Here is Alan Seeger's wonderful poem about Paris:
Alan
Seeger Paris
First,
London, for its myriads; for its height,
Manhattan
heaped in towering stalagmite;
But
Paris for the smoothness of the paths
That
lead the heart unto the heart's delight. . . .
Fair
loiterer on the threshold of those days
When
there's no lovelier prize the world displays
Than,
having beauty and your twenty years,
You
have the means to conquer and the ways,
And
coming where the crossroads separate
And
down each vista glories and wonders wait,
Crowning
each path with pinnacles so fair
You
know not which to choose, and hesitate --
Oh,
go to Paris. . . . In the midday gloom
Of
some old quarter take a little room
That
looks off over Paris and its towers
From
Saint Gervais round to the Emperor's Tomb, --
So
high that you can hear a mating dove
Croon
down the chimney from the roof above,
See
Notre Dame and know how sweet it is
To
wake between Our Lady and our love.
And
have a little balcony to bring
Fair
plants to fill with verdure and blossoming,
That
sparrows seek, to feed from pretty hands,
And
swallows circle over in the Spring.
There
of an evening you shall sit at ease
In
the sweet month of flowering chestnut-trees,
There
with your little darling in your arms,
Your
pretty dark-eyed Manon or Louise.
And
looking out over the domes and towers
That
chime the fleeting quarters and the hours,
While
the bright clouds banked eastward back of them
Blush
in the sunset, pink as hawthorn flowers,
You
cannot fail to think, as I have done,
Some
of life's ends attained, so you be one
Who
measures life's attainment by the hours
That
Joy has rescued from oblivion.
II
Come
out into the evening streets. The green light lessens in the west.
The
city laughs and liveliest her fervid pulse of pleasure beats.
The
belfry on Saint Severin strikes eight across the smoking eaves:
Come
out under the lights and leaves
to
the Reine Blanche on Saint Germain. . . .
Now
crowded diners fill the floor of brasserie and restaurant.
Shrill
voices cry "L'Intransigeant," and corners echo
"Paris-Sport."
Where
rows of tables from the street are screened with shoots of box and bay,
The
ragged minstrels sing and play and gather sous from those that eat.
And
old men stand with menu-cards, inviting passers-by to dine
On
the bright terraces that line the Latin Quarter boulevards. . . .
But,
having drunk and eaten well, 'tis pleasant then to stroll along
And
mingle with the merry throng that promenades on Saint Michel.
Here
saunter types of every sort. The shoddy jostle with the chic:
Turk
and Roumanian and Greek; student and officer and sport;
Slavs
with their peasant, Christ-like heads,
and
courtezans like powdered moths,
And
peddlers from Algiers, with cloths
bright-hued
and stitched with golden threads;
And
painters with big, serious eyes go rapt in dreams, fantastic shapes
In
corduroys and Spanish capes and locks uncut and flowing ties;
And
lovers wander two by two, oblivious among the press,
And
making one of them no less, all lovers shall be dear to you:
All
laughing lips you move among, all happy hearts that, knowing what
Makes
life worth while, have wasted not the sweet reprieve of being young.
"Comment
ca va!" "Mon vieux!" "Mon cher!"
Friends
greet and banter as they pass.
'Tis
sweet to see among the mass comrades and lovers everywhere,
A
law that's sane, a Love that's free, and men of every birth and blood
Allied
in one great brotherhood of Art and Joy and Poverty. . . .
The
open cafe-windows frame loungers at their liqueurs and beer,
And
walking past them one can hear fragments of Tosca and Boheme.
And
in the brilliant-lighted door of cinemas the barker calls,
And
lurid posters paint the walls with scenes of Love and crime and war.
But
follow past the flaming lights, borne onward with the stream of feet,
Where
Bullier's further up the street is marvellous on Thursday nights.
Here
all Bohemia flocks apace; you could not often find elsewhere
So
many happy heads and fair assembled in one time and place.
Under
the glare and noise and heat the galaxy of dancing whirls,
Smokers,
with covered heads, and girls dressed in the costume of the street.
From
tables packed around the wall the crowds that drink and frolic there
Spin
serpentines into the air far out over the reeking hall,
That,
settling where the coils unroll, tangle with pink and green and blue
The
crowds that rag to "Hitchy-koo" and boston to the
"Barcarole". . . .
Here
Mimi ventures, at fifteen, to make her debut in romance,
And
join her sisters in the dance and see the life that they have seen.
