Blue Noodles And The Silver Moon

Twas christmas time in Oxford street, we shopped for presents, trying to be discreet, carols and lights that end so soon, blue noodles and the silver moon.

The cobbled street's of Tunbridge Wells, each time we kissed, it rang the bells,
love is all, when all cocooned, blue noodles and the silver moon.

Riding elephants on a Thailand beach, tsunami heartbeat and gentle feet,
blood red sky and clouds that swoon, blue noodles and that silver moon.

Summer in Paris, arms entwined, I loved you so, for you were mine, caress the louvre, mime the rhymes, bastille gate's they sense a crime, wicked feats condemn and soon,
blue noodles shiver beneath frightened moon.

Barcelona nights of a fashion lust, a tapas dawn and velvet crush, sense foreboding and creeping doom, blue noodles choke by a crying moon.

So tell me then, what changed your mood? I hoped to seek of a heart turned crude,
we said goodbye and I thus conclude, farewell blue noodles, adios sweet moon.

poem by Fergus Michael Condron
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In Paris With You

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom

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poem by James Fenton
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La Republique Des Lettres

Fragment

Il n'est que d'être roi pour être heureux au monde.
Bénis soient tes décrets, ô sagesse profonde!
Qui me voulus heureux, et, prodigue envers moi,
M'as fait dans mon asile et mon maître et mon roi.
Mon Louvre est sous le toit, sur ma tête il s'abaisse;
De ses premiers regards l'orient le caresse.
Lits, sièges, table y sont portant de toutes parts
Livres, dessins, crayons, confusément épars.
Là, je dors, chante, lis, pleure, étudie et pense.
Là, dans un calme pur, je médite en silence
Ce qu'un jour je veux être; et, seul à m'applaudir,
Je sème la moisson que je veux recueillir.
Là, je reviens toujours, et toujours les mains pleines,
Amasser le butin de mes courses lointaines:
Soit qu'en un livre antique à loisir engagé,
Dans ses doctes feuillets j'aie au loin voyagé;
Soit plutôt que, passant et vallons et rivières,
J'aie au loin parcouru les terres étrangères.

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poem by Andre Marie de Chenier
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Consolation. (To M. Duperrier, Gentleman Of Aix In Provence, On The Death Of His Daughter)

Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be eternal?
And shall the sad discourse
Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal,
Only augment its force?

Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb descending
By death's frequented ways,
Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending,
Where thy lost reason strays?

I know the charms that made her youth a benediction:
Nor should I be content,
As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction
By her disparagement.

But she was of the world, which fairest things exposes
To fates the most forlorn;
A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses,
The space of one brief morn.

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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There Goes My Inspiration

They say pain can bring out the artists best
But since youve been gone, I just cant care less
Common sense doesnt realize
It can hurt so bad
Everyday I sit in my garret staring at the floor
But my heart isnt in it anymore
There goes my inspiration
My reason for creation
There goes my inspiration
I felt it fly away when you said goodbye
Me and gaugin used to party down
I was hung in the louvre, I was renoirs pal
Vincent van gogh used to joke with me
Now they dont come round
Its all over town that the masters lost his touch
Im so lost I can hardly hold a brush
And now my palette is a sorry mix of grey and brown
And all the other art lovers stay away
cause Im bringing them down
Now I wander the left bank every day

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song performed by Utopia
Added by Lucian Velea
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Vacation 13

I went to Niagara, and saw a giant waterfall
When I was in Paris, I saw a tower that is tall

I was in Muenster Germany, and rode a bike
On Champs-Elysees Avenue, I had quite a hike

I had dinner with Andrea, and paid with my VISA
I went to The Louvre, and saw the Mona Lisa

I took a few trains, and rode a bus all night
I saw a total eclipse, that was OUTTA SIGHT! ! !

I rented a car, and drove to Nice
When I was in Italy, I was flagged down by police

I was driving very fast, without a mishap
My entire time in Italy, I had no map

I saw topless girls, catching a sunbeam
When I was in Venice, I had the BEST ice cream! ! ! !

[...] Read more

poem by Pineapple.... XVI
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Bastille Day 0090 - Current Version

While fireworks exploded overhead,
worn women walked the street,
proffering for a space tired breasts torn bed,
at corners indiscrete, -
their self-respect and shoddy stockings shed
in sticky summer heat.

While Paris echoed to the proud parade,
police patrolled their beat.
Atomic arms were to the crowd displayed,
already obsolete.
President passed as brass band brashly played, -
agendas read deceit.

