Ghost of Paris
Fauvist moon smooth like Newton
Relative without warning
Nothing shall stop the coming cubes
Ulysses talks a new language
Sate painters in café haven
Change the motif of dragons
Avengers of amethyst poetry
Language of the future laughs
Choreographed in splinters of war
Stravinsky dances without melody
Gertrude Stein sighs like a panther
Art fornicates with Paris
Form relinquishes like deco stars
Boundaries melt into stage sets
Embrace the modern deluge
Freedom and choice celebrate
Boundless sea of color
Surrealism tides of the Mediterranean
Chagall, Matisse, Picasso, Braque
Cezanne was a great forest
Time has spoken like a canvass
All are blessed and punished
Some walk the left bank still
Seine River flows forever
The ghost of Paris haunts us all
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Related quotes
Paris in Spring
The city's all a-shining
Beneath a fickle sun,
A gay young wind's a-blowing,
The little shower is done.
But the rain-drops still are clinging
And falling one by one --
Oh it's Paris, it's Paris,
And spring-time has begun.
I know the Bois is twinkling
In a sort of hazy sheen,
And down the Champs the gray old arch
Stands cold and still between.
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
Where the great acacias lean,
Oh it's Paris, it's Paris,
And the leaves are growing green.
The sun's gone in, the sparkle's dead,
There falls a dash of rain,
But who would care when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine?
And still Ninette sits sewing
Beside her window-pane,
When it's Paris, it's Paris,
And spring-time's come again.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Paris: I Do! I Do!
How much I love you
Paris I do! I do!
With this ring I thee wed
Forever joy you spread
I love you Dearly
My temple, my clergy
You swept me away
A tsunami in May
Again and again
My runaway train
What is it about your loins?
The love that never coils
Awakens the beat in me
Heart of my destiny
Your streets a poet's dream
Café au lait rich cream
Your Champ Elysées
Mon jardin des Pensée
Oh oui mon amour, je pense à toi
toujours, le matin, midi et soir
Votre belle dentelle en blanc et noir
Pardonnez-moi Père frère Jacques
If I purposely don't mention your Rock
If I need to fast and pray
Paris artsy books my sway
River Seine's left bank I search
Tour Eiffel my only church
Paris street cafés pure magic
Gossip tongues laugh and tragic
Overtures to my ears delight
Listens how they recite
Brahms' one 'Tragic'
And his 'Academic'
Excuse moi mon Cher Claude
For dissing your pie a la mode
And not loving your 'Claire'
Essence of chocolate éclair
There is only one love
All envy from above
In my beating heart
Wish list pulsing art
My bewitching Paris
Heart and soul of Bacchus
Defines my time
Ends my rhyme
Paris I love you
I do! I do! I do!
poem by leaking Pen
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Deluge
A deluge haunts a race unaware
It is larger than the one 'Noah' faced
It holds all in an embrace everywhere
It engulfs the already 'menaced'
Deluges have no hearts
They have ever been that cruel
A deluge is a nightmare of sorts
It has been on a mission dual
As you fail to see it come
The deluge laughs at you the blind
As I begin to warn you that it`s come
It tides over the realms of my mind.
A deluge leaves no hopes ahead
It is there to right a wrong yet
It will leave a silence of the dead
This deluge will leave HIM scot free you bet.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Where The River Flows
Music : rudolf schenker
Lyrics: klaus meine
Under suburban skies
Where life is bleeding
Where concrete skies are grey
Theres plenty of room for dreaming
I still keep coming here
Follow those traces
I travel back in time
Remember all those places
Feels like I never left
The houses still standing
Down by the river where
The dreams are never ending
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
Under the silent moon
This industrial city
Is heartland even though
Lifes been not that pretty
I still keep coming here
To that old river
To find my roots just where
The future lives forever
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me, you can find me
By the river where dreams will never die
By the river under suburban skies
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
By the river where dreams have never died
By the river I look through childrens eyes
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
Where the river flows
Where the river flows
Where the river flows
song performed by by Scorpions
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0282 A Necessary Art
There's art history, and there's the history of art.
Art history, you can learn anywhere these days;
the history of art's some other, thrilling thing, a life-blood
pumping its heart intensely as if it were a matter
which it is of course, of life and death..
and who will tell you, except those who lived it through,
who will tell you - except perhaps old men;
while the students yawn, stop taking notes,
and wonder if the chick back there
is up for it?
Who will tell you that the truth is savage,
and the world hard earned,
and art, painting, poetry,
a matter of life and death?
Who will tell you, for instance, how after 1945,
when war ended, and 'peace'
was the threat of nuclear annihilation,
the great French artists, who had made
their various accommodations with the occupying power
brought out near ten years' work the world had never seen?
As if archaeologists, searching for the past,
had found instead, the future?
