Long Parisienne Poems
Long Parisienne Poems. Below are the most popular long Parisienne by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parisienne poems by poem length and keyword.
DEATH OF A PARISIENNE HOUSEMATE--Monsieur L'Vampyre
The death of me lay waiting in the dark
down candle lighted steps, before mine eyes
as my love held the blade, to leave the mark
upon my neck before I'd realize
yes I knew she was there, and filled with hate
a murderess if I'd do as she thought
but I had other plans, to change her fate,
and lay her deep with all the pain she'd wrought;
my derringer was cocked and firm in hand
and chambered were both silver tips for her
whilst I had in my mind, and had it planned
in self defense I'd fire, be as it were.
just as her wolf man died the night before
from mine own hand behind her bedroom door!
(less of ****** he was humping for.)
And how she cried as he drew his last breath
I nearly had compassion for her spell,
forgetting how they'd made my life a death
and that his soul was borned straight out from hell
but grabbed she then my pearly handled knife
my very favorite blade of cutlery
I used in gutting pigs, or end the life
of anyone who'd do a wrong to me;
So down theses cellar steps she's led the chase
welll knowing I would have to end her days,
lest she could beat my play, and save her face
and then convince the gendarmes of my ways!
I heard her breathing Paris, her sweet sound,
but couldn't place the point where she'd be found
for silver tips to put her in the ground.
The creaking of each wooden step gave sway
as I tried to step lightly down the stair
until the last was stone, and had no play
she held her breath, and silence filled the air!
The shadows from the candle's dancing flame
there on the wall made nothing for a clue
so stepped I through the dim, to stalk my game
and then I felt the swish my blade can do!
She missed her mark, but cut my sweated skin
enough to give more credence to my tale
and fired I silver tips, through satin thin
and to her heart--you should have heard her wail!
She died as she had lived, a fool for me--
and looked too sweet for gentlemen to see,
And so I beat her one more time for free!
Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe
In new blue denim,
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau
Stared straight through me
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.
Being screamed at in Pigalle,
And then howled at again
By some kind of wild-eyed
Drifter who told me to go
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting soused in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
Cash squandered
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
Metro taken to Montparnasse,
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - Parisienne Dream
and suddenly you've fallen through the seams
from very life, to stroll here by the Seine,
dropped from reality into my dreams
where you've loved me forever now and then.
You taste the fragrance of Parisienne night
and hear the distant singing all too clear,
it's just a dying nymph, in her delight,
one of the dead who knows her death is here.
Be as it may, your love tries not to speak,
as we enjoy the streetlamps' shadowings,
I press you to the stone and kiss your cheek,
and you can feel the sorrow midnight brings;
you echo words that concertina's say
only at night when love has lost her way.
My searching leads to parting of your hair,
as gentle hands reveal a neck too white,
and you can feel the pain, it lingers where;
I've set my teeth, and then you feel the bite,
and there I nurse, your suckling tiny child,
of blood and life, the nourishment I crave;
that keeps me seeking you, but drives me wild;
and makes me civilized, but mis-behave.
In your surprise, from seeking mortal sin,
expecting sex; this is no mere foreplay;
you go beyond the limits of the Seine,
to yet another dream that will not stay.
Your struggle to reality is brief,
and you succomb into my time of grief.
The draining of your love into my own
is secondary to the love you take,
you'll fall from here, back to the life you've known
and that's the choice you have, it's yours to make;
you'll waken in the night and you'll forget;
safe in your bed, your pensione's gloom,
but on your neck, the trace of blood and sweat
leads you to feel each shadow of your room.
Remembering the locking of our eyes,
that made you cross the line into the dead,
will make you cry, but never realize,
that where you've been lies hidden in your head.
Perhaps you'll meet a boy I cannot be,
but when he kisses you, you'll know it's me.
© Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet aka Ron Wilson
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - Parisienne Dream
Quite suddenly you've fallen through the seams
from very life, to stroll here by the Seine,
dropped from reality into my dreams
where you've loved me forever now and then.
You taste the fragrance of Parisienne night
and hear the distant singing all too clear,
it's just a dying nymph, in her delight,
one of the dead who knows her death is here.
