Old Fruits of Paris

I have been signed by a Literary Agency for my first Novel. So, I treated myself to a trip to Paris and wrote this while I was there.

The pigeons of Notre Dame De Paris

are maundering among the feet of tourists. They have flocked like sheep,

and the wool of their words has covered their meaning. An elderly man

is throwing seeds for them to fight over. The locusts of their hunger

swarm the feast. The Sun of April seasons their meal.

 

I walk along the bank of the Seine, moving through a tide of Spring

with nothing but the fruits of my Silence.

The wind is pale, yet sharp and marks my face with the red of Holy fire.

The heat is golden, like the crowning of fresh Light.

Passers-by notice the warmth, quivering from the perfume of a dawn un-dawned,

While my body flows towards the discoveries of its horizon.

        The olive-green of the Seine weds itself to the sky.

Stepping beneath the stars of a tree,

I, like a Magi, unmask its mysteries

And ride upon the chariots of its leaves.

 

Upon the bridge, I stop and listen to the verve of the wild air,

Knowing the force of life will come between us,

Yet as the space cast its shadow, I do not move.

And from the gardens of my Consciousness, roses twine

With the eve of Light and twilight of shadow.

Ah! Paris! The buds of your romance flowers upon my mind,

        Like an arch of a rainbow.

 

I see, a stone’s throw away, trees pink as salmon,

And hear the grand trumpets of books from

Shakespeare and Company.

    I walk past a café and fall into the aroma of coffee and cigarettes.

The smell gives rise to past lives.

    Old fruits from the tree of Life.

 

I rummage through the books in boxes outside,

    and come across marks of Birth

Waking in the morning of mad years.

 

I go inside, through a portal of history,

     Explore its shelves

And find old fruits resurrected.

            

Reviews

[Betty Hermelee]

What a an outstanding take on Paris which I cherish from many visits there...smells of perfume in the air, gentile breezes, colorful garden to stroll; cafes abound, begging you to stop for a brew; the bridges are like elegant pieces of art; the flowing of the Seine, changing color as the light moves...pigeons on every square, watching tourists feed them, or elderly ladies as well; the book lining the banks of the Seine, difficult not to browse...this makes me yearn to return to the City of Light.
Best, B

[Coyote Poetry]

I love to roam the old cities.
"I go inside, through a portal of history,
Explore its shelves
And find old fruits resurrected."
I love old books too. I liked the description. I came along with you in the city of Paris. Thank you for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote