This will be a work in progress. I will return to this post daily to edit and add to the poem. In the last few years I've noticed that many elite poets feel inclined to let us know that they have traveled in Europe and wandered far from the tour bus --a tourist passing themselves off as a local by describing obscure sites and throwing in random terms to demonstrate their mastery of the native language. While I have been to London & Paris I've never actually step foot in the places of my upcoming poetic pilgrimage. But why should that stop me from faking my first-hand knowledge and impressing my States-bound readers?
This is my obligatory poem with European travel sites
sprinkled throughout the piece
like les chaises sur la café trottoir.
My reading of other poets tells me
this is a required element
much like the salchow in a figure skating competition or
including flairs and scissors on the pommel horse.
Should I begin by telling you about the faded pattern
of the curtains draping my breezy window overlooking
the Piazza San Marco…
or should I tell you about Spain, about the
near-perfect seaside villa of Mazarron and
the school girl who giggled at my froth mustache
as I sipped my ristretto from the tiny porcelain
cup, the delicate handle no bigger
than the ear of a field mouse...
How tepid would your life seem
with its day at the lake and
burger cookout if I spoke of France,
if I went into even the very minimum of details
about making love on a picnic blanket
in the moon-drenched dunes
of Villefranche, drunk, though with class,
on a bottle of Chateau Simard
which was purchased, intending only to toast
ourselves and congratulate our good fortune in
finding such a quality camembert in the market...
-- rLp --
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