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In Paris With You
Posted by: Talia (216.117.99.---)
Date: August 13, 2003 10:44AM


I read this on the Writer's Almanac this morning and was wondering if anyone knew any other poems about Paris?

Poem: "In Paris with You," by James Fenton from Out of Danger (Noonday Press).

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 that 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 Elysťes
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with ... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.


Re: In Paris With You
Posted by: Marian-NYC (---.nyc1.dsl.speakeasy.net)
Date: August 13, 2003 03:41PM

What comes to mind is a song lyric:


"Libby"
Written by - Carly Simon
From - Clouds In My Coffee


If all our flights are grounded
Libby, we'll meet in Paris
Dance along the boulevards
And have no one to embarrass
Puttin' on the ritz in style
With an Arab and an heiress
Libby we'll fly away...hey
Leave behind our blues
Trade them all in
For a Paris breeze
Libby we'll fly

See how dark the circles grow
In a town that has no light
So many eyes just staring out
Into the bloodshot night
And Libby, I hate you to cry and I
Want to share it all with you
And if it brings us to our knees
We'll trade it all in for a Paris breeze
Libby we'll fly

They say it don't come easy
They say that love is blind
And if you're afraid to be close
Then love is hard to find
And if you spend too much time winning love
There's no time to be kind
And Libby, I'm guilty of your crimes
I'm just another passenger
Traveling on these crazy high seas
Very likely be the same
In a Paris breeze
Libby we'll fly

If all our flights are grounded
Libby, we'll go to Paris
And wish we were back home again
Or sailing on the ocean
Just a window and a drink
To set our dreams in motion
But Libby, we'll fly anyway, hey
And leave behind our blues
Half sung melodies
Trade them all in for a Paris breeze

Libby we'll fly


Re: In Paris With You
Posted by: Marian-NYC (---.nyc1.dsl.speakeasy.net)
Date: August 13, 2003 03:43PM

[www.rattle.com]

"Paris"
by Rod Farmer

This was 1994 Paris and Hemingway was no

longer at Les Deux Maggots cafe nor was

Henry Miller at La Coupole, there were no tables

at the old expatriate cafes for a modern-day

Henry Miller, the tables now occupied by tourists,

Hemingway could not write in his cafes today,

his fame has helped these cafes go too far upscale

and become small amusement parks where a cup

of coffee now costs more than a can of coffee

in the States, it was as if Disneyland now

managed Paris, everything appeared too smooth

too safe until my wife and I sitting at a sidewalk

cafe were approached by seven skinheads,

six stood back while their leader asked me,

in a threatening way, for money and stuck

a pus-filled wounded finger in my face as

his "evidence" and as a warning to me that he

was tough, he was proud of his untreated

and festering wound, his message was

that he could take pain that I had better be

careful and give him money, he again asked

if I would help him out maybe a few francs

but I shook my head no, and realizing that he

could not frighten francs out of me he changed

strategies said he needed the money to buy

food and if I didnít give him money he

would eat the few scrapes left on my plate,

he was sure he could shame francs out of me

that I would be embarrassed if he began eating

my leftovers but he was wrong I was not in

the mood to be pushed, pushing up his threat

he rolled the meat scraps from my plate into

a piece of my bread, he looked me in the face

to see if I would pull out a few francs, I didnít

move, he shrugged walked away eating his

sandwich, as the skinheads walked off I was

aware that for a whim they would have beaten

the blood out of me, but somehow Paris was

now a little more alive and real, it was a city

I could write in after all.




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