The modern artists played with new ways of perceiving and delivering images. For this journal entry, I chose to respond through a poem that depicts a series of scenes from my time in Paris.
The clang of spoons against cups
filled with latte, sharing itself with a
meal
comprising of moist dough,
salted and sweetened
to perfection.
The rustle of speedy footsteps
against the solid boulevards of
Haussmann.
The heeled feet of sultry women carrying
baguettes
echoes across the gardens.
Calling for movement.
The eruption of youths from the lycée.
Afternoon freedom.
Rolled tobacco between their fingers
and drips of liquor touching their lips.
Slowly becoming aged.
Like the cheese on my plate.
Creamy, decadent, and endless.
Chevré, Brie, Gouda.
My new friends,
my new pounds.
Bloated and tired
wandering through the arrondissements,
trying so desperately
to find the Sorbonne,
but there is everything else to see.
Climbing the steps to the metro.
Piss and history lie beneath.
Vavin, Montparness, and Madeleine.
Accordions blare and old men sing.
Hats tip and doors open.
A sight unseen: a tower.
Tall and overbearing.
Time goes by and still it stares.
Then, lights sprinkle the sky
at midnight.
In the morning,
We meet Picasso, Delacroix, and Monet
for a stroll through their gardens of art
and are lathered by cultured
strokes of paint.
I pray we never leave
these sounds and days,
but as we count the bridges
on the waves of the Seine,
I know this dream is complete.
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