Parfum de Rose

La Vie en Rose - Black Coffee - Fleuve National - Life in the Provinces

La Vie en Rose 


When you’re walking back into Paris from the ruins

of Sarcelles and Saint Denis

make sure to admire the stolen obelisk

the haute couture

and the grim faces of the SNCF workers

about to go on strike


Tell yourself that you didn’t buy

and that you aren’t wearing rose-coloured glasses

from that shop on the Champs-Élysées


Keep telling yourself that this is the best of all possible worlds

that there's a grand and circular harmony

in the Place d’Italie

and in the footprints of Molière and Art

that anyone can see


Black Coffee

(From Rue de Poteau to Boulevard Ornano)


I feel like a coffee, a black coffee, with lots of sugar in it

so I walk southward up Rue de Poteau

past La Piscine, which serves mojitos

strong as the Cuban tide

of memories within me

(for a minute I'm lost

deep in green and sandy memories

on the beach at Playa Ancón)

but I shake myself and move onward

past Jules Joffrin and the Café du Nord

soon forgetting the guantanamera

and hum instead

Dans le port d'Amsterdam

y'a des marins qui dansent... *

I turn left on Rue Ordener till I reach Rue Ornano

and open the doors of Le Rallye

the streets are noisy but the café is noisier

booming with the voices of Senegal and Gabon

descendants of those who weathered the tides of history

robbed by pirate ships

from the ports along the Gold Coast and Zanzibar

to be reborn in the markets of Cairo and New Orleans

the galley ships and the caravans

of the Western and Eastern trades come back to me

through the seaweed of my pirate past

and I find myself dreaming of the majestic Nubian on board

stretching her dark arms to the jungle sky

and ask the waiter, timidly

so quietly that he can barely hear me

if they have cane sugar


* Jacques Brel: In the port of Amsterdam / There are sailors who dance...

Fleuve National

(From Parc des Buttes-Chaumont to Place de la République) 


the streets flow like streams, combine into rivers

downhill from the pagoda high on Parc des Buttes-Chaumont

down Rue de la Villette, splashing into the Vietnamese shops

on Rue de Belleville, funnelling southwest past Edith Piaf

singing in the doorway about Ménilmontant

and la belle France of yesteryear

her voice lost in the gurgling of cars

racing downward toward the parting of histories

liquid traffic flowing left and right

to the Mekong and the Niger

straight through the intersection

past the fall of Tangiers and Dien Bien Phu

scarf-bannings and burning cars

squeezing, chopsticks scattered over a bronze Maghreb table

into the heady currents of Place de la République



Life in the Provinces

(Place des Augustins, Aix-en-Province)


It was as if they'd travelled overland

from the centre of the world

to an outpost

fringed with barbarism


It was as if they were from Athens or Rome

and they'd wanted to shed some light

in a faraway colony

in a dark corner of the Earth

but all they found were people who had no idea

who they were


One could see it in their wide open eyes

with their seal-brown irises

soft like the eyes of pansies

and in the wonderfully hidden

yet not completely forbidden way

May-lin slid her slim fingers

underneath the hand

that dangled so closely

almost asking to be taken

as they walked across Place des Augustins

in this alien land

oceans from Suzhou


It was as if she was asking to be embraced

if not by this new land

then by the one who shared her estrangement from it

after they walked up Rue Espiarat

to their rented apartment

almost asking for that soft hand

to caress her golden shoulders

and slide the white cotton strap downward

letting the dress fall next to the books

barely opened


Neither had found much company to keep with them

although the brochures had painted a very different picture

of the famous Alliance Française in Aix-en-Provence

where this fad of a language had recently sprouted

with its Chanel and its Jean-Sol Partre

and its unpronounceable Rs

as if it were a French concession

blessing the mortal beings of this Earth

with an angelic tongue


Except that they were stuck in a classroom six hours a day

while the thin Provençal sun rose without a word

budding in the early Spring


May-lin thought of wild cherry blossoms

and fragrant melon-seed tea

as she watched the hard Northerners

drinking cup after cup of strong coffee

in their Patagonian jackets

grimacing bar-room smiles at them

as if they were common labourers

bathing in salt water

on the shores of Aberdeen


They reminded her of marauding Huns

and she wondered why the French hadn’t built a wall

to stop the northern giants with their guttural sounds

from descending into the cafés

and southern valleys of lavender


On the street she squeezed the hand beside her

as she thought about the morning

spent sitting in wooden rows

two wooden statues

with indecipherable smiles

living up to the stereotype

even during the breaks

they could barely talk to their neighbours

who kept shouting things in English and German

stupid things about Guinness and a girl called Miley


She squeezed Chungtao's fingers tighter

almost begging to crush her lips

into those lips she'd been watching

trying to master the long u sound

and the incomprehensible articles

le, la, les


For the past two weeks she'd watched closely

from the corner of her eye

as Chuntao mangled the French language

with those soft lips

painted with an almost translucent lacquer

Pêche Originale  

that they bought at the trendy cosmetics shop

Essence de Provence


As she stood on the cobbled street

key in hand

she heard herself say, Chuntao, monte

her soft pink tongue

the soft lips

that she lacquered every evening

with what she called Péché Provençal  



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