A Nice Middle Class Family
A Nice Middle-Class Family
I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.
Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Suicide Underground
Everyone dated the demise of our neighborhood from the suicide of the lisbon girls.
People saw their clairvoyance in the wiped-out elms and harsh sunlight.
Some thought the torture tearing the lisbon girls pointed to a simple refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to them:
So full of flaws.
But the only thing we are certain of after all these years is the insufficiency of explanations.
Obviously doctor, youve never been a thirteen year-old girl.
The lisbon girls were 13, cecile, 14, lux, 15, bonnie, 16, mary, and 17, therese.
No one could understand how mrs. lisbon and mr. lisbon, a math teacher, had produced such beautiful creatures.
From that time one, the lisbon house began to change.
Almost every day, and even when she wasnt keeping an eye on cecilia,
Lux would suntan on her towel wearing a swimsuit that caused the knife-sharpener to give her a 15-minute demonstration for free.
The only reliable boy who got to know lux was trip fontaine
For only 18 months before the suicides had emerged from baby fat
To the delight of girls and mothers alike.
But few anticipated it would be so drastic.
The girls were pulled out of school, and mrs. lisbon shut the house for maximum security isolation.
The girls only contact to the outside world was through the catalogs
They ordered that started to fill the lisbons mailbox with pictures of high-end fashions and brochures for exotic vacations.
Unable to go anywhere, the girls traveled in their imaginations:
To gold-tipped siamese temples or past an old man, the leaf broom tidying the [maws] carpeted [speck] of japan (? ? ? ).
And cecelia hadnt died.she was a bride in calcutta.
Collecting everything we could of theirs, we couldnt get the lisbon girls out of our minds, but they were slipping away.
The colors of their eyes were fading, along with exact locations of moles and dimples.
From five, they had become four, and they were all (the living and the dead), become shadows.
We would have lost them completely if the girls hadnt contacted us.
Lux was the last to go.
Fleeing from the house, we forgot to stop at the garage.
After the suicide free-for-all, mr. and mrs. lisbon gave up any attempt to lead a normal life.
They had mr. henry pack up the house, selling what furniture he could at a garage sale.
Everyone went just to look.
Our parents did not buy used furniture, and they certainly didnt buy furniture tainted by death.
We of course took the family photos that were put out with the trash.
Mr. lisbon put the house on the market, and it was sold to a young couple from boston.
It didnt matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls,
But only that we had loved them, and that they hadnt heard us call; still did not hear us,
Calling out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide,
Which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieced to put them back together.
song performed by by Air
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Journey To Lisbon
Winter Journey to Lisbon
Up rua Garrett I walked and it’s steep, in Baixa, the old heart
of Lisbon, past a shop that sells lottery tickets that sits beside
a shop that sells religious artifax, which is next door to a shop
that sells Cartier watches, if you buy a ticket and win, there is
money to decorate you mother’s grave and to buy a watch for
yourself. At the top of the street there is café Brasilia it used to
be Fernando Pessoa’s drinking den, the place is full of solemn,
nice Portuguese who, dressed for the occasion, drink nice cups
of coffee, their forefathers used looked down on Fernando,
irreverent poets and writers must go and drink elsewhere.
The master poet is now a statue sits outside in the rain and has
his picture taken by tourists, one wonders what he thinks of it all
as he sees the statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the Largo is called after him he is bald and
is dressed like monk. From Largo Chiado I could see the harbour
where tug boats ply their trade on grey waters; the church
“Incarnacao” where Antonio used to pray is beautifully restored,
but empty god had left by the backdoor, the front door was too
heavy, but I saw woman weeping near a statue of Christ, “opium
for the people? ” Yes, why not?
It is getting dark the Portuguese are swallowed up by the Metro
as middle aged men with folded cardboard boxes, look for a shop
doorway where to bed down; and over this scene hovers Amalia,
the great Fado singer, she came from poverty too, famous in her
own life time she had the sense to be a friend of the powerful and
made it to the top. When her friends toppled from power she was
out in the cold, but not for long the Portuguese quickly forgave her.
Fine rain falls on Fernando’s hat and Antonio’s bald head, empty
streets the city sleeps and leaves the space to cats, the sleepless,
whores and their sad clients.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Accordian In The Metro
In 2002 I was in Paris for a couple of days. My wife & daughter let me loose. They wanted to look at shops & so I left early at dawn to walk around a have a look at that great city.
I got lost & found a few times & had to try out the few French words I could remember from the 3rd form. On the way home at the end of an exhilarating day & I went into the Metro to catch a ride back to the Arch DT which was near our hotel in Victor Hugo ‘street.'