Picasso, Matisse, Leger, Braque - you know the names...
and how Picasso, who never allowed any other artist
to see him at his work, opened his Paris studio
to hordes of American servicemen? Interviewed
in the great French magazine, Cahiers d'Art, in I think
the late 1940s, he said his art was
'une somme des destructions' - a sum of destructions;
and Wallace Stevens, in a lecture at the Met, in 1951,
remembered the phrase, made it his text, and
told the post-war world that painting, as with poetry,
was man's great chance to seek his self - for each of us
to find out who we really are - in ways, we listening
were to assume, which might not always be heard in churches
or from philosophers' petty squabblings..
now today, this may seem a truism put out by slick PR
from auction houses; who can tell you
what it was like to hear that said?
and by so great a poet man?
There's art history, and the history of art.
Who will tell you that the truth is savage
and the world hard earned,
and art, painting, poetry,
a matter of life and death?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Cafe Prague.
Cream coloured coffee
And hot buttered toast
August sunshine
A packet of cigarettes
Talks on love and life
Friends and strangers all together
Days of summer
Seated on outside chairs
Tears and laughter
Mixed in the air
Of the perfect day just us and them
Cafe pavements
The world at view
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Used coffee cups
And ashtrays too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Trendy young girls
And the wannabe author
Auster, Adams and Mr. Salinger
Days of dreaming
The perfect film
In view for all to see
Hello, hello
So good to see you
Was it twelve?
Or maybe it was two
I’ll sit and wait
And think of you
Cafe pavements
For me and you
Pairs, Rome and cafe Prague
Dirty spoons and knives
And glasses too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Teacups and Earl grey
And ice cream sundaes
Black and white life
In full technicolour
Light my cigarette
And I’ll listen all day
Sunshine days
Storm clouds - away
The table over there
Just a smiling man
For today - all alone
Waiting his time
Cafe pavements
The world today
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Beautiful Ladies
And business gents
Paris, Rome and Cafe Prague
Student cameras
And picture painting
Hollywood lifestyle
In the common street
Brando, Dean and Al Pacino
Next to you and me
See you later
Maybe tomorrow
Give me a ring
And we’ll make a date
I’ll sit and think
And wait for you
Cafe pavements
For meetings and lunch
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Perfect tables
And used up chairs
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
poem by Patrick Sant
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Cafe Paris
Somewhere in Paris
A quaint café.
Quiet and soundless
A starry night
The city it sleeps
The Frenchmen await
A small revolution
Tonight
Somewhere in Paris
A quaint cafe
Waiting for change
Dawn of a day.
poem by Arthur Q. Kromwelle
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Paris(Lil Sis)
Paris is her name
Paris she beautiful
she got a pretty smile
pretty walk
pretty size
Paris..
Nice
cool
real
short
loveable person
Paris
take what u got and work it
let your haterz hate
your haterz are your biggest fanz
show that beauty
stop hiding it..
To My Bestfriend/ Lil Sis Paris Aka Mizz Killin U H**z
poem by Angel Wade
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My Father
Judy collins
Original lyrics by judy collins
My father always promised me
That we would live in france
Wed go boating on the seine
And I would learn to dance
We lived in ohio then
He worked in the mines
On his dreams like boats
We knew we would sail in time
All my sisters soon were gone
To denver and cheyenne
Marrying their grownup dreams
The lilacs and the man
I stayed behind the youngest still
Only danced alone
The colors of my fathers dreams
Faded without a sound
And I live in paris now
My children dance and dream
Hearing the ways of a miners life
In words theyve never seen
I sail my memories of home
Like boats across the seine
And watch the paris sun
As it sets in my fathers eyes again
My father always promised us
That we would live in france
Wed go boating on the seine
And I would learn to dance
I sail my memories of home
Like boats across the seine
And watch the paris sun
As it sets in my fathers eyes again
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry is? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
What is poetry is like asking,
'Why is the sky blue? '
There is no answer to What or Why?
but, in any event,
I shall try.
Poetry flows from my heart through my pen,
down through
its neb,
Like a fly struggling in the web of a spider, waiting
to be free.
What is poetry-who knows-could be as simple as the
morning dew on a rose,
children’s laughter,
a baby’s cry,
a mother crooning a lullaby,
bells chiming loud and clear,
the voices
of those that we hold dear.
Poetry is the language of the soul
It gives us the courage to afford life’s many streams
It expands our horizons to realize our dreams.
To summarize the above
Poetry is the Language of Love
Poetry is the Language of the Soul
Poetry is the Language of Life
over which we have
no control.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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America is my country and Paris is my hometown.
quote by Gertrude Stein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paris Song
Paris so beautiful at night
And during the day is beautiful also
The Eiffel Tower is located in the center of Paris
But all the flowers in Paris are blooming in the parks
And at la seine
Yes spring is heret in Paris
And I am enjoying the spring
But the flowers in the parks here in Paris are beautiful
Because they are a show of colors
poem by Aldo Kraas
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He Said...
