William Oxley
Place du Tertre
Paint-crushed summit of Montmartre
in the solemn, sun-moved shadow
of the grey-white arabesque Sacré Coeur
a swirl of tourists and bistro tables
little trees and bird-sung art-stalls,
mini-galleries amidst mini-trees.
Take coffee, champagne, oysters
in this heady square, aesthete's paradise,
where women's voices tinkle like French bells
and men croon their arguments like Yves Montand.
Here on the singular summit of Paris
where the view is of carved clouds
over rooftops, the Eiffel Tower and
Tivoli, scrunched avenues of sculptured gardens
with blissful fountains and sparrow-filled trees,
Notre Dame and its buttresses stapling
the yellow sunlit sinuosity of the Seine,
its serpent-wind the long glitter of eternity.
Here by the bored swivel of an eye
every life-dweller may pass from Lorraine's
great thoughts of classical distance
to the intimacy of Utrillo or Valadon:
easy as living in a painting, this life
of canvas, contemplation and creativity -
impressionism's cobbled-streeted rain,
cold syllables of pain, or
expressionism's joy companioned by
the glorious jongleur of the day, the sun,
where the art of watching's the thing
and heaven's only half in shadow here.
in the solemn, sun-moved shadow
of the grey-white arabesque Sacré Coeur
a swirl of tourists and bistro tables
little trees and bird-sung art-stalls,
mini-galleries amidst mini-trees.
Take coffee, champagne, oysters
in this heady square, aesthete's paradise,
where women's voices tinkle like French bells
and men croon their arguments like Yves Montand.
Here on the singular summit of Paris
where the view is of carved clouds
over rooftops, the Eiffel Tower and
Tivoli, scrunched avenues of sculptured gardens
with blissful fountains and sparrow-filled trees,
Notre Dame and its buttresses stapling
the yellow sunlit sinuosity of the Seine,
its serpent-wind the long glitter of eternity.
Here by the bored swivel of an eye
every life-dweller may pass from Lorraine's
great thoughts of classical distance
to the intimacy of Utrillo or Valadon:
easy as living in a painting, this life
of canvas, contemplation and creativity -
impressionism's cobbled-streeted rain,
cold syllables of pain, or
expressionism's joy companioned by
the glorious jongleur of the day, the sun,
where the art of watching's the thing
and heaven's only half in shadow here.
Page(s) 34
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