T-shirt tourists trampled city sights,
for them it was a treat,
and thronged the Louvre, stared from Eiffel's heights
till silver stars did greet
the careworn clochards sleeping out the nights
come rain, come snow or sleet.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Fonction Du Poète (The Poet's Function)

(extrait)

Peuples ! écoutez le poète !
Ecoutez le rêveur sacré !
Dans votre nuit, sans lui complète,
Lui seul a le front éclairé.
Des temps futurs perçant les ombres,
Lui seul distingue en leurs flancs sombres
Le germe qui n'est pas éclos.
Homme, il est doux comme une femme.
Dieu parle à voix basse à son âme
Comme aux forêts et comme aux flots.

C'est lui qui, malgré les épines,
L'envie et la dérision,
Marche, courbé dans vos ruines,
Ramassant la tradition.
De la tradition féconde
Sort tout ce qui couvre le monde,
Tout ce que le ciel peut bénir.

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poem by Victor Hugo
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To A Sea Unicorn

In Paris once,
where these things can happen,
across the street from the Louvre, I came
to a stand of walking sticks.
Against the window

of an antique shop,
they leaned like bare trees
in the Tuileries, as if to get out of the wind,
though they were indoors.
I knew the feeling.

I drew my coat closer
against the Napoleonic cold.
The canes swaggered no more. Out on their own,
they'd taken a wrong turn
from the past,

only to find
their walking days over.

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poem by Surya Raman
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Ultima Verba (My Last Word)

... Quand même grandirait l'abjection publique
A ce point d'adorer l'exécrable trompeur ;
Quand même l'Angleterre et même l'Amérique
Diraient à l'exilé : - Va-t'en ! nous avons peur !

Quand même nous serions comme la feuille morte,
Quand, pour plaire à César, on nous renîrait tous ;
Quand le proscrit devrait s'enfuir de porte en porte,
Aux hommes déchiré comme un haillon aux clous ;

Quand le désert, où Dieu contre l'homme proteste,
Bannirait les bannis, chasserait les chassés ;
Quand même, infâme aussi, lâche comme le reste,
Le tombeau jetterait dehors les trépassés ;

Je ne fléchirai pas ! Sans plainte dans la bouche,
Calme, le deuil au coeur, dédaignant le troupeau,
Je vous embrasserai dans mon exil farouche,
Patrie, ô mon autel ! Liberté, mon drapeau !

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poem by Victor Hugo
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Youre The Top

At words poetic Im so pathetic
That I always have found it best
Instead of getting em off my chest,
To let em rest - unexpressed.
I hate parading my serenading,
As Ill probably miss a bar,
But if this ditty is not so pretty,
At least itll tell you how great you are.
Youre the top! youre the collosseum,
Youre the top! youre the louvre museum,
Youre the melody from a symphony by strauss,
Youre a bendel bonnet,
A shakespeare sonnet,
Youre mickey mouse!
Youre the nile! youre the towr of pisa,
Youre the smile, on the mona lisa!
Im a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop!
But if baby Im the bottom,
Youre the top!
Youre the top, youre mahatma gandhi,

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song performed by Ella Fitzgerald
Added by Lucian Velea
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Last Sonnets At Paris

I

Chins that might serve the new Jerusalem;
Streets footsore; minute whisking milliners,
Dubbed graceful, but at whom one's eye demurs,
Knowing of England; ladies, much the same;
Bland smiling dogs with manes—a few of them
At pains to look like sporting characters;
Vast humming tabbies smothered in their furs;
Groseille, orgeat, meringues à la crême—
Good things to study; ditto bad—the maps
Of sloshy colour in the Louvre; cinq-francs
The largest coin; and at the restaurants
Large Ibrahim Pachas in Turkish caps
To pocket them. Un million d'habitants:
Cast up, they'll make an Englishman—perhaps.

II

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poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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En sortant du collège

PREMIERE LETTRE

Puisque nous avons seize ans,
Vivons, mon vieux camarade,
Et cessons d'être innocents ;
Car c'est là le premier grade.

Vivre c'est aimer. Apprends
Que, dans l'ombre où nos coeurs rêvent,
J'ai vu deux yeux bleus, si grands
Que tous les astres s'y lèvent.

Connais-tu tous ces bonheurs ?
Faire des songes féroces,
Envier les grands seigneurs
Qui roulent dans des carrosses,

Avoir la fièvre, enrager,
Etre un coeur saignant qui s'ouvre,
Souhaiter d'être un berger

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poem by Victor Hugo
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Paris By Night

I’ve decided to spend a few days away,
To celebrate one of life’s big birthdays.
So, here I am in the famous ‘city of love’,
Wrapped up in my coat, scarf and gloves.

