A Sense of Simplicity

If I could somehow have days to live over,
One would be an Autumn morning in Paris
When I walked at dawn with no destination
Or purpose in mind but to be in that moment.

Past the castle that had held narrow streets
In shadows for almost nine hundred years,
And a patisserie that looked almost as old,
Where the warm waft of pastries and bread
Rose in the air with the morning light.

The little brasserie where a stooped old man
Moved tables and chairs to the sidewalk patio,
And the red and white umbrellas were like little
Hot air balloons about to rise in the opening sky.

Two taxi drivers sharing espresso and stories
And the sounds of sidewalks being swept,
Pigeons mumbling and staggering like drunks.
All was as it should be, and had always been.

And there was, in all this, a sense that life
Could be lived in the simplicity of the familiar;
Routines remembered and practiced as a faith
Where the ordinary becomes something sacred,
A kind of daily resurrection in the repetition,
The sacraments and rituals of ordinary lives.


My own faith felt far too new and complicated.
Yet there is this truth, and this answered prayer:
Such places are everywhere, if we let them find us.




Poetry by countryfog
Read 443 times
Written on 2011-01-18 at 15:40

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
First of all, this is a very nicely written poem, Fog. Second, though I agree with what you say about life in Paris (I've never been there, but it sounds suspiciously similar to life in Madrid and Rome), I always wonder about a couple things.

I love the appealing timelessness of existence in a European city, but it is not my existence. If I moved there to enjoy it, would I ever be able to be absorbed into it?

Meanwhile, I lead an American existence. I am far from where I grew up. Thus, I am doubly alienated. I no longer can be part of where I was, and I am not fully integrated into existence where I am.

Maybe this is what we Americans find so appealing about life in Europe. It's not ours. But ours are what we've chosen. I left my home because I did not really like my home. Maybe Europeans would jump at chances to leave their homes (many did; that's why we are here). In other words, the continuity of life in Europe which so appeals to us is a pleasant fantasy. As you say, we could find such continuity in our lives, but it seems that we'd rather not.
2011-01-23


Mirza Nazrana Bég
I must say you are a keen observer and a great poet, too. I liked the last line very much. Awesome poem!
2011-01-19


shells
Your Parisian observations are so accurate and the whole poem has a sense of peace about it, for me the older I get the more I think/feel about the rituals and markers of my life and feel reassured by them and your last line says it all, we have to be in the right frame of mind for them to find us.
2011-01-18


Nancy Sikora
The images are so strong, I can see them as a painting; and I can smell the bread. Wish I could go there.
2011-01-18



In a way your memory of your day in Paris seems so vivid that it makes you wonder if going back would add anything. Or would you go back and change things? Or is it simply the allure of reliving a perfect day?

I've certainly had that longing, I imagine most people have. That you can recapture that day in writing seems as close as one can get.
2011-01-18