Her
hair, a tight hat just allows to brush beneath the narrow brim,
Docked,
in the model's present whim, `frise' and banged above the brows.
Uncorseted,
her clinging dress with every step and turn betrays,
In
pretty and provoking ways her adolescent loveliness,
As
guiding Gaby or Lucile she dances, emulating them
In
each disturbing stratagem and each lascivious appeal.
Each
turn a challenge, every pose an invitation to compete,
Along
the maze of whirling feet the grave-eyed little wanton goes,
And,
flaunting all the hue that lies in childish cheeks and nubile waist,
She
passes, charmingly unchaste, illumining ignoble eyes. . . .
But
now the blood from every heart leaps madder through abounding veins
As
first the fascinating strains of "El Irresistible" start.
Caught
in the spell of pulsing sound, impatient elbows lift and yield
The
scented softnesses they shield to arms that catch and close them round,
Surrender,
swift to be possessed, the silken supple forms beneath
To
all the bliss the measures breathe and all the madness they suggest.
Crowds
congregate and make a ring. Four deep they stand and strain to see
The
tango in its ecstasy of glowing lives that clasp and cling.
Lithe
limbs relaxed, exalted eyes fastened on vacancy, they seem
To
float upon the perfumed stream of some voluptuous Paradise,
Or,
rapt in some Arabian Night, to rock there, cradled and subdued,
In
a luxurious lassitude of rhythm and sensual delight.
And
only when the measures cease and terminate the flowing dance
They
waken from their magic trance and join the cries that clamor "Bis!" .
. .
Midnight
adjourns the festival. The couples climb the crowded stair,
And
out into the warm night air go singing fragments of the ball.
Close-folded
in desire they pass, or stop to drink and talk awhile
In
the cafes along the mile from Bullier's back to Montparnasse:
The
"Closerie" or "La Rotonde", where smoking, under lamplit
trees,
Sit
Art's enamored devotees, chatting across their `brune' and `blonde'. . . .
Make
one of them and come to know sweet Paris -- not as many do,
Seeing
but the folly of the few, the froth, the tinsel, and the show --
But
taking some white proffered hand that from Earth's barren every day
Can
lead you by the shortest way into Love's florid fairyland.
And
that divine enchanted life that lurks under Life's common guise --
That
city of romance that lies within the City's toil and strife --
Shall,
knocking, open to your hands, for Love is all its golden key,
And
one's name murmured tenderly the only magic it demands.
And
when all else is gray and void in the vast gulf of memory,
Green
islands of delight shall be all blessed moments so enjoyed:
When
vaulted with the city skies, on its cathedral floors you stood,
And,
priest of a bright brotherhood, performed the mystic sacrifice,
At
Love's high altar fit to stand, with fire and incense aureoled,
The
celebrant in cloth of gold with Spring and Youth on either hand.
III
Choral
Song
Have
ye gazed on its grandeur
Or
stood where it stands
With
opal and amber
Adorning
the lands,
And
orcharded domes
Of
the hue of all flowers?
Sweet
melody roams
Through
its blossoming bowers,
Sweet
bells usher in from its belfries the train of the honey-sweet hour.
A
city resplendent,
Fulfilled
of good things,
On
its ramparts are pendent
The
bucklers of kings.
Broad
banners unfurled
Are
afloat in its air.
The
lords of the world
Look
for harborage there.
None
finds save he comes as a bridegroom, having roses and vine in his hair.
'Tis
the city of Lovers,
There
many paths meet.
Blessed
he above others,
With
faltering feet,
Who
past its proud spires
Intends
not nor hears
The
noise of its lyres
Grow
faint in his ears!
Men
reach it through portals of triumph, but leave through a postern of tears.
It
was thither, ambitious,
We
came for Youth's right,
When
our lips yearned for kisses
As
moths for the light,
When
our souls cried for Love
As
for life-giving rain
Wan
leaves of the grove,
Withered
grass of the plain,
And
our flesh ached for Love-flesh beside it with bitter, intolerable pain.
Under
arbor and trellis,
Full
of flutes, full of flowers,
What
mad fortunes befell us,
What
glad orgies were ours!
In
the days of our youth,
In
our festal attire,
When
the sweet flesh was smooth,
When
the swift blood was fire,
And
all Earth paid in orange and purple to pavilion the bed of Desire!
Paris street photo by J Ahrndt