I’m at the Eiffel Tower, up on the second floor;
Taking in the City’s panoramic views, with awe.
I text my friends, but my fingers are frozen cold;
So that my mobile, my hand can hardly now hold.

Being less than a week into the brand New Year,
It isn’t long before the daylight begins to disappear.
It’s nearly six o’clock and, soon, the tour bus departs,
So my descent of the Tower, in earnest, now starts.

But, when I reach the bottom, I find I’m a little too late:
The back of the tour bus is just pulling out of the gate.
At first, I feel worried, and I admit, just a little bit scared,
But, the sights I see are ones, which, are beyond compare.

[...] Read more

poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Evolution Of April

Whenever my twin palm trees sway,
rustling towards warmer waters,
I think of you in Los Angeles,
and then of Paris in Spring, our April,
that month sweetest and most cruel,
and on my list down, down,
near the Louvre i'd written: Love;
that romantic cliché, Paris for Eros.
I was living in the 4 th, the arrondissement
across from the Ile Saint Louis,
within sight of Notre Dame,
that's the point where the Seine god
parts his legs expansively, stretching
for a moment, before he merges for the sea.
You called me, you were lost, and so I ran
down and around my creaking stairs,
and then you were there, my Azriel,
my Thanatos, a perfect shadow standing
at Metro St Paul, waiting in the sunshine,
and always, and in my haste to meet you,

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poem by Guy Peppin
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Hermaphroditus

I.
LIFT UP thy lips, turn round, look back for love,
Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest;
Of all things tired thy lips look weariest,
Save the long smile that they are wearied of.
Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough,
Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best;
Two loves at either blossom of thy breast
Strive until one be under and one above.
Their breath is fire upon the amorous air,
Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire:
And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair,
Two things turn all his life and blood to fire;
A strong desire begot on great despair,
A great despair cast out by strong desire.

II.
Where between sleep and life some brief space is,
With love like gold bound round about the head,
Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed,

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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Dont Fall Apart On Me Tonight

Just a minute before you leave, girl,
Just a minute before you touch the door.
What is it that youre trying to achieve, girl?
Do you think we can talk about it some more?
You know, the streets are filled with vipers
Whove lost all ray of hope,
You know, it aint even safe no more
In the palace of the pope.
Dont fall apart on me tonight,
I just dont think that I could handle it.
Dont fall apart on me tonight,
Yesterdays just a memory,
Tomorrow is never what its supposed to be
And I need you, yeah.
Come over here from over there, girl,
Sit down here. you can have my chair.
I cant see us goin anywhere, girl.
The only place open is a thousand miles away and I cant take you there.
I wish Id have been a doctor,
Maybe Id have saved some life that had been lost,

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song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Satire III

Sans parler, je t'entends : il faut suivre l'orage ;
Aussi bien on ne peut où choisir avantage ;
Nous vivons à tâtons et, dans ce monde ici,
Souvent avec travail on poursuit du souci ;
Car les dieux courroucés contre la race humaine
Ont mis avec les biens les sueurs et la peine.
Le monde est un berlan où tout est confondu
Tel pense avoir gagné qui souvent a perdu,
Ainsi qu'en une blanque où par hasard on tire,
Et qui voudrait choisir souvent prendrait le pire.
Tout dépend du Destin, qui sans avoir égard
Les faveurs et les biens en ce monde départ.

Mais puisqu'il est ainsi que le sort nous emporte,
Qui voudrait se bander contre une loi si forte ?
Suivons donc sa conduite en cet aveuglement.
Qui pèche avec le ciel pèche honorablement.
Car penser s'affranchir c'est une rêverie ;
La liberté par songe en la terre est chérie :
Rien n'est libre en ce monde et chaque homme dépend,

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poem by Mathurin Regnier
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The End of the Feud

The revellers came to Castle Krag
And whirled in through the hall,
Into the lavish ballroom with
The Lord of Donegal,
He came with his wife and mistresses,
A merry, laughing crew,
To answer the call by Castle Krag
To end their ancient feud!

For there by the central pillars stood
The Baron, John FitzHugh,
A smile on the ravaged, bitter lips
That his enemies once knew,
He was of a mind to end it all,
The bitterness, the strife,
And even smiled at the courtesan
That he'd asked to make his wife.

She'd laughed, and fluttered her fan at him,
'I don't think so, my lord.

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Hervé Riel

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French--woe to France!
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,
With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase,
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signalled to the place,
"Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still,
Here's the English can and will!"

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board:
"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?"
laughed they;
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred

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poem by Robert Browning from Pacchiarotto (1876)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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