Cold Midnight in the Park
On high a golden harvest moon
winking slyly at me as I eye the sky:
glittering stars, a timely boon.
I often wish that I could fly.
Winking slyly at me as I eye the sky,
the stars outshine the primal dark.
I often wish that I could fly;
I hear a night bird's cheerful cry.
The stars outshine the primal dark;
like fires from some celestial camp.
I hear a night bird's cheerful cry,
oblivious to cold and damp.
Like fires from some celestial camp,
each star is a twinkling spark.
Oblivious to cold and damp,
I love cold midnight in the park.
Each star is a twinkling spark,
and the breezes hum a cheery tune.
I love cold midnight in the park:
on high a golden harvest moon.
Une Fulguration de mots en chute du ciel
Dans les champs du ciel marchent les rêves de la nuit,
and those dreams scatter letters,
forming words as they fall.
Comme un orage de mots,
they spill forth and dance,
promenade like society dames
in elegant pirouettes ...
Quelquepart sur la terre,
un poète les rassemble --
and the poet whispers words
which tumble in lines on the page.
Voilà ... un poème.
il voit le passé, et il rêve l'avenir --
and his scintillating night-dreams transform
on the page ... transform like the sparkling touch
of a will 'o the wisp,
the golden tones cascading
from the Silver Chalice of Make-Believe.
On the horizon, the white horses of the moon
retire surreptitiously from the bright beams
of the rising sun.
Le Roi-Soleil arrive dans un nuage --
and the Golden King scatters poems
like rose petals --
which wilt in the heat of day,
or are preserved like flowers
between the pristine covers
of newly bound books ...
livres de poésie.
Toulouse Lautrec, Moulin Rouge et la fin de siecle Paris
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, was sadly a bit of a wreck.
A disease that deformed him, literally suborned him:
helped emblazon his name with undying fame,
which spread fast, from Capetown to Quebec.
An artist was he, and the pride of fin de siècle Paris.
Dabbling in gossip, all sorts of dreck, and occasional phlegm,
Moulin Rouge was autobiographical for him,
bringing much wide renown, and acclaim.
The "Red Windmill" was a flourishing cabaret,
and stands, still, as a landmark today.
The novel he wrote, spawned movies of note;
the last was the best, starred a dame, hair of flame,
with blue eyes that rival the saddest goodbyes.
As the story unfolds, the narrator scolds ...
and the let-down's a bit of a shame.
The young gentleman who to the end remains true,
falls in love, and falls too for a twisted con game.
A good writer was he, and as you'll presently see,
deserved a place on the neon marquee.
The rich Duke and our young writer of note,
both yearn for the lady, so proud and remote,
standoffish, to a remarkable degree.
As the story unwinds, there's a meeting of minds,
and our heroine's abreast of the best of the rest of
the worst that the villain can do -- what a stew
of remorse, and discourse, and finally, a grieving adieu.
She defies the rich duke, who's a bit of a spook,
and opts for the honest but poor entrepreneur,
our young hero, who's smitten, enamored, and pure,
not like the rich duke, who's quite simply a zero.
In the end, the heroine dies in our young hero's arms,
a denouement tragic and sad, poor lad, to lose so soon,
what a desolate tune, and a waste of such eloquent charms:
it's enough to make anyone swoon.
At the last, our hero is mourning the past,
and writing the story, of the lass in her glory,
that left him discombobled and aghast.
The skies of Monmartre and the Red Windmill's blades
seem to grieve with the flow of his tears.
and the passionate pleas and the pain that pervades
his fears, in arrears, as the flow of time slowly cascades
and blisters his dreams where no memory fades.
The story he'll write with aplomb and insight
will amaze and astound all his peers.