Description: As with my previous post, I was intoxicated when I wrote this, as well. This time I was happy, though. Or, at least, not angry. Don't know if I like it yet.
A Parisian Café, Summer 1922 -------------------------------------------
Soft brown angel tenderness,
a skin of silk and simple sexuality;
the texture of a breast in fantasy…
I muse upon a fluid serving girl.
Morning light shards creep cautious up the cobbles,
fall empty divine on the Notre Dame’s delighting;
white birds dancing swift at bell tolls…
I dine alone within the courtyard.
Tea for two in a morrow’s quiet,
pining qualms for fortunate fury-fear;
steaming china chants ire to pneumas…
I sip again the pity of dissention.
The girl is laughing music bourbon-psalms,
and pious shadows entreat her lips;
life has bred her gentle miracle…
I sit and mumble prayers for tears.
Pipe-smoke begs the breezes play,
Another cup to waste away.
I feel like I've been watching you watch her, you've given us the inside story, the outside scene
"morning light shards creep cautious up the cobbles"
the first stanza describes your longing for her beautifully
And we see that you let the opportunity go, as easily as it arrived, as though you've looked at this moment through a veil of lace. Thanks for letting us see and feel. Beautiful write! Nan
a priest...watching that which tests him...watching that which solidifies and conversely contradicts his faith, such perfection given to earth, denied to him except in early morning tea dreams...nothing dirty or evil or blasphemous, yet wholly impossible beyond wandering thoughts, and boiling drives...self inflicted torture...just take your eyes off, send your mind elsewhere...impossible... many many lovely lines in this piece...they seem so well crafted, as if intoxication allowed them to flow without filters... Notre Dame, quiet and alone, in morning grey, yet all the more magnificent for it, mirroring this muse and this man...Meant to be filled with joyous occasion, now standing down to the morning sun... "I sip again the pity of dissention." not much i can say about that line...just...so much confused torment wrapped up...
only one suggestion, minute and picking... "Pipe-smoke begs the breezes play, Another cup to waste away."
what a beautiful albeit melancholy view into this world, intoxicated or not! it is a gorgeous poem and really doesn't need anything done to it. it has a very ethereal and mystical feeling to it. "The girl is laughing music bourbon-psalsms,/and pious shadows entreat her lips..." that is just exquisite. i've stepped into a vision of you watching her... it's almost like she was too much of a dream for you to reach out to try to speak to her. you just had to breathe her existence into your being. simply beautiful.
You worship from afar and honor her with thoughts of beauty. The text is rich and it clearly gives to me the sights, sounds and smells of this lucious day.
The piece is a reflection of life. He sits alone and muses alone and we wonder if he is lonely or just calmly observant. Is he merely relaxing and killing time or is time killing him with lonliness.
Your writing style is wonderfully formal and reminisent of days long gone. It is like stepping into another century. It gives me a feeling that I am witnessing something special.
Aaron, please don't change this too much.. I like this a lot as it is.. I keep seeing coffee skin and cream silk sheets.. or perhaps french linen? If you're gonna change it or pull it, will you send me a copy of it as it is now in PM? Certainly elaborate, but don't go looking for flaws where there aren't many, if any. Toodles...
holy shizzle my izzle, what the hell are you drinking and where can i buy some?? for intoxicated, the mental clarity and description are amazing. it's beautiful like the early photographs were, with the brown tint instead of the black tint coming up in development. this is so a fave.
"Morning light shards creep cautious up the cobbles" You know that is just a Baby of a line. It's great... describes everything so succinctly, the soft creeping light that seems to advance by the mile everytime you close your eyes to blink...
This... I'm not sure, what's going on.. but this feels like a precursor to the Barcelona piece. But that might just be cos it's in france. Just seems like the timing and setting fit with it. This man mourns something, someone, somewhere... Did the serving wench remind him? Was it something about her that reminded him of another time? Because no pretty serving girl could arouse soul singing china. The Notre Dame should be a golden sight. Not empty and devoid of colour.
"Pining qualms for fortunate fury-fear" That old chestnut the world's lovers know.. choosing love and pain and what it brings, rather than the sedate but stultifying safe existence?
Tea for two, you said.. for one person and one dream? But Bourbon is not tea, regardless of their similar amber nectar... does the serving maid chastise him for the drinks she pours him? Also, Life has bred her gentle miracle.. as if this is a special thing? Her miracles come from the experience of life, and are not inherent, like another? I dunno, mate... I like your poems cos you leave them open for me to dream and dissect and devour... I'm still hungry...
The whole is viewed through that thin stuff that posh curtains are made of and I had to read it loudly to hear the whispered words - if you know what I mean. It's all vaseline on the lens and cinemascope: something by a latterday Georges Melies... I know why you don't know whether or not you like it yet: it's because it's needing 2 more lines. The ones that make her disappear. Because she does - a downwards bended neck induced a turn to generate a clipper ship lurch from blinking sight. She'll be back. Not least so that she gets another souvenir napkin with your uncommon pottery scribbled on it... K
You HAVE to like this. what is there NOT to like. It's like watching a romantic black and white silent movie.--the infinite unspoken drama,--there is a gossamer intimacy to this,--like peering through a cob-webbed knot-hole---to days gone by---I can see the shy exchange of glances, and am transported there by your many eloquent images. This is one helluva good write. Silver
returning from my cage whence i came from, a cafe in Madrid is where a poem i wrote sorta takes place but yours of course outdoes mine by about a thousand times...i dunno, everyone did a decent job of kissing up so there's not much left...maybe i'll reread it and be more compassionate, but now is not a good time for me...thought you'd like to know that at least i read it tho, fear not, i am here for you, loev...its marvelous but i am elsewhere in my head, or ana's head, or both and not either one all at once...love ya anyhow and i'll be back ~me
Well, this is really good. I haven't seen you much lately, so I came looking. You're a very good writer, but that doesn't mean much. There isn't anything I can see to change. Prison cultivated something valuable in you.
this is so well written... the style of writing suits hte name of the poem perfectly... i love it. mostly i like the second last stanza 'The girl is laughing music bourbon-psalms' these sound like great kinda psalms to me... you have a very unique writing style... dont ever sell yourself short!
Submission Name: A Parisian Café, Summer 1922