I was walking thru the tunnel & heard an excellent accordion player. He finished playing some French tunes as I was approaching. Then he switched to Bach's Toccata & Fugue in D minor. I stood close to the wall & listen as people hurried past.
A year or so later I saw an SBS documentary on TV called ‘DOWN UNDER PARIS' about Australians in living Paris who were working as buskers or selling their paintings on the street.
I was sitting there engrossed when I heard the accordian player. That sounds familiar I thought, ‘yes that's him. I watched him play, he was excellent, ' & there I was standing close to the wall listening wearing the black jacket I'd bought in Switzerland.
I asked google for the film maker's email & I wrote a note to Richard Snashall asking if I could buy his dvd. I told him that it was me in the background in his movie. I recalled vaguely that there had been someone crouched down with a video camera while I was listening.
When Richard sent me the dvd he said that he thought I was a Parisian on his way home when he filmed me standing there. When I got the dvd it had a note,
‘Hi Lindsay, Here's some bonus raw footage I dug out in addition to Down Under Paris. regards, Richard.
poem by Lindsay Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
French emancipation
French Emancipation?
French women are free well-educated and elegant,
yet spend too much times striving to attract men and
open their legs for anyone. Later they call it freedom
of choice while frantically trying to get money out of
the man who knocked them up and left them hanging
there twisting in their own distressing liberation.
They will intellectualize their misery, see themselves
as a Sagan melancholic, yet yearning to be middle
class housewives worrying about the prices of onions.
Yes, they will be married, to the very best address, and
meet other wives and talk endlessly about equality.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Young Woman From Paris In France
The one with brown eyes and brown hair her Hometown is Paris in France
She has such a sweet singing voice and to music she loves to dance
She is in her twenty fourth year and happy in her single life
For some very lucky young man she will make a beautiful wife.
Her accent is easy to love like the lilt to a beautiful song
Of her voice one never could tire I'd listen to her all day long
To this Town she's like a breath of fresh air not many French people live here
Except for the rare tourist who stop for a break from travel I meet one perhaps once a year.
She has such an old World charm and she has such a beautiful face
And she doesn't find it hard for to smile a woman of charm and grace
'Twould be nice if here she did settle but in our Town I know she won't stay
The young woman from Paris in France from home she is so far away.
She says she will go home next year in beautiful May of the Spring
In the green parks of Paris in France she will hear the birds whistle and sing
And on the verandah of her old home with family and friends out of the glare of the sunshine
She will sing along in the sing song as she enjoys a glass of good French made wine.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lisboa (1983)
Lisbon
How life runs quickly by
The painted flowers fade on the walls
Of Avenido de Liberdade
The flowers of revolution that were sown in blood
Of Africa seized by your ancient rulers
And leased to your moneyed class
Subleased to your southern farmers
Lisbon
Burst into bloom after the fallow of centuries
Freedom to sing in the streets, to withhold labour
But life still does not cease to worsen
For your Africans and poor
At work on every street without machine tools
Laying and repairing each small stone
Lisbon
You welcomed the crowds at Restadores
Massing to support the young officers
And to paint the stone where martyrs fell
Today there is no scarcity of politics
But the same men control, the same women keep clean
The sheets, the workers far from home
Sweep clean the streets of worn election posters
In Lisboa to learn Portuguese
I keep a red carnation fresh in water
In the window of my boarding room
The rain falls gently on the traffic below
The flowers that the singers hold are new
Those in the hands of practiced leaders
Are petals that discolour one by one.
poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Girls In My Life
Was a little girl maybe five-foot-two had the cutest little feet made my heart go tweet-tweet quite a pleasant disposition then came a pretty young french girl, mmm whom i met in las vegas when
There with my parents oh my had a real nice conversation met a girl at the bakery she wanted to borrow my car from me she took it down to mexico ran over a man named juan then i went to college
A college girl she lived in the sorority house across from the school got a real fine education had seven women on my mind now i'm married have a very lovely wife three cute little boys it's so
And that's just half the story of the girls in my life
song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Travails Of Survival
his skin exudes
the native perfumes
his heart is filled with
native tunes
from village to
town to metro
did he migrate
always drawing the
scents and tunes
for his sustenance
stranger he is in the metro
breathes his lungful once
amidst the familiar environs
moving under the known skyscape
a nowhere man in the metro
he is himself back at the village
survival calls him
survival displaces him
this nowhere man is
found everywhere
he goes about spraying
the native perfumes
he moves about
his heart humming the tunes...
15jun2010
14.47hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Grandma's Old Piano Was Sold
grandma's piano is old.
she died ten years ago
being the second wife of grandpa.
my mother is her second child
that she sent to piano school
but father found her and married
her when she was still 18.
and i was born as their fourth
child. Mother knows how to play
the moonlight sonata which father
loves to listen at night when
i learn how to smile and laugh.
