Today, for thirteen minutes,
It was 1954
And I found myself in Paris,
Mesmerized and wanting more.
Watching people, mostly children,
Interacting in a park
Was a pleasure to observe,
Thanks to a film by Shirley Clarke.
From the clothing (nothing denim!)
To the rides and carousel,
Life was captured in such detail,
By the faces you could tell
That the park was someplace special
Since an ordinary day
Brought so much to each expression
That each person did display.
A puppet show, my favorite part,
Caught joy and fear and glee,
The reactions of the children
Such a privilege to see.
I could have been among them
Had I been a child in France,
But today I was transported;
MOMA* let me have my chance.
*Museum of Modern Art, New York City
(mostly Senryu poems)
Why do people attempt to engage?
When I'm so obviously disengaged.
Ok, tourists, when
I'm communing with my phone
please leave me alone.
I'm shopping, waiting
for the metro, I don't like
talking to strangers.
People in Paris,
think people who stop you on
the street are scammers.
I'm not here to help,
like a theme park employee.
Take your own pictures.
Your phone is equiped
With GPS, and very
exact directions.
This is my home, I'm
on my way somewhere, like school,
I have a schedule.
I'm not Mickey Mouse
or a Blues Clues character.
Jésus, go away
Are we unfriendly?
No, we're living - would you stop
a New Yorker? No.
.
.
Songs for this:
Comme ci, comme ça by ZAZ
There was a moon over Paris—at noon
misplaced in space?
Awakened too soon?
noon moon,
I saw you floating alone
without a cloud in the sky
without a night of your own
And with the moon flying high above me
like cloud made of magical stone
I felt a wish I made celestially
might save me from being alone
noon moon,
I long for someone to care for
some one that I could be there for
someone to call all my own
.
.
Songs for this:
Blue Moon (feat. vGumiho) by Derivakat
Blue Moon by The Mavericks
hunting the Rue Saint-Honoré
leaves me no breath
when women brawl for fashion
with warrants of gold
we become lions
every eye looks
taking hunter's aim
in piteous chase
the hares we hunt
are the new, the hot, the exclusive
not the lower marked
cry havoc
for animals heave fewer groans
only wars, revolt and poisons
attend more frightful chaos
one could come to hurt
but fault no villains
that is not our hunting language
we are confederates in chase
seeking the swaggers of success
.
.
A song for this:
Baby You're a Superstar by Mark Roberts, Paul Fletcher, Patrick Sturrock, Emily Taylor & Dan Whitfield
Old money home,
white curtains drawn,
shadow of the moon
bringing the violin back in tune.
I open the diary,
look at the old pages,
the desperate wishes.
Now I live.
To walk on the streets,
the fashion,
old luxury on my body,
the rich stock of scent,
the exclusive watch on my wrist,
power, confidence in my fist.
The glowing tower at night.
I dance, I make a wish, I cry, I live—
the life my old version always needed.
To experience the city of dreams,
as a niche class of society,
champagne in the backseat,
returning to the palace I built.
Alarms came alive.
Reality hits.
Oh, this dream,
I badly wanna live.
Seeing the Seine
and the Eiffel Tower view
it's not the same
without you
so feeling somewhat blue
toujours l'amour ma chérie
with this brief billet-doux
thought I'd drop a line
wish you were here
the weather's fine
consumer desire is a love language
wit is despair wearing lipstick
social identity is status management
About heartbreak:
Looking back is a good way to get a crick in your neck.
When it comes to s.e.x, I take a neutral position.
If you ever wanted to join
a sweaty, Paris, basement rave
now’s the time.
.
.
A song for this:
Bingo by La Sécurité
She relished bragging about her jet lag.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Can our hearts be reduced to our behavior?
20,000 people a day visit the Eiffel Tower, which is about 450 feet
from our back windows - trees block much of the view and they’re
several stories below us, so only a bit of the loudest noise reaches us.
By 8pm that number is halved and by 10pm only stragglers remain
- and lovers, who stroll hand in hand at all hours.
There are no more classes, this year, we were given two weeks
to study for first year final exams - which start in 2 days.
When studying late at night,
I setup on our 6th floor balcony
I love the seeming quiet
(I’m jamming to my AirPods).
I have quite the imagination
- my perch seems like a tree-fort
because the trees are within reach
studying is like an exploration
I pretend that no one else knows
these things I’m discovering
of course that’s silly
but feelings are feelings
I wish I didn’t have to sleep
I love the research
I love my music, I love the darkness
I can watch the lovers walk the park
I’m up here, alone, for hours
there are peak moments happening
in the tree-fort
.
.
