The Poetry of Paris

the round-a-bouts are bigger than me. the république . . . and others . . . swirl the machines on wheels in circles. they carry the bodies of humans to work. through the arc de triomphe, they journey with the past history of triumphant military marches, national armies proclaiming victory over the land. this symbol, the arc de triomphe, signals the pride of pennants, and the stink of arrogance. the flags on the arc de triomphe carry this burden with them.

in the centre pompidou, my memory fails me and i behold pierre boulez who does not play the octave. his music is not easy to listen to. it is not consonant. it grinds against the grain of classical music. it denotes another direction for music. it contains a possibility. its silence is deafening and unendurable.

smells of falafel in the marais—i stop for a moment—but turn to leave before my feet are stuck in the mud of the swamp. i pull them away and turn a corner of corners with the flash of a mosque. chinese spring rolls are on display in the window of a restaurant (to go or eat in?) i peek in. i hesitate. i cannot make the decision. shall i go in? shall i linger inside the walled facades and its vertical pavements, searching for a small satisfaction of hunger? or is another hunger eating this hunger away? i stop again, arrested by colorful displays of fruit.

clementines, oh so small! pink lady apples, sometimes so sour! i bite into it and it quenches my thirst not only for water but for the natural sweetness of fruits.

near the république is a bookshop, la penseur. a woman behind a desk sitting upright and not noticing me as i enter. later, in order to repeat an enjoyable circumstance, i look for the bookshop again but only find the rusted image of it in my depleated mind. it has vanished. the apparition of this city is visible in these abstract flights of searching; the eyes look for the bookshop in the buildings, the sidewalks, the pavements, the rooftops, the chimneys—but i find only invisible images floating through the river of my thoughts.

the seine river flows under bridges in the throes of secrecy. its clandestine approach stands under the architecture. it ebbs in the shadows of small dinner boats, bright with electricity. the bridges are curved, making room for the river. under its skirt is the river. the river is the heart. if it stops beating, the city dies. i am dumbstruck on its banks, and almost fall in. on its edge, i hang. it pushes against this edge, flirting with the lips of my fingers now moving in it. breath taken away, the seine fulfills its beat in the silver stars during the black diamond night.

Photo by Benh Lieu Song

Written by Andrew Hill

Last 3 posts by Andrew Hill

• The Simple Pleasures of Paris - December 10th, 2007
• On the Loose in Toulouse - July 31st, 2007

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