Eighteenth-Nineteenth Century Verse
France is the country of poems and prose
the lovely French language tells us so.
Romantic love in classical verse
dates back to Voltaire from days long ago.
The 18th century brought poets from Paris
writing about France and the Seine,
and so many other Parisian wonders
that lie in that fertile plain.
Yes France was a country of talent
In England, Wordsworth stole the scene
whilst Coleridge, another fine English poet
wrote lyrical verse about Pastures Green.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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I Write Poems For Poets
I WRITE POEMS FOR POETS
I write poems for poets
Our situation as poets-
The longings the feelings
We so need to express-
The love of language-
The hunger for recognition-
The frequent rejection-
The kind word of a reader that moves-
Poems for poets
We as we each are
All so different-
And we as we share
Words and worlds
We hope to have read.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Language Of Love
Excusez-moi, my pretty mademoiselle,
You are a french girl its easy to tell,
Me, I dont smoke not even a french cigarette,
But I love my pomme de terre,
And always croquette,
I am from angleterre and you are from france,
And you will honour me by having a dance.
Chorus:
Straight away!
Im getting ready for a new sensation,
Never kissed them in another nation,
Internationally Im in clover,
I was a native on the boat ride over,
Straight away!
Im getting ready for my new vocation,
I am the man who will unite the nations,
Ooh la la/how you say it/ca va-this is love,
La la la la la la la language of love.
La la la la la la la language of love.
La la la la la la la language of love.
Weve been together now for more than a day,
And I am waiting to hear what you say,
Come on, come on, I think youre telling me lies,
You are italian, I can tell by your eyes,
I love chianti and I hope youll agree,
That zefferelli makes the movies for me
Chorus repeated.
Instrumental
I try my french, latin, spanish and greek,
This is the language of love that I speak,
I never know if theyre from paris or rome,
We stop the talking when Im walking them home,
One little kiss and then heavens above,
This is the universal language of love.
Straight away!
Are you ready for a new sensation,
Im gonna kiss a girl from every nation,
(rest of chorus as before).
This is love-the language of love.
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My inspirational poets
Let me think of the Vietnamese literature
let me miss the poet named Ba Huyen Thanh Quan
Who is so lovely and so warm.
As her romantic love poems are so clever and
forever for thousand years.
Let me dream of Nguyen Du
in the romantic love story of Lady called Kieu
that is so fantastic love life
and the beautiful nature 's lovely way
still lives in his poems forever.
Let my soul sinks in their marvelous poems
that are so simple and so beautiful for thousand years
AS my childhood fills all of their poems
that let me stirs the emotion never forget.
To their beautiful poems are forever and always.
poem by Natasa Tocuc
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True Poet
She asked me if I was a poet?
I said ‘I Am.’
She asked me if I was a true poet?
I said that I was.
She asked me ‘What is a true poet?
I said ‘Someone who lives for poetry.’
Someone who has no choice
but to write evermore eternal poetry.
Someone who turns happiness
into moments of exquisite poetic joy.
Someone who turns tragedy
into intensified heightened transcendent expression.
Someone who watches a leaf fall
from rustic red golden autumn tree;
and has no choice but to fall
gliding, into rhythm of perpetual cyclic life.’
She asked me if you could be a poet
and not write a single poem.
I paused for a moment of contemplation
then Poetry said,
‘Your whole life could be but
a single poem;
the entire course of a whole life lived,
could be but a single impassioned poem.’
She paused overwhelmed then said,
‘You are a true poet.’
I paused to consider throughout
depths of a moment of eternal silence;
then said, ‘It is hard to live suffering,
the consequences, the isolation, of being a poet.’
She said ‘Can you live alone? ’
I said ‘I have lived alone,
sometimes I enjoyed living alone;
but that I enjoyed the companionship of friends.’
She said ‘Only honest people
can live alone.
She said ‘You remind me of Voltaire.’
‘Have you ever read Voltaire? ’
I said ‘No’
She said that I should.
I never did for I was too busy
living a precarious life;
and resolving the tensions, jarring elements,
of the late twentieth century;
with tolerance, amusement, insight,
or subtle or elaborate facets of truth.
