Saturday’s Poem: In Paris With You

Before I post the poem, I shall acknowledge two things. First, that I have not written anything new for this blog since I returned home from England. Jill in fact mentioned it in an email the other day. "Your blog space has been surprisingly empty and I just hope all is well?"

There's no significance to my lack of blog-posting, other than the fact that it's hard getting caught up after a long trip and I've been really busy, but things are fine, and posts are forming in my head. Soon I'll tap them out. 

Second, tomorrow is Mother's Day, and it occurred to me that I might post a poem on the theme of mothers. But you know what? It's a Hallmark-card holiday and I don't feel like playing along. My own history with my mother is complicated, painful, and strange, and in fact I spent a day with her earlier this week that pretty much wiped me out. So if you don't mind, I'm steering clear of mother's day poems. Instead, I pulled an anthology from my bookshelf and opened it at random, and this delightful poem by James Fenton came up. No reason or relevance; here it is:

IN PARIS WITH YOU       by James Fenton

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful

And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.

I'm one of your talking wounded.

I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.

But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled

And resentful at the mess that I've been through.

I admit I'm on the rebound

And I don't care where are we bound.

I'm in Paris with you.

    Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,

        If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,

        If we skip the Champs Elysées

        And remain here in this sleazy

        Old hotel room

        Doing this and that

        To what and whom

        Learning who you are,

        Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,

The little bit of Paris in our view.

There's that crack across the ceiling.

And the hotel walls are peeling

And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.

I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.

I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,

I'm in Paris with...all points south.

Am I embarrassing you?

I'm in Paris with you.