Tag Archive: Paris


Pleuvoir

The light is perfect here
color soaks the moment
I see small dots of life
everywhere there is lavender
the brush is more patient than I
to render its impression
of God and time
I am immersed in Peace
despite profound disturbance
in the pointillism
the fabric must be mended
that bears the barbarism –
humanity and sane gentle minds
must once again conceive the canvas
we must wake up and smell the carbon
inhale the stars as one people we exhale
a single cry that is our lot
vis-à-vis the vast endless other
rather one another
warm, musky Friday nights
amour all around as it should be amour
lights, everywhere lights
gypsy jazz and a pack of Gitanes
i am jean Paul belmondo I scream from the water
startled bouquinistes and Dominique
et tout le monde est triste et ils me manquent
but my english is pretty good, just like your french, she said
I love you all – I once rode a carousel, the town square of Dijon
while an elderly couple sipped frothed coffee from lacquered cups
I watched the world gallop from atop an ancient horse
smelling the wind of the region in the cold turns
cakes and perfume, a calliope piping an old folk tune
Paris is a city of long horizons architected essentially such
I pray for peace, love, longevity, once again eternal lights
romance beneath an arch, a kiss along the Seine
an end to sorrow and hate –
yes the light is perfect here, I will paint so that nothing mars the light
the light is all that is essential, somehow I must grab the light and apply it
to the canvas, it comes in dots small points of hundreds of millions of color beads
that combine to give us all meaning all life it’s just color we’re all in the end
light

Chagall 2015

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Cimitière du Nord

chagall backdrop

Paris underground, got to get above
to breathe in colored light and rain,
somewhere the girl with the doe’s eyes emits scents
when she’s warm again, but for now the metro is too hot.

The last drag on a night as it nears
dawn, I retain my poise even though I shuffle
and carry myself contemplative, in the rush of early stars,
late tears, departing planes, misted red tail lights.

I can see the flicker, a thousand cycles per second
impressions to strobe, so I dance and pulse intentionally
out of time in order to preserve the macabre, the long spindle
of my spine held erect in this samba, tendrils limber vines.

I bow best in tuxedo, she curtsies in gown, with spit-shine shoes
and perfect air waltzed down the stair rail, shined baluster
on which we glide so gingerly, how I embrace her at the landing
night lamps hushed low in the hall, the turn of some century somewhere.

The kiss is beyond confusion, tousled minds and souls
echo against the marble and ceramic, the air about our noses
warmed by friction of lips, my cheek incessantly tickled by her lashes,
such a brace at the race ‘long the length of the neckline.

I am lulled by the rattle of the trains on the rail,
forever between stations is such a long time so I ride
legs astride between two cars and enjoy the time
in and out of the tunnel, warmer outside, I wouldn’t have guessed.

I apply supple pressure subtly there at the small of her back
help her to find the updraft, the current to ride like the leaf on a scree
tossed, disassembled to light once again, after-starbirth
prepartum blues ere the birth of her new world.

She becomes the moment, blends polymorphic
her biology transmutes to be the time I experience, upon which I cast
my living sine wave, transgress as a pulse I impose on her
downbeat, very much like knotty riffs of rock ‘n roll.

In my dreams I’m often running until I go lucid
where I remember I’m flying of late
with a body like hers in my arms, so heady and weightless
albeit I fly pretty low, blessed just to be near the neckline.

© Chagall 2014

Toujours Et Jamais

chagall backdrop

plaster of Paris
falls from the ceiling
seals me in
it’s Fall

autumn in Paris
leaves, me
she’s left
but I’m right

in the end
on the Left Bank
of Paris

atop a bookstall
looking down
at the Seine

all the sane
watch my dive
I descend like a Swann

falls through
all the time
lost

remember our walks
along budding groves
and Guermantes Way?

© Chagall, 2013

Madam Recommends

Shoots from the hip,
my upstart, upright protegé,
shimmies like that rich chick Kate,
in chin-length bob and skirt to there . . .
no, higher.

She’s pleased to make
your acquaintance,
bacon, eggs, dry martinis,
your day, you come. Just ask . . .
nicely.

Charleston flapper, sequined queen,
quite a quazy wady . . .
like Katie.

Okay. Oh, hey!
Whatever happened
to K?

Kept going at it
till they swept her away,
off her feet, her game.
Keep hoping she comes back . . .
kinda liked her.

Likewise Bobbie, I’m sure.
I’ll leave you two,
call if you need . . .

