Paris is still there clutching her river.
Scudding zeppelins of vapor drifting above;
Glaring blue shields of summer sky
Relentlessly press down as she covers her eyes
With her lamp-posted bridges.
Autumn days tumble past the streetside cafes
Whispering treasonous thoughts to
Waiters impatiently counting their drinks tonight
In tips still clutched by the pockets
of the afternoon sippers.
What blow is this in the steel of December
Sweeping trenchcoated figures
Down rain-glistened streets,
While the flags of the Palais are snapping
Like the wings of the pigeons fleeing the square
While the city of Paris clutches her river.
We huddled there, when love was
Less like a question unasked
Than a bridge in the water
Spanning the distance
Between two wary hearts.
Paris personified! You have captured the ever-present mood, affect, and power of Paris; especially on lovers. Lovely! Marianne Larsen Reninger
Thank you, Marianne! I am so glad you came by to visit, and happier still that you enjoyed this poem. Thank you for all your kind and gracious comments. Have a beautiful day! Neal
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
In this poem I most relate, am most caught, by the simile in the last stanza. The image of a bridge in relationships is not unfamiliar, but, most importantly, it well describes the yearning, the reaching, between two people existentially alone but wanting to connect. I particularly remember the feeling as an adolescent wanting so much to cross what seemed the impossible distance between me and some girl. The bridge is an image with archetypical resonance. Glen
Thank you, Glen, for your thoughtful insights. I remember those days of youth, as well, those tentative attempts at connection. And also in longstanding relationships, sometimes bridges break, and those connections have to be repaired. Grace and peace, my friend, Neal