Yet the last decade of the twentieth century
turned into frustrated anguish;
as I felt evermore with mounting certainty
the shape of events to come.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
‘Voltaire is the pen name of Francois Marie Arouet (1694-1778) , the greatest of the writers and thinkers (philosophers) who lived in France in the 18th century, during the years leading up to the French evolution (1789-99) . He lived a long life and never stopped writing about the right of a person to be free and to think forhimself. He attacked the government for oppressing people’s lives. He also attacked the (French) Church which, he felt, did not allow freedom of faith. (Voltaire studied England's Constitutional Monarchy and its religious tolerance while in exile in England from 1726 to 1729.) He pointed out the weaknesses of the society in which he lived and helped to prepare the way for the upheaval of the French Revolution.’ Children’s Britannica P.224.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I am a guest of the French language. My poems in French are born of my interaction with the French language, which is not the same as that of a French poet.
quote by Tahar Ben Jelloun
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fame Postmortem Intervals
singers poets
are often remembered
for just one
or two songs poems
an interesting fact
is several great
classical poets
had very few poems
or even none
published
during their lives
fame postmortem
singers posers are often
electric fly by nighters
instant one hit wonders
longer lasting new styles
fading shadows
echo early days
flush fame games
history craze slices
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Fate of Top Poems!
Past poets were remarkable by their poems only;
But present poets are made remarkable by others!
Poetry of the past are no doubt top poems ever;
But poetry of the top are not listed in top poems!
Becoming top poets how can theirs have no place
Among the top poems of the poetry list? I wonder!
Touch stone of the top poems depends on merit
But not by the supports of friends for fun ever!
Poems of lasting value only can become classic;
But poems of no merit also have become classic!
Poetry of the past are romantic and also classic
But poetry of the present are neither but modern!
What is the yardstick to select poems as top ones -
Just support of some but not merit and meaning?
poem by Ramesh T A
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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French Teacher
Being in Paris for over
Thirty years, he taught
French to younsters
At sixty five, reminscing
The Eiffel tower, the squares
Of Paris, the promenades
The painters, especially
The beuties, with a smack
Of his old lips, mentioning
Them quite often,
But not mentioning
The life of love he led,
He lived ina old fort like house
Looking after his
Wife and shy daughter,
With thought of france
Where he lived so long,
For company of his oldage.
poem by Ravikiran Arakkal
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I Have Read Many Poems I Know I Never Could Have Written
I have read many poems I know I never could have written
Poems whose language was far richer and more remarkable than mine
Poems that saw as I cannot see and sounded as I cannot sound
Poems of magnificent music and many hidden meanings
I have read many poems greater than those I could ever write
And have been humbled and saddened and inspired by them
Out there somewhere else
There have been real poets
And I in my own little lines
Love and respect them.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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Vive La France!
With echoing effect colourful bon-fires were burning
To celebrate National Day of France in Pondicherry
That kept the crowd in the beach spell bound for long!
The erstwhile colony of France is this French town
Full of European architectural beauty and green park
People like to enjoy by cosmopolitan culture forever!
Most civilised country in the world France preached
Democracy by the famous slogans of Rousseau like
Liberty, Equality and Fraternity India cherishes most!
Bon ami of French culture and international brotherhood
Of India keep both the countries natural friends forever
Flourishing humanism as an example to all world nations!
Vive la France French nationals along with Indians say
To strength the bond between two bon ami forever and ever!
poem by Ramesh T A
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The Deceased Poets Of Nature
Such beautiful poems to Nature they did write
The poetry we love for to read and recite
May they rest in peace now where-ever they lay
The deceased poets of Nature their poems live today
They glorified Nature and her praises they sung
And though they may be long dead their poems remain young
the poets of the land and the poets of the sea
In their beautiful poetry their greatness we do see
Their poems and their songs I loved as a boy
And their poems and their songs I will always enjoy
The beauty of Nature they did celebrate
And beauty in their words they loved to create.
Great insights of Nature from them we did gain
The beauty of their words with us does remain
We loved them for their poems in decades long gone
The deceased poets of Nature their poems living on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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French, The Language Of Love
French, the Language of Love.
Darling, speak French to me when we make love, wicked words
I don’t understand, but have a whispering meaning of delight.