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Baton Relay

By myself, talking to myself again,
the spirit moves me to tongues, jibberish,
shot from the hip, to some point, encircling,
a knee jerk, a spasm, catatonia,
asleep atop a tightwire. Tympani?

Are those really steel drums that are playing?
Or is it just the hum of song machines,
there behind the walls? The underground trains
speed, fluorescent murals, painted blacklight
tunnels that rocket to bright midday sparks.

Hot; starched curtains, white; edged lemon cotton.
Key lime pie and peaked, sweet meringue rosettes.
Life is easy in the sun; blood orange
juices run the length of your inner arm.
The parrot also blabbers jibberish,

straight from the beak, so to speak, turns a phrase
clean as a whistle or a pirate song.
I wash your arms in clear, fresh, cold water.
Stickiness dissolves, your limbs are refreshed,
renewed, invigorated, and christened.

These streets are ancient; the clay is primal.
The sunlight is primordial. The stars
are the reason for the day, for being.
Raison d’etre. The way it’s to be.
“Marcello!” In the fountains, once again.

Your place has large sculpted window boxes,
arcs, smooth plaster, your own personal asps;
so much fun to kiss in rooms well tended,
in classic southerly light, long lean rays,
from ceiling to floor, in lofts in Paris,

light caught in seams of wood planks, sock-varnished,
colors ride steamed mist, swarms of bees take hold,
so much space between me and the thing seen,
which is you, grace and splendor, at its peak,
where the oxygen is too thin, miles high.

You can gasp all you want, you still can’t breathe.
When you mistake up for down, more than once,
is it time to buy champagne by cases?
Accelerate the deterioration.
Kill brain cells in droves, fly ’em to the moon.

There’s a wind that blows when you’re not around,
scented of nectar suckles and honey,
combs of thick syrups, agave, sugars,
lustrous caramels, burnt deep sienna,
It rains and lifts the mocha,  brew of loam,

rich in mineral, organic matter.
You’d be proud to be associated.
Everyone agrees, nothing but wonder.
Smells that evoke another time and place.
Melodious aromas shadowbox.

Mardi Gras and everyone is elsewhere,
despite being right here, smack dab in it.
I am so sorry to have to do this.
i capture the light, a strand from my lips,
small fibers connecting there to her own.

Not yours. There’s something wrong; I feel feint, spent.
It’s another earth, I’m so sure of it.
It’s that other me, I’ve kept under wraps,
a subtext, a prelude to sanity,
an idiot in the making. Save me.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Paris (part 4)

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There's a rider on the storm, 
gallops underground, up on the hill, Père Lachaise.  

In Montmarte I take it easy, with my easel and I paint, 
pointillistic in the sun.  

Fine dots of light float free in photons
after noon. 

on that day:
manet monet chagall corbet.  

Can you tell? 
I have no clue what arrondissement I'm in.  
Just a hazy, dizzy mood, this spin ...
so absinthe minded.

Does everybody smoke here?  
Well let's be clear, I'm joining you, 

I'm weak.  
Giving up my good intentions for you my loves, 
monique dominique veronique.
C'est magnifique!

- to be continued -

© Carlos Chagall, 2013     Rider on the Storm     Absinthe

Paris (part 2)

cropped-rainbow-shutterstock_117680335.jpg
And the women?  Ah, the women
drive you crazy with their lazy
way of talking at you, pouting.
Whisper voulez-vous.

I never should have come to Paris.
I don't seem to be the kind.  Two 
walk the rainy streets along Versailles.

The Ile of France,
where emperors dance,
and the old dome, Notre Dame,
leave me breathless tonight.  I 

never know which side of the Seine I'm on.
I'll just ask a bookanista,
they all know me,
call me "Mon ami, l'americain."


- to be continued -
Carlos Chagall, 2013

cropped-rainbow-shutterstock_117680335.jpg
I'm at a hotel in Paris, on a balcony
overlooking Rue Chambiges,
in the 8th arrondissement.

Did you hear?
I bummed three cigarettes 
from le garcon at the Bistro.
Thought I'd given that all up 
so many years ago.

But as Parisians do, I guess
so go I. 

Gonna savor the flavor
on the balcony 
in Paris tonight,
ce soir, in Paris.

I cannot see the Eiffel Tower from where I am,
but they tell me that it flickers,
on the hour,
just like 
lovers gone wild.

Too many gypsies on the street
play guitar with all their fingers,
so they cannot be real gypsies,
or can they?

Not like Django,
French tango,
tell me,
where'd the old gang go?

- to be continued -
Chicheme, March 2013

arrondissement, Django Reinhardt, 8th arrondissement
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