Songs for this:
Lush Life by Zara Larsson
New Rules by Dua Lipa
Give me but some music
- in heavens empty hours -
a piece of song, giddy-paced
and innocence for innocence
I’m a horse that never tires
While a cup of wine
makes light airs
and merry hearts
It too can unyoke the humour of the immature,
“So, wait, you think if you say a few right things
I’ll let you on it?”
Ha! No I won’t
you weak spirit
I see right through you
Oh, I’m not lily-white of hue,
I’m more the colour of blood red roses
But that one there, *pointing*
he relieves my passion
see this ring?
I frisk for him
.
.
Songs for this:
We'll Sing In the Sunshine by Thornbirds
Landslide (feat. Gwyneth Paltrow) - Glee Cast
Snowbird by Rani Arbo & Daisy Mayhem
I’m so happy
someone slap me
bring me back to earth
before I float away, like a bird
This is a short week, before a 4-day weekend. It’s time to push it.
The density of study per square minute is chaotically high - but worth it.
If I can get everything done, I’ll have days to shake off the smallness
of school, perk-up my vital-signs and revitalise.
I’m motivated, elated and intoxicated at the thought of it
- I’m twirling in front of mirrors - can these feelings even be articulated?
I’m dancing through metro crowds
the uneven cobblestones feel like clouds
I blew a kisses to a busking mime
while bopping to ‘Lady Gaga’ sounds
I shocked an old lady
with an act of voluntary kindness
- I gave her my seat on the metro
she had groceries and looked about eighty
People aren’t mean,
they’re just mindless
it’s a form of situational blindness
I hope you guys have a great weekend too,
just relaxin’ and passing into springtime.
.
.
A song for this:
Kissing Strangers feat. Nicki Minaj) by DNCE [E]
Back 2 Back by Dazy Chain
.
.
[E] = Explicit lyrics
It's Friday, yay! The final weekday of my academic immurement.
On Friday nights we go out - we’re up late - so late that it’s early,
but it’s ok, we’re young and dumb.
But if you think you’ll find me sleeping in on a Saturday morning - you’d be wrong.
On the weekends, the richest part of Paris mornings involve neighborhood street-life - which are invitations to sensory abundance - and it all happens before lunchtime.
The sensorial joys of the “sun-south” flower market stalls, overflowing with fresh lavender, peonies and powdery-sweet Violet blooms - tulips from Holland and roses from Kenya - that cool the air with fresh fragrances compete and mingle with savory baking aromas from local boulangeries (bakeries).
The dueling scents define mornings in the Marais (ivy-clad streets) or along the Seine.
Hit the snooze button and you can miss it (and trust me, napping later can be fun).
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
under the milky way by the church
The air is very still
with not a cloud in the sky
the air is the temperature of my skin
as Paris sits in unearthly quiet
I love the liminal world
in the last-watch of night
the coldest-dark before dawn
when the city’s not yet alive
A low-area-mist lies on the Seine
like a luminous veil of winter breath
with stygian, pooling currents underneath
that always remind me of death
the black cat always sits
on the quay wall of the bridge
it’s there almost every day
not completely, solidly black
so i think, luck-wise, it’s ok
I make a conversational mee-oww sound
each time we pass, but it never answers back
it just jerkily flicks the final inch of its tail,
like it’s giving us the cat-bird.
.
.
A song for this:
Nothing Can Stop Us by Saint Etienne
Levitating (Live from the Royal Albert Hall) by Dua Lipa
For what conveys an air of
Chic sophistication
Romantic-lamped, but highlights
Its walks, beauteous
The Paris of our shared dreams
Is glowingly realised.
Wrapped in whose soft kind of light
Is gauzy-glamourous.
When classes break
we’re on the clock
don’t jam up the hall
don’t stand there and talk
Get out of my way
I have places to go
why the fecking-feck
are people so slow?
I hop down escalators
I fairly run down halls
I get bored in the elevators
I bounce off the walls
I plan ahead
I plot my course
through crowds I thread
it’s almost a sport
Tik tock people
no, not the app
stop acting like sheeple
I need a coffee between classes.
Excuse me,
I don’t mean to whine
but if you’re not at the front of the line
you can run out of time.
Once you can order, there’s no time to play
“Un croque-monsieur et un grand crème, s'il vous plaît”
and it isn’t a moment before you’re on your way.
as I’m sipping my coffee
students full up the line
as I savor my sandwich
some will run out of time
This swarm of students
are supposed to be brilliant
but they’re too cool to hurry
I shrug - c'est la vie
.
.
Songs for this:
Le Breakfast Club de Paris by Gabrielle Chiararo
C'est Si Bon by In-Grid
.
.
breakfast order:
croque-monsieur = a grilled ham & cheese breakfast sandwich
grand creame = a large coffee with heavy cream
Paris Categories
Definition | What is Paris in Poetry?
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