Be as it may, your love tries not to speak,
as we enjoy the streetlamps' shadowings,
I press you to the stone and kiss your cheek,
and you can feel the sorrow midnight brings;
you echo words that concertina's say
only at night when love has lost her way.
My searching leads to parting of your hair,
as gentle hands reveal a neck too white,
and you can feel the pain, it lingers where;
I've set my teeth, and then you feel the bite,
and there I nurse, your suckling tiny child,
of blood and life, the nourishment I crave;
that keeps me seeking you, but drives me wild;
and makes me civilized, but mis-behave.
In your surprise, your feigning now and then,,
expecting sex; this is no mere foreplay;
you go beyond the limits of the Seine,
to yet another dream that will not stay.
Your struggle to reality is brief,
and you succomb into my time of grief.
The draining of your love into my own
is secondary to the love you take,
you'll fall from here, back to the life you've known
and that's the choice you have, it's yours to make;
you'll waken in the night and you'll forget;
safe in your bed, your pensione's gloom,
but on your neck, the trace of blood and sweat
leads you to feel each shadow of your room.
Remembering the locking of our eyes,
that made you cross the line into the dead,
will make you cry, but never realize,
that where you've been lies hidden in your head.
One day, you'll meet a boy I cannot be,
but making love to him, you're making love to me.
© Ron Arbuthnot.
...my paris begins with those early days as as a conscious flaneur I recall the couple seated opposite me on the metro when i was still innocent of its labyrinthine complexity slim pretty white girl clad head to toe in denim smiling wistfully while her muscular black beau stared through me with fathomless orbs and one of them spoke almost in a whisper qu'est-ce-que t'en pense and it dawned on me yes the slender young parisienne with the distant desirous eyes was no less male than me dismal movies in the forum des halles and beyond being screamed at in pigalle and then howled at again by some kind of madman or vagrant who told me to go to the bois de boulogne to meet what he saw as my destiny menaced by a sinister skinhead for trying on tessa's wide-brimmed hat getting soused in les halles with sara who'd just seen dillon as rusty james and was walking in a daze sara again with jade at the caveau de la huchette jazz cellar the cafe de flore with milan who asked for a menu for me and then disappeared back to bretigny cash squandered on a gold tootbrush two tone shoes from close by to the place d'italie portrait sketched at the place du tertre paperback books by symbolist poets such as villiers de l'isle adam but second hand volumes by trakl and deleve and a leather jacket from the marche aux puces porte de clignancourt losing cary's address scrawled on a page of musset's confession walking the length and breadth of the rue st denis, what an artists (sic) paradise (as juliette once wrote me)...
my paris begins with
those early days
as a conscious flaneur
i recall the couple
seated opposite me
on the metro
when i was still innocent
of its labyrinthine complexity
slim pretty white girl
clad head to toe in denim
smiling wistfully
while her muscular black beau
stared through me
with fathomless orbs
and one of them spoke
almost in a whisper
qu'est-ce-que t'en pense
and it dawned on me
yes the young parisienne
with the distant desirous eyes
was no less male than me
dismal movies
in the forum des halles
being screamed at in pigalle
and then howled at again
by some kind of madman
or vagrant who told me
to go to the bois de boulogne
to meet what he saw
as my destiny
menaced
by a sinister skinhead
for trying on tessa's
wide-brimmed hat
getting soused in les halles
with sara
who'd just seen
dillon as rusty james
and was walking in a daze
sara again with jade
at the caveau
de la huchette jazz cellar
cash squandered
on a gold tootbrush
two tone shoes
from close by
to the place d'italie
portrait sketched
at the place du tertre
paperback books
by symbolist poets
but second hand volumes
by trakl and deleve
and a leather jacket
from the marche aux puces
porte de clignancourt
losing gary's address
scrawled on a page
of musset's confession
walking the length
and breadth of the rue st denis,
what an artist's paradise
(as juliette once wrote me).
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE Parisienne Walk
One spring and sunny day I set my sight
behind my darkened lenses, feigning night,
so I might stroll in my own way
and see what's life in light of day,
my thread put to my back, I travelled light;
when Paris comes to all its greenery,
there's not a sight that means so much to me
as flowers holding to the hair
of Mademoiselles out ev'rywhere,
and laughing children, that's how life should be.
