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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 T Wignesan | Details

Diary Notes: Lamentable laissez-faire

Diary Notes: Lamentable laissez-faire

                     …the lêche cul is
back
         every cell of her a seething surging cesspool of putrid suck
the darling of the Prusso-Lepeniste muck:
      all degenerate  foul-mouthed   mean-minded  sick:
“I’ll grab his private parts thus ———>”
    her scabrous claw relishing the plucking thrust
the latter-day Jeanne d’Arc of the revived Napoleonic Kingdom
                                     she's back the neurotic blot on the wailing
phoney socialist rocambolesque reverie
            not even the sparrows hug the hedges now
   and no birds would sing in this worsted plain

         Harvey spoils the eclipsed arc
    the path of Yin is now well marked
all celebrating victories before they are won
     the people  the poor  the duped left to their wits
in sewage pools eddying hopes slipping through dams and dykes
                                                      the people   the poor
people always pay for the folly of hoisting fanfaron Pharoahs
    up above pyramid pinnacles on palanquins

        Yes, according to the very reverend Swift raiser of the race of Master Horses
             the world west of the Silk Road now is divided into
                       Yahoos      and   the Netan-Yahoos
     the jackboot now at last fits the untrodden masters
like a second moulted skin
       Brexit isles moored and annexed to the new-found Land

    She's back  the lêche cul  with her witches’ brooms and mops and 
pails littered under the portico   le portable stuck to her ear
       proclaiming her arrival    yet none gave her a long-awaited send-off 
   spying from a distance

“Let’s study the way he slips in 
     and slips out
of his cubicle door!”

              this time from behind the kinder garten glass doors
      all for the free
masonic fortress under foreign fiefdom

                  sun-burnt flesh reeks through the Mall
smacks of steak:  raw or well-singed
     the reek of rutting limbs is everywhere loud
in queues at milling supermarkets
                     at bus-stops
                         at postal bank self-service guichets
    come September the unheeding   dance and rejoice
October and their hinds begin to ache
      November when the bruises bulges pulled muscles broken
promises make no bones of their State
        the poor always pay for the mistakes and crimes of their masters 

     the moment of truth when thunder is stentorian  
                                             not a rumble on rails
nor a lone drone drawn out streak high in the sky heading for wind-swept isles
        the hour of reckoning must be at hand

       “I’ll grab his balls all in one hand:
               See, what can he do? See!” says she 
                                                              the lêche cul

This’s as far as the State can grasp  
       reduced to pilfering
   reduced to a kind of stunted growth
      the psyche stuck in a gluey paste
   holding hands pressing pumping palms
        waltzing on the Champs Elysée 
     lisping careless whispers:

“I’m never gonna dance again…
    Guilty feet got no rhythm…
The way I danced with you oh oh…
    So wrong that you had to leave me alone!”

Let’s plunder the proof he has
Then we can all kick his ass

(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn

Diary Notes: Lament at Dawn
				                             …at the heart of the township
ten-ton buses throb empty
				their drivers slumped in the heat
   behind their steering wheels listening to their favourite stations 
		hot full of drowsy hissed talk on the pregnancy of stars
at junctions  overhead drives   bridges   roundabouts    crossroads
     you see mothers with shopping bags dragging woeful tearful 
                                toddlers waiting at traffic lights where no traffic waits
the air disgorges itself of fumes
			and no birds would sing to a deserted plain 
	at the academy building where garden warblers vied with larks
aspiring choruses at street operas
		only the abandoned rickety scaffolding drip with stale paint
the Great tit so insistent in her quest
      driven with late June cracker blasts at midnight
             has joined some vagrant migrant lot to the Mediterranean mists
only stray magpies quarrel in undertones swearing cursing scrapping the mind
       pigeons and turtle doves forage along pathways mocking foot-falling steps			 
   the route round the back of the Prefecture for a year now is shut to the public
		a reminder to the Charlie Hebdo ISIS fiasco
and the joggers take to the thoroughfare in their tell-tale whallop-y shorts
        at the kinder gardens lone working mothers hang out with texting iPhones for the evening bell

