Pining For Paris

Pining for Paris

my longing is etched long bold letters

pining for Paris & cheap un-taxed wine

cheeses & meats from tripe butchers

they describe unrequited passions for a

tall, angular, red-bearded Poet I met in

an ambiguous little Left Bank theatre

the balm of his velvet jacket still haunts

much like our exchange of amorous sighs

him bare-chested & magnificently mannered

a stalwart protector of my ancient ramparts  

& staunch supporter of my peculiar feuds with

the glamorous daughters of the Latin Quarter

it has been the bluest season summer in Sausalito

without the grandeur & misery of artistic struggles

bound to an up-market houseboat with a warm

wood-burning stove & flinty marble kitchenette

anyone else would adopt this way-to-live-easy

flower-power/beatnik/60’s ethos of peace & love

as a sleepy delight, a passive anchorage, rescue

nestled in a pine-forest inspecting an inlet stippled

with millionaire’s homes perched high on stilts

cormorants floating on calm waters of the blue bay

estuary & seals basking in the glint of morning sun

yet I am pining for Paris’s 19^th century cityscape

crisscrossed with wide abundant boulevards

I miss my hideously imaginative & fraught friends

Mathilde, Guillaume, Ponce, Helene, Tempeste

the fledgling virgins tittering on cold cobblestones

in bright floppy hats waiting on fetching singers

I miss my mouth full of pink marquise diamonds

these ox-eye daises are rancorous to the tongue

I miss chain-smoking, pomposity, & sexist editors

with debauched parsing and lumbering syntax

I prefer the raised eyebrows of the highbrow

two glasses of Bordeaux to quench a squabble

rosy begonias perfectly paired with sartorial feats

to offset waves of elation and despair only the

pulling each other apart at the seams could cull

I want lethargies & stale perfume wafting though

where old ornate & painted ostrich eggs adorned

the lip of a gaudy over-sized bronzed bathtub

instead here I lounge in Sausalito in my wretchedness

writing sexually charged poems about Frank O’Hara

pining profoundly for Paris & it’s seductive bohemia

wine & figs the muse of impressionist painters

once the bloody cynosure of the French Revolution

I long for the heartbreak & the madness of it all

occupying berry-hued café chairs with dusky company

their thick fingers curling around burgundy rimmed cups

give me back my poets,

give me absolute beginners

                the young & the restless

                                return me to my reason.

**

Been pecking at this one for awhile. I've added, subtracted, deleted, re-entered and re-arranged so many times I've lost count. I had this pang from a wee character explaining how, even though she is now residing in a beautiful retreat, she longs for and prefers the mess and drama of her former life in a much different time.

It was fun to write. I am certain, in future, there will be more changes, additions and take-aways, but for now, I blog.

Happy Friday! 

In propinquity,

Nic

Bataclan Angels

These are my people. Beautiful, vibrant faces gathered for the sole purpose of filling their ears and spirits with the euphoric romp of the rock ‘n’ roll. These are my people, elated and adrenaline-filled, mashed up against barriers, buds and strangers, beer sloshing, dancing machines righteously singing their lungs out until it hurts. These are my people, who came to rock and spill into the streets drenched in sweat, high on the power of live music.

My intention is not to write a large, emotional missive on terrorism, my thoughts on it or the plight of refugees in the middle east etc. I will leave that to the fancy news makers and the grossly opinionated and uneducated.  My intent is to simply and lovingly pay tribute to my people, the people who worked for the weekend to arrive at a Friday night that was to hold adventure and the awesomeness of Eagles of Death Metal. My people, had no idea that stepping out into  the Paris this night would cost them their lives. For that, I grieve an indescribable ache.

I have been where they were. Not at the Bataclan, not in Paris, but in their shoes: worked to the bone Monday to Friday, anticipating a night certain to nourish my ravenous core by way of the power and indecent decibel of rock ‘n’ roll enhanced by quality time with my buds, and exultation of it all happening right in front of you. I live for that. I always have. I am sure so many in that theatre on Friday night did too.

My heart goes out to those people whose lives were taken so senselessly, in such a callous and violent manner: young effervescent individuals rife with potential and vigor. My prayers go to those they’ve left behind, family, friends, colleagues, and their dreams. My heart is also extended in love to those who were inside and escaped with their lives or who still struggle with their injuries.

I cannot pretend to understand what they’ve been through, but I’ve been where they are: in the front row, amped up, starved for live music, the escape and the potent freedom it engenders.

The next time I am where they were, the time after that and so on, I will think of them, honour them, my people. Music, the universal language - is dedicated to you.

In propinquity,

Nic