Monday, March 15, 2010

Rue des Martyrs


Looking up toward and
near but not in sight of
the white dome, it could be
any city, any city
streetscape. Two
blocks from the hotel you
look for a small shop and
you find more than a small
shop:

Shop of chocolate filling
wrapped in ribboned gold;
flower shop and fruit
stand and vegetable
row with their riots of
color and shape; wine
shop exclusive to bottles
labeled Rhone, the
entire premises dedicated
to fermentations of
one valley; bakery,
no not bakery but
bakeries, more than one, three,
(three!) in two blocks.

A short street of smells, of
flavors, of tastes, of
textures refined and
mundane yet
even the mundane
here is refined; and
always, always the
ubiquitous fragrance of
Parisian automobile exhaust.

Right Bank. Between
Opera and Montmartre.



This is a “streetwise” poem for the High Calling Blogs – a poem about a certain street or address.

14 comments:

Linda said...

Our daughter spends much time in Paris. You have made this fascinating street come alive. Just beautiful Glynn.

L.L. Barkat said...

Making me want to go there again!!! :)

Loved the exhaust thing. That made me smile.

Mystic Poet said...

the mundane refined...wonderful image Glynn...
(even with the unexpected vehicle exhaust) :)

nAncY said...

thanks for the walk. it was lovely.

Sandra Heska King said...

Oh I like this street! I lingered awhile at the shop of chocolate filling.

Kelly Langner Sauer said...

Like walking there, smelling it, seeing it - you should be a photographer. You get it...

M.L. Gallagher said...

Mais oui!
Le vrai Paris!

This is the Paris of my memory.

Much too long gone.

You've reminded me of the need (read that craving) to keep Paris memories alive with real time vistation!

discountverbiage said...

This is quite nice. I love the juxtaposition, too, between the banality of the everyday on a street dedication to the martyrs. Irony of ironies.

Maureen said...

I know that street!

Wonderful word pictures.

You bring all the smells back. I will never forget my very first morning in Paris, out on the streets early, the flower stalls abundant and the smells of the pastisserie too good to pass up.

What a great ending to your poem. The car exhaust is like the smoke of Gitane in the restaurants (except there's no smoking in those places now).

Kathleen said...

Paris, je t'aime. I was strolling with Nancy. The hot bread is making me drool. Oh, the nooks and crannies
behind every door. You painted it stroke by stroke.
The car exhaust. Jolting reality. Cruel Glynn.

Missy K said...

Gracious Glynn-- twenty-one years since I was in Paris, and I can smell and taste it here!

S. Etole said...

thanks for making it come alive ...

Laura said...

Oh, just sigh.

Prairie Chick said...

oh. I wrote about home. But you make me wish I had written about my home away from home. Europe. Glorious.