He said the air was better in Paris.
In Paris we could breathe
Like we never could
Here in the little home I had built.
So...
I left with him
For the better air
And wine and cheese and cafes and Paris
And because I too wanted to breathe.
Yesterday he left
For Spain and Spanish things
And the little Flamenco dancer
From the Café...
Outside my window
The rain pounds mercilessly on the roses he planted for me...
Such lovely things,
So sad to see them die.
poem by Vaun Moore
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When Picasso painted in Paris, was he a Spanish or a French painter? It does not matter, he was Picasso, whatever the influences surrounding him. He simply chose Paris because it was the ideal place for him to sell his creation.
quote by Jean-Jacques Annaud
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Freedom
I want to fly like a bird in the sky
Going left and right, up and down
Nobody to stop nobody to shout
See the earth from the sky
Rivers and seas under my wings
Land and Forest in my view
Nearer to moon nearer to sun
Stars will be my neighbors
No boundaries, no armies to stop me
I can go to the countries I like
Sit on the trees, smell the flowers
Of my choice
Freedom from cast and creed
Whole world will be mine
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Forever Born
Bequeath solemn blue dreams
Parley with golden rain
Sigh like timeless clarion wind
Shelter the diamond forest
Regal waters of ancient mystery
The sea calls with ancient sirens
Galleons desire ghost pirates
Escape the mist of Aegean eyes
Fire in the city like hard shoulders
Cold fire rising in new prisons
Muted screams dappled by Apollo
Steeples painted silver and red
Some leave their body
Thrust into ever lasting karma
Tired of tragic molds of earth
Midnight shelters broken walls
Boundaries drenched in mantra
Mirth shadows dance in moonlight
Nothing refined in pagan freedom
The land is bound in fear
Now we suffer for our sins
Ground of Paris hot with ghost
These silent ages have left
These friends that cry
Bells mourn in the frail rain
All this freedom with no summer
Clouds deliver promises
Living clouds filled with nests
The storm has left blue seashells
Legato chorus beyond revolt
Perception shines like reveling stars
Pizzicato pause awaken in the sea
Listen to the soft sweet rain
Let the sun shed its tears
Choice is a bright new day
The land is full of cheer
Yes! The tides sing and rejoice
Visitors are really here
Crucible beginnings in risen wonder
No persuasions
Forever light
Forever born
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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The Young Poet
Poetry was something else
written by others
somewhere else
and came from
somewhere else
but the poetry
which he did not know
called one day
in a language he did not know
so he put down words on paper
and threw the paper away
but the words did not go away
and he did not know what poetry should do
until he wrote the words
which told him
what poetry could do
for only poetry can teach you poetry
*
Gertrude Stein stood behind me while I wrote this.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Looking Thru the Divine Doors
Castles of Spain like Byron’s rhymes
Impulse of rising Goya’s soul
Waters as blue as serene saints
How the heart yearns for permanence
Fresco deeper than a bold sea
Picasso has left the vision of love
Firing squads trample the poetry
Dark colors in every ivory kiss
Matisse stands in the corridor
All resolution hidden in the doors
Red flag where women resurrect
Delacroix sees a new freedom
Sky is a great mystery lost in beige
Little do they know when rain rules
The earth is swept with storms
Joan Miró soft as fading memory
Dali as bold as brazen frozen sin
Alchemy of color like scattered poetry
Reality has many crevices
Painters open parables like rabbit holes
Looking thru the divine Doors
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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(My Mother) Retirement Plans
“When I grow old, ” said my mother, “I’ll change my life.
I’ll rent a garret on the Left Bank of the Seine
in Paris, give up being a mother and a wife,
spend my days painting, drink red wine all night,
my friends will be artists - maybe I’ll write.
“But what about Dad? ” I objected.
My mother reflected.
“He’ll be okay, ” she said.
“He’ll buy a djellabi, sandals, a scarab
and live in the desert, along with the Arabs.
He’s learning the lingo at evening class.
He’ll go over to Gaza” – I thought, what a gas!
I’d spend April in Paris, winter with Dad –
there was going to be some fun to be had!
I hoped that my parents’ dreams all would come true –
but after all that they just moved down to Bude!
poem by Janice Windle
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I Love Paris
Every time I look down on this timeless town,
Whether blue or gray be her skies,
Whether loud be her cheers, or whether soft be her tears,
More and more do I realize that...
I love paris in the spring time
I love paris in the fall
I love paris in the summer when it sizzles
I
Love paris in the winter when it drizzles
I love paris every moment
Every moment of the year
I love
Paris, why oh why do I love paris
Because my love is here
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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