France – KensView

L’élection

La France
retient son souffle
La claque
Non au RN
C’est ouf
L’espoir renaît
Et maintenant
on fait quoi?

Election

France
holds its breath
The Slap
No to RN
Phew
Hope is reborn
And now
what to do?

Le ciel s’écroule*

Les Français, they say, have minds refined,
But their thoughts have clouds, a stormy sign.
With each remarque, they make a frown
As if the sky is falling down.

They sip their vin, yet curse the glass,
For joy’s fleeting, too swift to clasp.
In cafés small, with heads held low,
They sigh as if they always know—

Future’s dim, c’est la fin du monde,
Nothing is right, it’ll all explode.
And while Liberté sounds divine,
But even freedom has its time.

Their poètes write of love’s cruel art,
Of dreams that fade and hearts that part.
Les rues de Paris grown with gloom,
As shadows gather spelling doom.

Oh, to be les Français who arise
To welcome the world with leery eyes,
To speak in sighs, in rueful tones,
And call chez eux a house of bones.

Yet in their glumness, there’s a grâce,
A kind of beauté none can replace—
For through their doubts, their endless strain,
They teach us new ways to complain.

*The sky is falling

Les Français, dit-on, sont si raffinés,
Mais leurs pensées sont embrumées, leur esprit est orageux.
A chaque remarque, ils froncent les sourcils
Comme si le ciel leur tombait dessus.
Ils sirotent leur vin, mais maudissent le verre,
Car la joie est fugace, trop rapide pour être serrée.
Dans de petits cafés, la tête basse,
Ils soupirent comme s’ils savaient toujours—
L’avenir est sombre, c’est la fin du monde,
Rien ne va, tout va exploser.
Et si Liberté semble divine,
Mais même la liberté a son heure.
Leurs poètes écrivent sur l’art cruel de l’amour,
Des rêves qui s’estompent et des cœurs qui se séparent.
Les rues de Paris s’assombrissent,
Alors que les ombres s’accumulent, annonçant le malheur.
Oh, être les Français qui se lèvent
Pour accueillir le monde avec des yeux méfiants,
Pour parler en soupirs, d’un ton triste,
Et appeler chez eux une maison d’ossements.
Pourtant dans leur morosité, il y a une grâce,
Une sorte de beauté que rien ne peut remplacer.
Car à travers leurs doutes, leur tension sans fin,
Ils nous enseignent de nouvelles façons de nous plaindre.

War Is Not the Answer

I came to Paris to flee the war gods,
and their cynical words and cruelty,
each day viewing a decade of destruction
in the news from distant rice fields.

Tonkin Gulf, Tet Offensive, My Lai,
napalm and carpet bombing,
a naked child’s run down a road,
there were no good reasons for their lies.

As Nixon crows Hearts and Minds
and sprays Cambodia with Agent Orange,
some ask why so many have to die
while the war crawls on and goes nowhere.

Today began cold, wet, and gloomy
as I stand in front of the Hotel Majestic
encircled by Hanoi and Vietcong flags
and hard-nosed, head-bashing security.

First Madame Binh approaches
dressed up in a traditional Ao Dai,
then comes South Vietnam’s Lam
followed closely by the North’s Trinh.

Last in the solemn procession
is Secretary of State Rogers
hissed and jeered at by protestors
as his car warily nears.

There comes the signal of completion
followed by a rousing round of cheers
signaling that the fighting is over,
a futile conflict with nothing but loss.

But observing such a ruckus,
I feel alone at the curbside
only now fully realizing
the extent of my country’s defeat.

Parisian Pretzel

One day I left my boarding house
on the Rue de Vaugirard
to get air in the light autumn rain.

Armed with umbrella, beret,
Scarf, and overcoat,
I strolled the arrondissement.

Soon a Parisian pretzel greeted me,
autos pressing forward, from every side,
almost willfully blocking the flow.

I then spotted a safety vehicle
stranded in the jammed melee
blaring, flashing in the misty eve.

Shouts and curses of course erupted
no driver yielding even a centimeter
to let the conveyance by.

After smirking at the hubbub,
I squeezed by to continue my route
covering several blocks in a half hour.

But later when I turned back,
I saw to my surprise that the
ambulance had hardly budged a meter.

Tout de suite I looked to thank heaven
wondering to myself, what if
I was the one there inside?

Sorbonne

When I listened to le savant professor,
When I sat in the lecture hall as he expounded on Descartes, Pascal, and Marx,
When I heard elucidations of metaphysics, reductionism, and form,
When the suppositions, tenets, and preuves were meted out,
How soon I would drift off, grow tired et ennuyé,
Till rising, then gliding softly from my back-aisle bench,
I’d exit into the gray, misty Parisian air and souvent
Find more wisdom seeping up from une demi-tasse de café.

The City that sparks

C’est une histoire from time immemorial
Boy meets girl dans La Ville Lumière.
“Tes yeux pétillent vraiment.”*
La métropole beamed avec un grand sourire.

We drilled our leçons de grammaire,
Surveyed bouquinistes au Boule-Miche,
Split une baguette au saucisson et beurre …
Scooched sur le bancs du Jardin du Luxembourg.

We lost our way dans le labyrinthe du Métro,
Strolled les galleries du Louvre,
Sipped espresso au Café de la Rotonde …
Squeezed hands le long de la Seine.

We dodged crazed drivers dans les rues,
Snickered at Le Baiser de Rodin,
Shrieked at un plat du steak tartare …
Snuggled on the steps of Sacré-Cœur.

We paddled the Bois de Boulougne,
Savored Signoret et Montand au cinema,
Shared brie avec du Chardonnay …
Smooched under Le Pont Marie.

We lit candles in Notre-Dame, et puis
Swapped blushes on La Dame de fer …
“We’re not going to … , are we?”
“Bien sûr que non !”

*Your eyes sure do SPARKLE.

Tag: France