One day Papa found another woman
whom he said made him new again
and he left Mama.
One day Mama died and Papa married
that woman.
One day i left home.
One day the piano was sold
One day the piano was taken to another
town so far away from us.
One day, all these things, the piano, Papa
and my step mother are forgotten.
But then the Moonlight Sonata comes again
One night
From another piano nearby.
The keys are no longer made
From elephant tusks like grandma's old piano.
Not the off white of ivory.
So white and smooth like a well brushed teeth
of a very young boy.
I like to hear it when he learns
how to gnash.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Touch Of Class
oh well, i hear you
speak english to your dogs
spanish to the maids
and french to your business partners
on the phone,
you write your poems in german
your essays in portuguese
your menu posted on the ref in italian
cultured, educated, that is you
with a touch of class
but for one thing
now that you have fallen
drowning in the sea
oh gosh, you do not even
know how to swim!
let your language save you then.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tap Water, Jean-Paul Sartre and the Rabbit
French actresses in films always drink glasses of tap water
in the middle of the night; their long hair hangs over sinks in despair.
They run about Paris (clipclopclipclap) and talk very fast about
their lovers, sitting in cars that look like squashed slippers.
Their cheated husbands smoke smelly cigarettes, drink horried green drinks and bang on endlessly about Jean-Paul Sartre.
I am very ashamed that I don`t have so many problems -
not even being worried about atheistic existentialism.
I (myself) am worried though about my pet rabbit (called Rabbit
by his friends, if he had any) who seems at the moment not
to enjoy his lettuce. As you probably understand, there is a
difference between a rabbit and a famous French philosopher and novelist.
Might be the tap water.
poem by Leslie Philibert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Second Excursion
Second Excursion (Edit Piaf)
Fighting my way through the Metro and jostling
with rude French commuters I found my way back
to where Edith was born. The street was now entirely
Taken over by the Chinese, and best of all several
weddings were going on. The Chinese really can
throw a party, noise, laughter and lovely brides.
While I sat on the steps outside Edith’s house, her
voice came back to me – the offensive blue rinsed
man had not succeeded after all.
It was a beautiful autumnal day and together Edith
and I walked to a park overlooking Paris and saw,
at safe distance, the Fabled Eifel tower looking old,
yet elegant in glorious sunlight.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ship Of Fools
Hello europe here we are, everything is easy
Lets cross the border without stop
Italian pasta mixed with fine french wine would be great
My stomach knows no state
Blond girls from sweden
And if thats garden of eden
I think thats o.k.
Turkish dope found a license of the pope
Dont think thats the only way.
Europe, europe rules!
Lets have a drink in a ship of fools
Europe, europe rules!
Lets have a drink in a ship of fools
Allright!
Belgium beer with a jgermeister-deer
Thats why we here, I think this ones not for you
And swiss francs brought to polish banks
Thats life! a hard bone to chew
I dont want no austrians be instructors
In my home I guess theres something better
Spanish guitars combined with twenty german tubas
That wont work but it really doesnt matter
Europe, europe rules!
Lets have a drink in a ship of fools...
Allright!
Hey, hey!
Europe, europe rules!
Lets have a drink in a ship of fools cheers!
Europe, europe rules!
Lets have a drink in a ship of fools just watch it!
Europe, europe rules!
Lets have a drink in a ship of fools
Europe, europe rules!
Lets have a sink in a ship of fools
A shipper of a ship of fools, what part is that?
Europe rules, europe rules
Europe rules, watch your fools!
song performed by by Fury In The Slaughterhouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Why Don't We Get Drunk And Screw
He went to Paris
Looking for answers
To questions that bothered him so
He was impressive
Young and aggressive
Savin the world on his own
But the warm summer breezes
The French wines and cheeses
Put him ambition at bay
His summers and winters
Scattered like splinters
And four to five yeas slipped away
Then he went to England
Played the piano
And married an actress named Kim
They had a fine life, she was a good wife
And bore him young son named Jim
And all of the answers, and all the questions
He locked in his attic one day
Cause he liked the quiet
Clean country livin and
Twenty more years slipped away
Well, the war took his baby
Bombs killed his lady
And left him with only one eye
His body was battered
His whole world was shattered
And all he could do was just cry
While the tears were falling and he was recalling
Answers hed never found
So he hopped on a freighter, skidded the ocean
And left England without a sound
Now he lives in the islands
Fishes and pilins
And drinks his green label each day
Writing his memoirs
Losin his hearin
But he dont care what most people
Through eighty-six years of perpetual motion
If he likes you hell smile, and hell say,
Jimmy, some of its magic, some of its tragic
But I had a good life all of the way.
