[New-Poetry] Dickow Poetry reading in Paris, France...

[Anny Ballardini]

That's a wonderful poem!
Here's to James' Paris!

On Sun, Nov 23, 2008 at 7:43 PM, amy king <amyhappens at yahoo.com> wrote:

> This is exactly what didn't happen to me in Paris!
>
> _______
>
>
> Recent work
> http://www.writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/King.html
>
> Amy's Alias
> http://amyking.org/
>
> --- On *Sun, 11/23/08, JforJames at aol.com <JforJames at aol.com>* wrote:
>
> From: JforJames at aol.com <JforJames at aol.com>
> Subject: Re: [New-Poetry] Dickow Poetry reading in Paris, France...
> To: new-poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu
> Date: Sunday, November 23, 2008, 12:31 PM
>
>
>  The Night We Never Spent in Paris
>
>
> The windows darkened at day's end,
> the shadows of spires lanced down upon
> the square, the stonework went dead gray
> and streetlights shimmered just under the surface
> of the Seine, disturbed only by the surge and wake
> of an occasional barge. All the bells rang out at their
> appointed hours as traffic hissed in the drizzle,
> until the honking died away toward midnight
> when the clock in our hotel room flashed 00:00.
>     But we weren't there, nor were we walking
> the streets hand in hand, coming down a steep set of stairs
> from Sacré Coeur, and we weren't finishing
> a bottle of white, laughing and crying by turns,
> then hailing a cab as we stumbled and veered,
> each claiming to be holding the other up. The room
> at our hotel on Rue Guy Lussac remained empty,
> the stuffed chair, a writing table, the folded towels
> hanging on a ornate chrome rack in the bathroom,
> a wrapped bar of perfumed soap, the perfectly made bed.
>     In a few hours the bakeries
> would begin to deliver warm baguettes,
> the cobblestones spangled with scales
> in front of the fish market, the last café would lock
> its glass doors, the chairs having climbed atop the tables,
> and still there would be no sign us. From the lighted
> Tour Eiffel to the dark reaches of the Bois de Boulogne,
> from L'Arc de Triomphe to Notre Dame herself,
> and all throughout the metro streaming in its lighted tunnels
> underneath every arrondissement of Paris,
> no one would see us, and no one would miss us.
>     Nor would we ask in our scornful French any passer-by
> for directions. For if we were at-large or lost in this world,
> it is as much to say that we were in love.
>     At our hotel the sunlight was beginning to fill
> the windows until the curtains almost caught fire
> with morning light, but still we did not waken
> because we were not there, the small bed unrumpled
> by the sprawl and tangle of two bodies.
>
>
>
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-- 
Anny Ballardini
http://annyballardini.blogspot.com/
http://www.fieralingue.it/modules.php?name=poetshome
http://www.moriapoetry.com/ebooks.html
I Tell You: One must still have chaos in one to give birth to a dancing
star!
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