paris | september | 2004, 2005, 2006
sadi ranson-polizzotti | chants & poems
poems written in Paris, 2004, 2005
& poems that relate back to Paris |
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of these poems have been published
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sadi ranson-polizzotti, 2007
Entries by sadi ranson-polizzotti (49)
Absolution, St. Sulpice
sadi ranson-polizzotti
There are two. You say, Move out of yourself.
Write something new, and I do. Two tall tapers burn,
lit and bright. The church is dark save for ours &
Afterward
Nothing changed. I hardly expected, though part of me wished. Sentimental to the death, and I do mean it literally.
attencion pietons~!
Ok: First things first. What the fuck
does JCB mean? I mean, I’ve been here
a while, yet still the sign eludes me. Oh sure,
I have un amour de Paris et aussi un amour de la langue
(especially yours love) and when you go to Zone 30 – Wow!
I pray it is parfum de femme – by this I mean not some
American Bar with some seedy American blonde.
automatic writing
You have no choice but to take the Metro. Each time I come across one of those irresistible booths that charge money to steal your soul ~ provided of course that you have one to steal. And what if this other blue book that is here on the bed as if disregarded and sad
automatic writing - charles degaulle
Behind me a man sits with a woman on the plane each complaining Paris and of all things Parisian and of the Parisian airport security which I thought was quite good because all things all considered, I mean hey! There could be a radio program on just how much Paris sucks according to these two because even though I do love it, obviously they do not and oh what a bore, I mean Why Bother!!! Why even go or fly Air France , for heavens’ sake, or is it because it is now safer than American, perhaps perhaps, perhaps just in name alone? I do not know the answers to these questions only pose them here. Of course everyone speaks French on this fight: once again, it is Air France . Do I really need say more?
black and white still
Before you kiss me you tell me, You have the perfect ass –
Heart-shaped in reverse. I dress in a pair of ivory
poppy panties, all lace and finery, Paris bought. You know
this is for you. This kiss is a kiss I will remember.
blind fable
Fast, you take me through slow falling Autumn. hear, i hum to your low sweetened sadi ranson-polizzotti poetry
call home
Paris, September 22, 2004 In three hours, Paris will simple be and we, we will be gone, our tea cups dry, our linens stacked, bags packed. We leave, the heart of the bed faintly
Confessional
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It was so simple and so not.
The father speaking French, me pigeon
bald a sinner. I kneeled, confessed as best
as I cold using all the words I knew – the hot
daily ritual
For two weeks in Paris I follow this routine: Morning, wash the skin Until it glows -- soft and luminous. Afternoons, remove the soft armor The lace about my breasts, So heavy and swollen With the love of you.
do you see this love?
Do you see this love?
Do you see this, love?
How the past is but a bridge to the present,
so like the wide roads that lead to the Isle de la Cité
documentarian
When we return I’ll type these up.
I’ll do this because I am a documentarian.
Because I do not remember, yet remember everything…
dreams
The fruit with its arch of passion Fruit, yellow teardrop, plump Kissed our heads as we passed
farmer's yield
What do you seek In such dark, tight petals. A knot that begs to be undone. You cannot resist the tight bud. Plump lump, black-lipped and pouting.
flux
You tell me, It is not the same as last year.
Both of us thinking the same thing…
Yet still the clock chimes faithful…
grand pressigny
The climb is dizzying Each step closer to cloud They whisper promise of rain As you whisper promises hot
huis clos
So here we are at Les Deux Magots
where people ‘spoke feverishly’ you tell me
as they drank their Pastis or their whiskey
or whatever was fashionable at the time and
imagine
Those girls were all narrow. Sticks, lovely in their silks they blurred to the horizon I watched as your eye followed and they receded watched you back, pout-lipped
interlude | afternoon song
It?s hard to pack up As if in packing we Were packing up altogether Giving up the plan That for two weeks Sustained us. The idea Of it, of us living here, So in love with the all of
je cale
Je cale . I stall. I stall at everything.
The stop and go of the frenetic epileptic.
It is my lot in life to be this way. Each pause