even if his enemies left him alone. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
[*the role of the media in keeping the WH incumbents in check, for without the journalists working over-time to whet and wet-blanket the language and blunders, the King would have perished by now.]

K450:  pallaar pakaikollin paththaduttha thiimaiththee
            nallaar thodarkai vidal

Having to put up with the enmity of legions* is ten times less harmful than forsaking the support of good (impartial) people*.
[*legions= Hillary Clinton and the NDP; *good (impartial) people= like FBI Dir. Comey for one, even if he has an eye (twenty-twenty vision) on the presidency in 2020] 

©  T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

A reluctant Sayonara

« She must suffer to her last breath. (…) They’ll all soon be as Dead as 0-Ren Ishii. »
« That woman deserves her Revenge. And we deserve to die. »
From « Kill Bill Vol. 1 »


Two French girls in Paris
one aged thirteen
the other fourteen
together take wing.

The police bring them back home.

Then hand-in-hand they jump
from their seventeenth floor flat.

They leave behind a note :
« This life has nothing to offer.
What are we living for ? »

An Austrian socialist philosopher-journalist in Paris
in perfect physical health
lies down beside his terminally ailing English wife
never to wake again together
after bequeathing their papers and wealth
not to the Socialist Party
but to a Catholic charity.

He leaves behind a long love letter
his very last remember-me book.

 Till death does not do us part. 

A Stateless poet passes through Paris
with his Spanish putative spouse
and infant boy.
Paris casts a covetous eye on the mother.
She plans the poet’s murder
and maims her son for life.

The People’s protectors pressgang her
and daily pound the poet to pulp.

Vive ! la France ! Viva ! la Francia !


A lone coyote trumpets over the sakura strewn snow
A moanful flute tugs at nostalgic heartstrings
Meiko Kaji comes on with her plaintive lilt :

Urami yibushi
We’ve not long to go in this void

The still frozen air gasps through swishing slices
Spurting Strüwel-Peter blood and bones
cherry blossoms on the snow-clad parapet
struck down by the lethally-chilled sheen
of the Hattori Hanzo steel

To kill there need be no will
The will to kill resides in the sill
of the vengeful white of the eye


Even if we can’t stand it any longer, Lady
We’d rather not leave just yet in a hurry
Would we see the likes of this world again
Ever know what’s better than this domain

Unknown to us the slow melodious dirge
Tugs at us : stay yet a while, it whispers !

Who knows who’d be there to receive us
Yes, yes, stay yet a while, little lady !

Hum a sentimental ditty
Recall even a fated memory
Revive some moments of levity :
A friend a face an outing
A little tenderness
A tiny moment of harmony
Together in this wilderness

© T. Wignesan – Paris November 14 2007 (Rev. 2012)

From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©:  T. Wignesan – Paris November 14, 2007 (Rev. 2012)

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Diana Viguri | Details


Mom lately cant help this
 uneasy feeling
Its with self doubt that 
I'm dealing
I idea of you in any pain
Making my mind go insane
Why didn't I  simply open my eyes
how could I have been so blind?
My heart is tore up
Its really HURTING
I envision you lying there
Not wanting to be a burden
It wracks me with grief 
guilt &  despair
What if u needed ME
And I wasn't there?
The idea that I could have 
Let you down in ANY way
Would haunt me until
My dying day
I gladly would have done
Anything to help you
You were to proud to 
Ask me to
It never once dawned on
Me to check you inch by inch
Was assuming capable hands You were in
They were right there
Why didn't I see the clues?
Maybe could have saved you 
from just one more bruise
Would you have been so  black & blue if someone would have
Just spoken up for you? 
God why did I back off instead of push through 
Of all people I know the signs 
I know what to DO
I wanted so badly to protect YOU
Perhaps your poor swollen 
body wouldn't have been
 in that horrible condition
If I would have took control 
and MADE  someone LISTEN
I had no idea to the extent 
Of what was lurking beneath
Needless  to say it knocked 
the wind out of ME
Mom In some way I feel I failed you 
when you didn't have 
The strength to speak
so drained of energy you 
were just to weak
My WHOLE life you have carried
 me over life's jagged cliffs
Now I am the one plagued
 with "what ifs?"
I was trying to  let u have
 just a shred of dignity
Looking  back now what
 has that gotten me?
Just a life without YOU
the definition of MISERY
YOU were as always so 
beautiful brave and strong
I am left wondering
where did I go wrong?
I tried my best with the l
little that was shared 
To Advocate for you 
to show you how much I cared
I deeply apologize If I let you 
down in anyway
I wanted for once
Be YOUR hero and save the day
Dear Mom I LOVE you 
Hope that you are ok
To live my life wondering
Is no way to be
You are by far my lifes
Fondest Memory
My Angel fly away now
and be pain FREE
Know that EVERYDAY 
Someone misses YOU
that someones ME

Copyright © Diana Viguri | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Ryan McCabe | Details

Paris Of Plaster

Close your eyes, my Helene, and I'll take you
on the most romantic of all journeys,
where we'll flee somewhere that makes all previous beds
seem as mere hospital gurneys.
Ah, come closer, we'll ignore those dire warnings
of  the Weather Forecaster.
Mais non. Je dire, je sais, Non! C'est pas comme ca,
not our Springtime In Paris Of Plaster.

