I am,
In every breath,
Everything that we made
And all that we let fall away-
Too soon.
Do you remember Paris on occasions when Spring winds
Wash in from the east and the sound of drinks on terraces
Sweep over the city, recalling those lazy days- a lifetime ago,
Before we knew London together or what it would be like to part?
Do you, do you remember Paris, my room, our love
And all those carefree dreams we shared and found
As we lay at night in that single bed, in the corner, wrapped-
Not just due to lack of space- so tightly in one another,
Long before I lost myself and you lost me?
Do you dare to look back on those weekend meanders
Through the cobbled streets that I thrilled to show you
And you longed to see through my eyes, as well as yours?
Those early days of bloom that fell so timely to nights
Back at the water castle, a name-deceptive metro stop,
Where kisses would take us through to the dawn.
Remember our first Spring and how it warmed into Summer
As we sailed through the city like no one else existed
And no time could have been more suited to such a pair
Who fell in love with dogs in pet shop windows as we strolled
To Pont Neuf, to sip on wine, wave farewell to the sun and sleep
Under the shade of a tiny park, at the bottom of the bridge
On the first site of the city, by the walls of its Musee du Louvre.
Remember that rainstorm, that marvelous Sunday; we woke up
As the lightening struck and birds flapped wildly to find reason
Amid the mornings madness why their feathery wings failed
To find flight. Funny how I missed any warning in their fluttering.
I remember your first night in my city- deep in The Banana
In Les Halles, with Yasmine’s infectious grin, boys in towels
On table tops, the piano, the dancing and the DJ who sang
And the morning that found us before we had stopped.
Remember La Grande Jatte, in the shadow of Seurat,
On a sleepy Sunday morning when we stopped
To make connections beyond what the eye could see-
To remember what the painter had seen? You sang
Of the colors between the water and the sky, ignorant
To all but us and the music that filled our minds on that ordinary day,
In a simple Summer, during a Sunday stroll, on an isolated island,
Where everything seemed more and more extraordinary.
On Hugo’s trail, we searched out the ghosts of a Paris long fallen to history-
Stench filled sewers, Luxembourg gardens and finally, and above all,
By a tree in the far reaches of LaChaise where Val Jean had laid
His miseries to rest. Was it later that night I confessed to be falling
While in your arms and your eyes replied that you were already there?
Do you remember that time at Disney? You, the one with the Mickey ears and I,
The one with the childlike fears till the valium kicked in- your treasured
And unused stash- an airplane’s roar enough to set your hairs on end.
Do you still remember those endless nights in the Tropic; sipping on Gin Fizzes,
Fresh from the cinema, sandwich grec’s on the way home along rue saint Denis-
It’s ladies only then awaking to their nocturnal life?
Remember that single bed in the corner; I always woke up stuck to the wall
Or wedged somehow between bed and brick. The sofa, the table
And the sunflowers of plastic- so not what you’d imagined at all.
Remember those early wake-up calls as Monday morning broke our spirits
And sounded a parting- a rush to the station and tears as you left me
Wondering, always, when you’d return.
Do you dare to venture to the times we shared
In what seems like a lifetime ago when not a minute suggested
What time would design and we’d one day have to let go?
Remember Paris,
Remember you,
Remember me,
Remember us.
You haunt me, you know, your park benches empty in the shadows of moonlight
And your lamplights; desolately romantic as if longing for a lovers embrace.
I know not why you have called me out of them all. A million people
Thread through your streets everyday, every night, yet I am the one
With pen in hand, scribbling questions that you never answer
As I stare into your magnetic waters that tug at me from lands afar.
Are there others who wander you aimlessly, haunted by a melancholic longing?
I know not. Do they gaze on you with unwavering love, forgetting your scars
And bruises, your brutish bureaucracy and snappish shrugs-
Or do they just despise your perfection, your pride, your success?
I see only ever increasing circles in your waters, dragging me down,
Pulling me in, asking me why I parted and when I shall return
To be sucked in, hauled down, ripped bare and naked in front of you.
Ten years on- our anniversary, I am saddened, sombre, elated and overjoyed
In your presence but still know not why. Is it the simply the je n’es sais quoi?
A man stands before me and looks down at you from a bridge, hand against face,
And watches your motions. Is he as captured by you as I? Can he leave you,
Release you, let go of you- like I cannot. What lies so deep within his stare?
What makes him stop, like I, upon your bridge, before your Lady, our Lady, and look
And wish and wonder? I know not what his reasons are as much as I know not my own.
Am I your folly or is it you that are mine? Tell me, speak to me, inform me,
Embrace me amid your precious Pomp and Circumstance or let me go,
Sail me off and set me free. For I am yours for the asking, yours for the calling,
Yours in waiting, devoid of answers but so full of questions.
I smile when my feet hit your floor, cry when my eyes see your treasures
And fear everything you made me into, everything I ran from
And everything I left of me, with you, in my passing.
I am open book without ending, a poem without a point,
A line without structure. Is this it? Are we finished?
Or is this just a little repose?
Poems, Poetry, Poets
Some lays of the Fianna, translated from the Irish by Annraoi de Paor with illustrations by Tim Halpin
A small press
The Things That Are In My Head.
Stay Bloody Poetic
Author of 'Sent, 'Fall', 'Unmuted' and 'Saudade'
home of the elusive trope
Fantasy Author
Words about pictures by Michael Scandling
Writing, Poetry & Creativity | Angela T Carr, Dublin, Ireland
Kay McKenzie Cooke Website & Blog
My journey through photography
landscape and change
My poetry is my religion.
Colouring Outside The Lines
Expressing moments of Inspiration within a cozy setting
"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." Ps 147:3
Art • Nature • Exploration
Peter Hillman's Photographic Exploration of South Staffordshire and Beyond
Poetry inspired by ethereal feelings, life events and personal philosophy.
A Journal of Brief Literature
Film, Music, and Television Critic
Writer
Art and Lifestyle by Brandon Knoll
New Zealand
French magazine - art & visual culture
A palette of general thoughts & travel stories from all around the world
Jack Bennett
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
a writing space curated by José Angel Araguz
Thoughts and Perspectives From the Mind of a Common Girl
Cooking with imagination