 ~~ for Marian ~~
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Off the Rue Nicolo
In a small hotel room close to the Seine,
a woman leaned over a casement sill,
rested her arms on the wrought-iron rail
and, half-asleep, raised her face to the rain.
The sheets were disheveled where she had lain
and the dress that she had tossed on a chair
fell in yellow linen folds to the floor
like a swath of lilies. Now and again,
slivers of sun were emerging through gray,
though few of these brightened the alleyway
or buildings that shadowed her view like cliffs.
And when she looked up she saw, very high,
hundreds of traceries pattern the sky--
a cloud of elusively darting swifts.
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Along the Rue Saint-Dominique
In another country, in later years,
she often remembered the mornings spent
surveying the street from her balcony--
the cats that curled beside bundled figures
of vagrants huddled on warm-air vents,
or the lean and shadowy toms that prowled
from the alleyways to preen in the sun,
attending each tattered laceration
from a night of mauling and being mauled.
And, across the street, when the small cafe
would open, with waiters setting up chairs,
cats would materialize out of air
to crowd at the doorway, collectively
meowing for their petit dejeuner.
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In the Jardin des Tuileries
Decrepit and wrinkled as an old root,
with dirt begriming his skin and his clothes,
I almost thought him a statue at first,
so completely did birds envelope him.
They lit on his shoulder, his knee and wrist,
on the bench and ground and toe of his boot--
pompous old pigeons and squabbling sparrows,
of all commonplace birds the commonest.
Yet all by his crumbs were equally blessed
as they used his arm for a crooked limb
or crowded around with skitter and hop.
Nor with birds alone did charity end--
as I passed him by he spoke as a friend
and offered a crust, but I didn't stop.
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In the Esplanade des Invalides
The allure of quiet and rustling shade
was what had drawn her away from the street,
away to a wooden bench in a glade
of uniform lindens arrayed in straight
parallel rows around an open square.
She crossed her legs primly, smoothing her skirt,
and watched a circle of men who were there,
middle-aged men engaged in some sport
with solid steel balls that, when they were tossed,
fell heavy as shots and rang like hammered
anvils when struck. For a while she guessed
by what rules they played, and then just wondered
at skill so resolved and spare that not once
did they afford her so much as a glance.
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In the Metro
Through a wrought-iron arch, down littered stairs,
we entered beneath the streets at midnight,
threading our way through the hard-edged light
of an endlessly twisting corridor
where chord-progressions of swirling color
like mother-of-pearl pervaded the air--
then, reaching the platform, we found him there,
a hollow-cheeked man playing jazz guitar
and drenching the chamber in liquid chords--
and when the train came he slipped on board
where, immersed in the tunnel's streaming light,
he stood in a dreamy repose and played
rapturous strains as the car rocked and swayed
and plunged through the subterranean night.
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Along the Rue Victor Masse
In a crude argot of repellent slang
from the gutter, mixed with jargon unheard
since the days of Villon, he sang and slurred
discordant refrains to all who'd listen,
dark, disquieting verses delivered
in a biting, vitriolic harangue.
His cavernous eyes appeared to fasten
on nothing at all, and a sneering grin
like rictus affixed to his bloodless face.
He sang of the streets and the alleyways,
of nights under bridges along the Seine,
of cravings and sickness and scrounging francs
till I felt obliged to offer a coin--
he smirked and spat on the pavement for thanks.
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Along the Rue Passy
Amid noises of street and marketplace,
the fluted trebles of someone playing
Mozart for coins. Overhead, the sighing
of fragrant lindens that shade the terrace.
Nearby, the tinkling of silver and glass,
the murmurous tones of stylish couples
exchanging intimate talk at tables.
Unexpectedly, an evocative face
so hollow-eyed and hauntingly lovely
I marvel, inadvertantly staring--
a drawn and willowy woman slowly
drifting through elegant tables, imploring
the alms of a morsel, with fingertips
lifted in virtual prayer to lips.
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In Pere Lachaise
Except for the carrion crows or the eyes
that looked at her from the vacant faces
of angels, effigies, crucified Christs,
she thought that she was alone. What she missed
were the eyes of cats that watched from places
she never saw, and the derelict sighs
of spirits that she could only discern
as the tremor of leaves. Yet it was due
to a voice as haunting that she'd returned
after thirty years to this place, and she knew
when at last she'd found it by all the strewn
and clustered lilies that lavished the stone
and by all the faithful who stood to gaze
at the name of PIAF amid the bouquets
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read these poems in an autobiographical context
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