I stand before you with salutial erection, a soldier of love ready
to sacrifice myself for your subterranean pleasure.
Your wishes have to be expressed in French or the steed’s chase
will not react with proper force, It will think it’s time to go back
into the stable, hanging about, wondering what went wrong.
At the subway in Paris I was in the way of a woman who wanted
to exit, she swore at me, thinking it were words of love, I kissed
her and was arrested. But released, though when they understood
I was a foreigner, lost in the baffling ways of the French idiom.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Biography
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud, a French poet, was born Oct.20,1854, in Charleville. His childhood was marred by a 'cantankerous and vindictive' mother and by the discipline of the local school, but his poetic virtuosity was extraordinary. By the age of fifteen he had written verse in imitation of the Romanticists (Vers de College,1932) , and one of his teachers, Izambard, introduced him to contemporary poetry. He was fiercely revolutionary, and wrote the words 'Down with God' on the public benches of Charleville. He ran away from his native town, twice to Paris and once into Belgium, and once he spent 10 days in prison for travelling by train without a ticket. During these escapades, he wrote such poems as Ma Boheme and Le Cabaret vert.
In 1871, in Charleville, he wrote his first prose poems and the Lettres du voyant, and sent to Verlaine a copy of his poem Le Bateau ivre. Verlaine was enthusiastic with the work and encouraged Rimbaud to come to Paris. At this time he had already started the composition of his Illuminations, which was not published until 1886. Verlaine and Rimbaud drifted into an affair. He served in the army of the Commune, and after its fall he went abroad with Verlaine, travelling in England and Belgium. In 1873, in Brussels, he was shot in the wrist by Verlaine, who was condemned to 2 years' imprisonment in the city of Mons for the act. After the incident, Rimbaud wrote a new Illuminations and Une Saison en Enfer.
In november 1893, Rimbaud gave up the writing of poetry and started traveling through Europe on foot. He returned once more to Paris and then disappeared for 16 years. Part of this time he spent in the East, but the greater part was in Ethiopia, where he dealt in contraband firearms, in ivory and gold, and perhaps in slaves. In 1891 he became ill, returned to France to have one leg amputated, and died on November 10 in a Marseille hospital.
poem by Arthur Rimbaud
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Twenty-First Century Romance
They check out your sign…., help you combine….,
While you’re taking a chance….,
In cyberspace, with virtual satin and lace…,
This could be the start of a Twenty-First Century Romance.
When Cupid takes aim…., it won’t be in vain…,
You’ll share the ultimate dance….,
With no firewall, you’ll have a ball….,
This could be the start of a Twenty-First Century Romance....! ! !
No matter where you are…, love’s magic creates a trance…,
From the heart of New York City to Naples, maybe even Paris, France.....,
This could be the start of a Twenty-First Century Romance….,
Yes, this could be the start of a Twenty-First Century Romance.
poem by Trade Martin
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My Poems Have Become Disordered
MY POEMS HAVE BECOME DISORDERED
My poems have become disordered-
They have lost their logic-
I do not know how to control them-
They break off in the middle
and go on in differerent directions
and cannot be brought back together
into a proper ending-
My poems have become disordered
as my mind
as my life
as all I do these days-
perhaps one day I tell myself
it will all be together again-
But for now
I go one way
my poems go another
and something in me
goes somewhere else
neither I nor my poetry know-
So that we are now perhaps
at the end of a poem
which not long ago
quietly and sadly
was only just begun.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There is poetry even in prose, in all the great prose which is not merely utilitarian or didactic: there exist poets who write in prose or at least in more or less apparent prose; millions of poets write verses which have no connection with poetry.
quote by Eugenio Montale
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One layer was certainly 17th century. The 18th century in him is obvious. There was the 19th century, and a large slice, of course, of the 20th century; and another, curious layer which may possibly have been the 21st.
quote by Clement Attlee
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Own Language
it is not as sweet as English
neither romantic as French
neither lyrical like Spanish
nor authoritative as Greek
nor mystical as Latin
nor progressive as Chinese
nor deep as German nor
friendly as Thai and
neighborly as Bahasa
but my own language
lies inside my heart and so
lovely still that i speak it
as musical as the language of my soul
as lyrical as the movement of my body
as heavenly as my God that speaks to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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