Paris Quintet
 
La Cirque de Paris
 
Tous les arondissements
like circles
going nowhere.
 
Tous les queens
heads falling
like chestnuts.
 
Tous les paintings
dans la musée
like pieces of printemps
falling in hiver.
 
Tous les personnes
comme feathers and balls
hard and soft
seduced by the light.
 
Tous les jeune filles
their clothes falling like
leaves
in front of Matisse.
 
Dans les catacombes
toute la vie
falls silent
in front of death.
 
The poet’s words
les quatre vents
falling like
music of the air.
 
 
Paris --after Baudelaire
 
Between rose and blue,
at the vanishing point,
the city appears
in her robe of mystery.
 
She was born in gold and white
but the fires of revolution
and pollution
brought black tears.
 
With her eternal gaze
and fleeting shadows
she listens like a child
and speaks in light.
 
 
Bréton
 
He lived
in le monde moderne
where realitée
escapes
like a mad dog.
 
He wanted
to discover
the marvelous
between juxtapositions
like a skull
in the hands
of a child.
 
He wanted
to uncover 
the mystery—
the transparent motif
like the city beneath snow.
 
He left us
with les chimeras de l’age—
his words filling
the night sky
like the ghostly glow of war.
 
 
Dawn
 
Sometimes I feel
as if I am preaching
to the birds.
My hands stained
with the bloody past.
Poetry always pulling
at me like cherubim.
This earthly boticelli
seeking a saint’s view.
I looked toward rose;
they thought I was blue.
I became a martyr
for my lost self.
I kept dreaming of heaven,
sleeping with headless
musicians and artists,
wanting to move
beyond simple narration
towards St. Cosmos,
moving in a geometric
betrayal of men
beyond the vanishing point,
leaving behind symbols
of purity and symmetry,
leaving behind
linear pathos,
advancing upon
an apocryphal nativity.
 
Always the eternal city
in the distance
seen more clearly now
from high on Golgotha.
Crucified for my perspective,
for my reverence of the deep
landscapes of mystery.
 
One day, out of the
transparent shadows,
I will reveal myself.
 
 
The Sad History of Beautiful Places
 
--She said, “No one ever wanted to destroy Paris, not even Hitler, because she is too beautiful.” 
 
We wander through
the honeycombed streets
above ground—
the confectionnaries and
music halls, grand arches
and porticos,
every stone building
sculpted by hand—
some riddled with bullet holes—
now a school of art—
these small entrances
where history entered
and stayed forever.
 
We wander—four women—
through the corridors
of the Louvre—
the most common themes:
war and women’s bodies.
I send a prayer to the future
with a museum filled with
paintings by women—
what new visions will you create,
melting those staid templates,
those walls of guns?
Will you engender a new music?
Where will history go without
war or sex or subjugation?
 
From within its stone walls,
we hear a hailstorm—
it will be heard
what we will
what wills us
what will we?
 
© Eskimo Pie Girl