The beat of Paris leads a steady pace
and if you stop, you're holding up the race
there's not enough time in a day
to walk all of Champs Elysees
and so you miss the smile of ev'ry face.
But there are places few would care to go
with streets so narrow, darkness is the glow,
where yesterday's not in the past,
but here and now, and here to last,
with cobble stones laid many years ago;
a world of silence, far from natures care,
a place of echoes, snapping here to there;
the signs of life flow past your feet
and to the Seine, just down the street,
but leaves its scent, it's with you ev'rywhere.
This is a time, more than a place to be,
the soul of Paris few can ever see,
the very secrets of her heart,
where light of Paris had its start,
and left here for the very likes of me.
You hear her whisper in the mid of day,
or you might hear a concertina play,
but all that's Paris surely lies
right here for you before your eyes,
and it's the dream Parisians want to stay.
© Ron Arbuthnot
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - the foggy night
As dark a night that's hidden Paris streets
from prying eyes, fell on the city cold,
there came I to the setting fog, that greets
the cobble stones layed in the days of old.
With naught to fear from Gendarmes in the night,
I wandered through the dark, just searching for
someone who's lost at life and love, and might
be ready for what this night has in store.
And near me, walking by the River Seine
face turned into her hands, to hide her tears,
a beauty bound to stop the hearts of men,
in days of youth or getting on in years;
I knew at once her love was drawing nigh
so set my path to where she met mine eye.
A welcome sigh from deep within her breast
breathed from her lips and begged my company,
so strolled we through the fog, and made a quest
of finding what was love, what could it be?
And reasoned she, that love was just a game
that men have made the rules and set to stone
and my requital was, our love's a flame
that burns as much as anything that's known.
So as the fog hid ev'ry thing from sight
we set about to find what love might show
then loved we through the cold Parisienne night
down by the Seine, where only lovers go;
and when I sank my teeth, I heard her sigh,
that love must be the only way to die.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
MONSIEUR L'VAMPYRE - the foggy night
As dark a night that's hidden Paris streets
from prying eyes, fell on the city cold,
there came I to the setting fog, that greets
the cobble stones layed in the days of old.
With naught to fear from gendarmes in the night,
I wandered through the dark, just searching for
someone who's lost at life and love, and might
be ready for what this night has in store.
And there just walking by the River Seine
face turned into her hands, to hide her tears,
a beauty bound to stop the hearts of men,
in days of youth or getting on in years;
I knew at once that love was drawing nigh
so set my path to where she met mine eye.
A welcome sigh from deep within her breast
breathed from her lips and begged my company,
so strolled we through the fog, and made a quest
of finding what was love, what could it be?
And reasoned she, that love was just a game
that men have made the rules and set to stone
and my requital was, that love's a flame
that burns as much as any fire that's known.
So as the fog hid ev'ry thing from sight
we set about to find what love might show
then loved we through the cold Parisienne night
down by the Seine, where only lovers go;
and when I sank my teeth, I heard her sigh,
that love must be the only way to die.
GIRL IN PARISIENNE FOG
All evening fog is settled from the ground,
not right in where it goes, nor where it's found;
the Seine makes distance to each barren tree
unmeasured from the mind to what should be,
and blended to the world that's all around.
And from the limestone walls, echos the tap
of femininity, in evening wrap;
she's hurried, lest the night finds her alone
and vulnerable to legends she has known;
yet she's desirous of what couldn't hap.
The corner street lamps lend their halo'd light
grotesque in their own way, as if they might
leap out of time and drag her by the throat
and cast her down into a timeless moat,
where she would die alone 'for ends this night.
She clutches to her breasts, where minds go mad,
as if it's all the love they've ever had,
but she will cry all night, when she's alone
into the pillow love has never known,
and that's what makes her tale so very sad.
Her plea's for love, that doesn't have to end,
like only dreamers deem to comprehend,
but all she finds are bodies falling on
what she has sold from evening to the dawn,
and not a one could be even a friend.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet