Donations are essential to keep Write Out Loud going    

In Père Lachaise Cemetery

entry picture

It takes time and focus to make your way

around this star-studded necropolis.

Without a convenient plan or a guide

– pedantic, wry, and always affable –

you'll wander in vain its endless pathways.

Unable to spot the names you’ve heard of,

you will feel deceived and none the wiser.

 

Lured by bones, or the dubious remains

of two mythic lovers, what do we seek

before a monument built long after

their passion was spent? For who now recalls

the scholar and the edifice he built;

or the bright girl who honed his thought

but had to share in his calamities?

 

All they’ve bequeathed is names and a story

when others have left us paintings and plays,

recordings, scores, verses, novels, or framed

laws that others live by. So when, at least,

minds can reach us, why do we feel the need

each year – couples, hand in hand, family groups,

coachloads – to peer through growth for chiselled stones.

 

Randomness is all it spells – that slow creep

of graves – and, on days your thoughts are sombre,

a few trite lessons: how even in death

the rich still lord it in their mausoleums,

each generation housed imposingly

along prestigious avenues with space

booked for those who, each day, increase their hoard.

 

No eloquent poet, no dead master,

appears here between the trees to greet you

and lead you around in ordered circles

where penalties always mirror the crime.

The sins of some here are known, indulged now

by a different age with different values –

whose adulation sees beyond their flaws.

 

Whatever they drank, smoked, or may have pumped

into their world-weary veins, it matters

little now to the fans who love their work,

however they cheated or got their kicks.

Though sectioned off for his own protection,

The Lizard King lies in state, accepting

tributes: the chewing gum stuck to his tree.

 

The Sparrow’s voice still resonates beyond

each tragic circumstance, her bourgeois slab

supplied by one who, those years she suffered,

had no gift that healed her. Abandoning

his wit, the martyred poet and author

of a play called Salomé lies at last

with his love and lipsticked flocks of kisses.

 

 

 

 

 

◄ Biscuits

Bamboo ►

Comments

Profile image

Ged the Poet

Thu 25th Sep 2014 19:21

David.
I hope that I have not offended you in my comments relating to Jim Morrison and the Doors. I know of the cemetery and it's many famous people who are interned there and your love of music. I meant what I said. I found this piece most elequent and superb.

Profile image

Greg Freeman

Thu 25th Sep 2014 16:51

The End, indeed. A memorable poetic guide to one cemetery's celebrities. Then there's the churchyard just outside Dorchester, where Thomas Hardy's heart is buried; very popular with Japanese tourists.

Profile image

Ged the Poet

Thu 25th Sep 2014 11:25

A wonderful piece of work that could open "Doors" and "lights my (poetical)fire". A most elequent work where even Marcel Marceau could work in the most silence of silences. Absolutely suberb David.... and i must play some Chopin after this.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message