A Photo in the Park- For Jacques Prevert
Posted: Tue Jan 29, 2008 7:19 am
Hi, I wrote this poem in a homage to Jacques Prevert, a favourite poet of mine but it is something of a departure from my usual style of poetry and wondered what you guys thought? Any feedback on flow, style, whether it is suitably fitting- if you're a fan of Prevert- would be much appreciated.
Thanks
(Oh, plus I know there's 2 accents in his surname, but I have no idea what you should press to find them on a keyboard!)
A Photo in the Park (For Jacques Prevert)
An old man sitting in a Parisian cafe
Writing a thunderstorm upon a tablecloth
Or upon a battered napkin; whichever comes
Quickest to hand. Those who race by,
Do not glance at him, or at his desultory coffee cup
Which moulders and watches him work.
The old man writes his obscure fury
And the weathered smile of someone
Who really, if he must confess
(and he must, his soul demands it)
Loves mankind upon the table top
And avoids the glare of his coffee.
The old man, leaves the cafe
And leaves his words upon the tablecloth
or napkin, which ever was nearest
And saunters to the park;
Waiting for a photograph
To frame his gentle face
And his hands, growing older.
The old man walks home
Taking a piece of chalk from his pocket
He marks his passage upon
The walls he strolls by;
So that any may follow his progress
But he doesn’t stop.
He has a long way yet to go.
Thanks
(Oh, plus I know there's 2 accents in his surname, but I have no idea what you should press to find them on a keyboard!)
A Photo in the Park (For Jacques Prevert)
An old man sitting in a Parisian cafe
Writing a thunderstorm upon a tablecloth
Or upon a battered napkin; whichever comes
Quickest to hand. Those who race by,
Do not glance at him, or at his desultory coffee cup
Which moulders and watches him work.
The old man writes his obscure fury
And the weathered smile of someone
Who really, if he must confess
(and he must, his soul demands it)
Loves mankind upon the table top
And avoids the glare of his coffee.
The old man, leaves the cafe
And leaves his words upon the tablecloth
or napkin, which ever was nearest
And saunters to the park;
Waiting for a photograph
To frame his gentle face
And his hands, growing older.
The old man walks home
Taking a piece of chalk from his pocket
He marks his passage upon
The walls he strolls by;
So that any may follow his progress
But he doesn’t stop.
He has a long way yet to go.