Paris Poetry

GEORGES, REFLECTIONS OF SEURAT ON A SUNDAY

/ deuxiemepeau / 99 Comments

 

Colour,
he saw colour
in a park, a simple park
on a Sunday, in the summer.
Colour,
he painted colour 
in that park; clear, considered
untainted, untampered
colour,
specs of colour,
rays of light
in a park
on a Sunday, in the summer 
in a season of details, in a salon of specifics
under demands to consolidate, co-operate. 
Colour,
he saw colour,
a canvas of light and colour,
a carnival of colour.
Colour,
he saw colour 
in a park, on people
simple people, working people
fishing people, fidgeting people
not polished people, not posh people.
They buried him
in a park,
another park,
a quieter park
but still with light and colour.
They buried him
and then they buried his son
and then another,
life and death,
father and sons,
children and art,
children or art but only art survived.
He saw colour
on a Sunday, in a park, on an island, in Paris, 
to the left of its center
and there he made a difference.  

 

All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken on Ile de la Grande Jatte, Paris, France. 
 

SHADES OF METROS MOVING

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I take the metro and tour the world
on one single line, in one single hour,
I am south and white, not so south 
that I am ghetto, but I’m still south
so I start in paler shades, fragile skin,
freckled skin, skin burnt by sunlight
and I travel central to chicer centres,
to tote bags, Chanel bags, Prada bags,
bags so cool they don’t have names
carried with character and sun glasses
worn indoors over eyes, on the head,
and all through life, I cross the Seine
and the current now changes to casual
as the youth descend from Les Halles;
the track suits and highheels, gay boys
with toned tops, crew cuts in J crew’s,
chiseled cheek bones and trendy setters
with Asian angles, before I move north
again, further up the line and I darken,
in one stop; I am urban now, ethnic and 
eager with attitude, edgy, and on I go
until I’m swayed, suddenly, in shawls
and in wraps and in colours so bright,
I am now a kaleidoscope of carriages 
going north, tearing up into the ghetto,
of the greatness, of the gangs, the guts,
I am metro madness in one line of life.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FRIDAY 13TH, PARIS

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

In the supermarket
on Saturday
in the 14th, 
on the 14th,
in numb November,
in Paris, their Paris,
our Paris, my Paris,
people push grief 
in comfortless trolleys 
down shadowed aisles 
of silence, strangers
claiming their spaces
in solidarity, in queues 
of slow moving sorrow,
seeing shadow in places 
where once there was light, 
terror in crowds 
where once there was music,
death in their streets
where once there was life.
In a supermarket
in the 14th,
on the 14th,
as the numbers rise
on a Saturday morning,
there is nothing available 
on a single shelf
to fill the void
of what we lost
in the night.

It’s not the whole world 
It’s not the end of the world
but it’s far too far from a perfect world.

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on n’oublié pas
espoir est plus fort que horreur

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Hope is stronger than horror

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All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FINE LINES

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There is a man, in the rain, in a hat,
getting wet, growing mad,
calling connards to the penguins
of Parisian pedestrians plodding past him.

There is a man, with cigars and a beer,
by a bin, full of madness, next to tourists
lost in maps as the rain pours down
on the wrong choice of shoes.

There is madness descending
on cursing cars and pelting rain,
on pedestrians pushing and babies crying,
on tourists tutting by one man who laughs
at them all, at it all, at nothing around him
and the chaos inside him.

There is rain on the man
on the side of the street
with a certain kind of scent,
who stores papers on his pockets,
the written worries of the world,
a madness that his mind cannot fathom.

There is a madness manifesting
in multiple ways in man and his muddles
next to puddles in the rain, by a bin,
on a street, at a pedestrian crossing
Where tourists are waiting their turn.

There is a fine line that divides
all the roads we can cross
and the madness
we cannot seem to conquer.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

L’EXISTENCE CONDAMNÉ

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

Cutting
through
the side of
the cemetery
where Sartre and
Simone lay sleeping,
trees line an alley, swaddled
in sunshine, testifying to today’s
teeming tenements, tiny tents pitched
by penniless people on pavements echoing
existentialisms very essence of existence,
regardless of which came first, existence
or essence, life or death, rich or poor,
the tragic truth of man condemned to be free,
were they not their very words, weighed down
on a world without creator? Shadowing their situation,
on either side, money in multitudes is burnt and buried
in plots beyond the walls, honouring and housing the dead,
long since departed. On a tree lined alley, on a sun filled day,
the poor in Paris are populating tents, with less rights than corpses
in coffins, confirming the causes of those left behind, left condemned to be free.

 

EN GRÈVE

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(Translation: In French, en grève means on strike, which is as much a part of everyday life in France as les baguettes, les fromages and shoulder shrugs, and most recent of all strikes was this weeks Parisian rubbish collection strike.)

The streets are steaming with unwanted waste,
The shit of a city smeared on its stones,
The air is fetid, foul, as if bowels have burst
In bins, unbreathable, unbearable, the streets
Are swayed with followers of fashion,
Chain smoking, chain gangs in trends too new,
Too numerous, in sharp and shiny stilettos
Sinking into the shit beneath them, unnoticed.
It is grave, grave, en grève, tu sais, on strike
They say, again, encore, toujours, our fortunes
On our backs and our faeces by our feet.