the beggars    all      gone to sun themselves (yes…this’s cruel) on the Riviera
     
	 leaving four wizened figures long un-paying residents by the law faculty mounds
seated next to next in their unwashed best exchanging memories
              like the kids they may have been at tenement blocks on an abandoned culvert without toys
	the skies cloud over and dissipate without complaint
now and then Atlantic winds bring news of thunder
	and have us short-changed
     the last we heard was the early morning 5.20 metro pull out of its shed 

at the drug-and-grocery stores   supermarkets    only the migrant lot meet to chat
		the Mall stays chockfull of lush-green girls dressed in their mothers’ best
	looking for a fix
   the queues thin at the chemist’s
						security guards tire of looking into bags
         they smile thinking of something that must have amused them
perhaps at some chance encounter or at some pungent lascivious repartee
    the Maghreb-ian neighbours still won’t give up their heedless tapage 
             you can even hear their gasping breath on creaking boards and floors

those who come and go at the entrance still spy on the locks and keyholes yours to pick and click
	waiting to tell the gardienne or some official still on vacation
       
the usual figures flit through the early light to dig into the rubbish bins
  	lepers of our remains
					where do they bunk
		in what mountain hold or time
silently busy   not-caring                   
                                       what the world might think
								
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details

Monsieur L'Vampyre and the Dark Lady

   MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE & 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

                                                    FRENCH GIRLS  


                                                  Thru the eyes of an
                                                          innocent 
                                               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.

                                                         But 
                                                         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 Vee Bdosa | Details

Moonsieur L'Vampyre PARISIENNE NIGHT

MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE Parisienne Night 
In the still of the night by the Seine in soft light 
all the heart of Paris was aglow, 
where I stood I could see that a long night for me 
lay ahead if some one didn't show. 
But the dark all around was as void as the sound 
of the night life had given to me, 
so I walked by the Seine til the fog had set in 
and the world was as still as could be. 
In the fog every sight was a halo of light 
every sound of my steps were echoed 
from the grey weathered stone and to hear--I alone, 
so I walked, without lifes' heavy load. 
Not a care did I know; where I be, where I go, 
what was there wasn't real, anyway, 
but a dream of my youth--very far from the truth 
that would hide in the light of the day. 
Then I felt that a tear had just fallen, so near, 
from someone that the night wouldn't show; 
and distinctly the cry, of a sob, and nearby, 
from the breast of someone I should know. 
So I followed the sound to the Seine, where I found 
all in tears, for the love she had lost, 
she was ready to end all the pain in the Seine 
love had been in her life, at a cost! 
Of the joys I can feel not a one's quite as real 
as I get when I see love awry, 
so I layed on the charm and then she took my arm 
and we walked without her caring why. 
We stopped at a street lamp and her cheeks were still damp 
from the tears now forgetting to fall, 
and her lonliness fell to a bottomless well 
as I pressed her love back to a wall; 
I set her lock aside to see if her hair hide 
any mark--not a one I could see, 
so I set my teeth in to her flesh, and begin 
drinking all of her love there could be. 
How she welcomed that night, from my deep probing bite, 
all the love she'd just wanted to shed 
when I reached to her soul, I could tell she was whole, 
and was one of my own, the undead. 
And we stole from the past everything that could last 
til an end, then we set it all free-- 
to the still of the night; to the glow of the light; 
and the echos of eternity. 
She let loose her embrase, and I turned from her face 
satisfied, and content as could be 
when I turned back around--she was gone--and I found 
where she was I could find not a trace! 
So I probe in the dark, every neck, every mark 
from the coming of dark, until dawn 
but my loves are a mask, in the end, I still ask, 
where ever has my lover gone? 
       © ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2017

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 »

I

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 !

II

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

III

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 Poems