Free, we'll walk the tin-foil Champs D'Ellysie,
past vibrant green Rhubarb Cafes at night,
lit by crazed halos of teaspoon lamp-posts
setting the mood, je ne sais pas? Just right.
We'll pay homage as Wilde Morrison's grave,
fallen corroded tailpipes of respect,
see the flower off'rings, burnt graffiti,
insolently shrug with all due aspect.

Then, we'll follow the shag crimson carpet,
that most revered of all rivers, the Seine,
to get lost 'midst it's gentle, constant flow,
mais, marche pas trop longe avec cette moyen,
because we'll miss seeing Victor's Hugo
swinging atop the old Eiffel Tower,
His Miserables pull hard to ring them bells,
begging, scowling, a racket of power.

Let's storm our Bastille, the Janitor's door,
find freedom and bottles of white-wash bleach,
rid ourselves of this place, and become clean,
all that, and more, is still within reach.
Je t'aime plus que tous Doctors and Nurses,
we're not slaves to such over-done masters,
nes pas des mots pour ci nous comprendre,
let's discover our Paris Of Plaster.

Forget past promises, long since broken,
we'll run 'neath the Arce Du Triomphe's shadow,
it's passage, a short, conceded distance,
our ev'ry step will, of course, ring hollow.
We'll both embrace Redemption in callous crypts,
underground grottoes, those of short sips,
resurrected, we'll climb up to the streets,
breathing Paris Of Plaster past our lips.

Rains will come, melt all that is of worth,
a candy-cane taste of mist in our mouths,
the Weather Forecaster may chuckle in mirth,
not knowing our love's above his souths.
Our simple vacation's become a voyage,
coupled, we'll laugh as rains fall faster,
a l'atar du Notre Dame Puis Fromage,
we'll witness, pray in Paris Of Plaster.

Copyright © Ryan McCabe | Year Posted 2008

Long poem by Carl Halling | Details

Bouzingo: The Gathering of the Poets

The boy was aged about eighteen,
Pale and pensive, 
Weary and frail in appearance. 
He could have been 
Goethe's Werther, 
Senancour's Obermann 
Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero, 
Embraced by a generation, 
And about whom Sainte-Beuve said:
"Rene, c'est moi."
Tortured by a new mal du siecle, 
He sought refuge 
In the Club Bouzingo.
Two young poets, 
One dark, the other fair, 
Drifted past. The first, 
Whose black hair 
Hung in ringlets over his shoulders, 
Wore a small pointed beard, 
Black velvet tails, 
A white linen shirt 
Loosely fastened at the neck 
By a thin pink taffeta tie;
The second wore a tight coat 
That opened onto a silk crimson waistcoat 
And a lace jabot, white trousers 
With blue seams, 
And a wide-brimmed black hat, and 
In one of his hands 
He carried a long thin pink-coloured pipe.
They were soon joined 
By some of their dandified companions.
The music had stopped playing, and
The poet-leader in cape and gloves,
Dark and pomaded 
With a Theophile Gautier moustache, 
Took to the stage,
Where he proceeded to declaim 
Selections from his subversive verses
To delirious cheers, 
As if sedition was imminent;
Only the boy-poet remained silent, 
His pale cheeks
Soaked by the freshest tears.
"Apres nous, le deluge,"
He said under his breath,
"Our leader preaches revolution
But provides no solution
As to the fate of coming generations,
Should the infant be cast out 
With the bath water that is so filthy
In his sight
That, intent on doing right, 
Gives no thought to the future,
Nor to what might supplant
The society he claims to despise."
The boy was aged about eighteen
Pale and pensive 
Weary and frail in appearance. 
He could have been 
Goethe's Werther, 
Senancour's Obermann 
Or Chateaubriand's melancholy hero, 
Embraced by a generation, 
And about whom Sainte-Beuve said:
"Rene, c'est moi."
Tortured by a new mal du siecle, 
He sought refuge 
From the Club Bouzingo.

(The origins of "Bouzingo: The Gathering of the Poets" lie in an unfinished tale, possibly dating from around 1979.)

Copyright © Carl Halling | Year Posted 2015

Long Poems