And he went to Paris
Lookin for answers to questions
That bothered him so
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
California Girls
Well east coast girls are hip
I really dig those styles they wear
And the southern girls with the way they talk
They knock me out when Im down there
The mid-west farmers daughters really make you feel alright
And the northern girls with the way they kiss
They keep their boyfriends warm at night
I wish they all could be california
I wish they all could be california
I wish they all could be california girls
The west coast has the sunshine
And the girls all get so tanned
I dig a french bikini on hawaii island
Dolls by a palm tree in the sand
I been all around this great big world
And I seen all kinds of girls
Yeah, but I couldnt wait to get back in the states
Back to the cutest girls in the world
I wish they all could be california
I wish they all could be california
I wish they all could be california girls
I wish they all could be california
(girls, girls, girls yeah I dig the)
I wish they all could be california
(girls, girls, girls yeah I dig the)
I wish they all could be california
(girls, girls, girls yeah I dig the)
I wish they all could be california
(girls, girls, girls yeah I dig the)
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
My Funny Sunny Holiday!
At first, my trip to sunny France
Was simply for some wild romance,
Away from folks at home I'd miss
While some French girl I'd soon kiss-kiss!
So off I flew upon the plane
Till almost reaching Sunny Spain,
But landing still on France's soil,
With temperatures still set to boil!
At dead of night, we all arrived,
Just thanking God, we'd all survived
And from the journey in the coach
Our half-built hotel to approach!
Our rooms sufficed to suit our needs
And I slept well from all these deeds...
When I awoke, the beach called me!
So off I went to sun and sea...
French girls' bikinis here and there
Had made my English eyes to stare!
So many Baywatch fantasies
While I rubbed oil on my knees...
No tan had I on that first day,
That's why nobody came my way!
But that all changed within that week,
My skin all tanned on my physique...
French girls surrounded me in time,
Amazed that I looked so sublime!
I lied about my age and smiled,
Just mesmerised and quite beguiled!
To think, French ladies I'd entrance!
They made my holiday in France!
And yet no matter where I roam,
It's always nice when I get home!
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The attacks on the Paris Metro in the 1990s were committed by members of the local Muslim community, immigrants from the Maghreb region of North Africa.
quote by Otto Schily
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
He Went To Paris
By: jimmy buffett
1973
He went to paris lookin for answers
To questions that bothered him so
He was impressive, young and aggressive
Savin the world on his own
But the warm summer breezes
The french wines and cheeses
Put his ambition at bay
The summers and winters
Scattered like splinters
And four or five years slipped away
Then he went to england, played the piano
And married an actress named kim
They had a fine life, she was a good wife
And bore him a young son named jim
And all of the answers and all of the questions
Locked in his attic one day
cause he liked the quiet clean country livin
And twenty more years slipped away
Well the war took his baby, the bombs killed his lady
And left him with only one eye
His body was battered, his whole world was shattered
And all he could do was just cry
While the tears were a-fallin he was recallin
Answers he never found
So he hopped on a freighter, skidded the ocean
And left england without a sound
Now he lives in the islands, fishes the pilins
And drinks his green label each day
Writing his memoirs, losin his hearin
But he dont care what most people say
Through eighty-six years of perpetual motion
If he likes you hell smile and hell say
Jimmy, some of its magic, some of its tragic
But I had a good life all the way
Coda:
And he went to paris lookin for answers
To questions that bothered him so
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Two cows deconstruct Derrida
These two cows were ruminating
and one says, I was listening
to the milkmaid’s transistor
and this French philosopher
was explaining that there’s
no English translation of the French word
‘betise’ except ‘stupidity’ but
‘stupidity’ only refers to man
where the French ‘betise’ means
to behave like an animal…
and the other cow says
well what’s wrong with that
and the first cow says
well his point is, English cows
can’t be stupid; only man
can be stupid..
and the other cow says
well that’s a relief then
so does that mean that French cows
can be stupid
and the first cow says
no because they don’t have a word for it
in French
so the other cow says
so then is it better to be
an English cow
that can’t be stupid
or a French cow
that can’t be called stupid
and the first cow says
who cares, I’ve always said
the French ruminate too much
and then talk bullshit…
and the other cow says
I’m glad I’m a Jersey
what about that French milkmaid
I call sexyhands but
the farmer sometimes calls
a silly cow I wonder what
Derrida would say about that
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I met my wife through playing golf. She is French and couldn't speak English and I couldn't speak French, so there was little chance of us getting involved in any boring conversations - that's why we got married really quickly.
quote by Sean Connery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!