The sun is out, the shades are on, the shirts
Are off, the terraces are teaming with tourists,
The sun is out, the shades are on, the heat
Is rising and the shit is stinking. It is grave!

I miss coffee breath!

 

All words and photos by Damien B. Donnelly

BONNETS AND BURDENS

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We should dance, he said, as she passed,

Dropping the shovel with one hand, taking

His hat with the other, sun bleached

And straw weaved, but there’s no music,

She answered, but there’s no one watching,

He replied to the crimson cheeks

Of her porcelain face, neath a crimson bonnet

And he reached for her hand and his arm

Took her waste and his nose found her scent

And her skirts began to rustle and the cords

Coursed through the corset and the branches

Behind them turned movement into melody,

For a moment, in the sunshine, in a park,

On a Monday in May while he watched her

And wondered how long she would stay,

I won’t always be a gardener, he whispered

To the curve of her neck, to the twist of her ear,

To his work weary hands, battered and bruised,

To the part of him who longed for a wife,

But I will always be a widow, she said to herself,

As she smiled and left his hold, and the trees

Stopped their singing and the man picked his shovel,

This stranger, this gardener, this man who heard music,

This man who brought beauty to life, but the bonnet

That she wore was her husband’s favourite,

The dress, the last gift he gave, so she walked off

Alone, in the park, on a Monday, with her grief,

Which was all she had left.

 

All words and pictures by Damien B. Donnelly

FALLING ON FOREIGN SOIL

/ deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

Amid a city of grey slate roofs
I had painted my slate white,
Washing everything I had been,
Had seen, had loved and lost.
Those old fears fell from me
Like Fall’s gentle snowflakes
As I stood on foreign soil,
In a foreign land, with foreign rain
Covering me and foreign words
Falling all around me and fearing
Nothing more than the possibilities
That lay await on front of me.

In a fantastically foreign taxi,
I sailed across foreign streets,
On the foreign side of the road
With that same foreign rain
Washing down the windows
As we rushed past shop fronts,
Sidewalks and sleepy streets,
So much to take in, so little in focus.

I remember that very first morning,
Opening windows and seeing you
In morning fresh, bathed in shiny dew.
Those famed rooftops, chalky grey,
Your buildings, creamy white
And your sky of brilliant blue.
Nothing was blurred anymore,
Nothing any longer a suggestion,
In that morning, everything was.

I walked you south to north that day
As morning fell to afternoon
Amid rays of October sunshine
And rested by your banks,
Gauloises in hand, Notre Dame in view,
And took you in, forever.

You ingrained yourself into me-
As deep as that rose window
In your Cathedral I gazed upon
On that very first day. And yet,
Today, so removed from you,
I still feel you, fall drawn to you,
Like a familiar call from home.

I got lost amid your left banks
That afternoon but you guided me
Back to the right path though I felt
No turn could ever be wrong
Least I missed a part of you
As yet unnoticed, like a sly smile,
Double take or a furrowed stare
Caught afresh on the face
Of a lover known so well.

Eventually, I passed Notre Dame
Every night, as a thousand taxis
Whisked me home
And I reminded myself, always,
To look at your Lady and rejoice
In the luck I’d found to be mine.

I may travel away to lands and rains
And taxis foreign to you but
There will always remain,
Inside us both, the boy
On the bridge, that day,
With cigarette in hand
And possibilities in mind,
Looking at you and falling.

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The Irish Rose of Paris

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You fancied yourself as a writer, I think,

So many tales fell, so breathlessly, from your memory.

I am sure it was upon a sweeping staircase

Where we first met, long before foreign men tempted

And twisted us with foreign tales and foreign lips.

You, with your cascading curl’s,

The color of chestnuts in autumn,

And long belted coats- always off and running,

Oblivious to the inmates that surrounded us.

You perfected aloof while I, too shy to say no,

Was dragged to the dorm’s salle-a-manger

By the tedious herd, to partake and party

Until I could peter out unnoticed on hand and knee

To avoid what seemed like another Irish wake.

Later, after introductions, we chain smoked

Life stories in the TV room; those early days

When your smoking choked even me and I wanted

So much to be everything that you effortlessly were.

You were my wild eyed Catherine,

Moving faster than time allowed the rest of us,

While I, your Edgar, looked on in awe and tried to keep up

As Paris turned into our very own Moors.

We prided and congratulated ourselves on our ability

To acclimatize with our newly loved surroundings

Unlike our neighbors; only content with Irish jokes

And Irish bars while in the heart of a city that offered

\So much more than the dung-filled,

Mud-trodden fields which they so missed.

You were my breath of air; my mystery and adventure.

Once, I even questioned whether we could fall in love

And I believe we did- though in no conventional sense.

I was your confident in the College

And your beloved friend as we carved ourselves,

As much as we were allowed by the citizens

And bureaucracy, into our city of light.

Do you remember that wet, dull and far too normal day

In autumn and our train ride through town?

You sang me the love song from Irish shores

And I reveled in how it never seemed to end.

I watched you as you swam through that life

Barely needing to rise for air.

You are mother now

And still forever the rambling teller of tales

While I, still a traveler on this unending road,

Am ever grateful at how seamlessly our paths still cross.

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