Wednesday, August 20, 2014

June 8th: My Poem for Gertrude

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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