Poem By Peter Jones
From Montmartre to the Gare Du Nord,
the Faubourg St Denis drops down
through warrened streets of nothingness;
anonymous. At times: winter greyed and traffic roared;
somewhat decayed in now-blurred lines.
This face is bland but does not frown.
The ordinary is so alive and no more so than in the bars,
where the now will just survive,
amid the shiny urns that steam
with coffee smells, and are kept busy
by brief customers who, in their stars,
no longer have the time to dream.
“Aux Chasseurs” is one such place
named from another distant time
when sportsmen went by train to hunt;
stopping here to anticipate
with eager words; sometimes blunt...
another world, another place; another long forgotten date
to share a thoughtful glass of wine.
An undistinguished marble plaque, is not noticed on the wall.
Amid the furniture of streets it hangs unobtrusive; rather small.
It felt a nation’s dying pangs and now speaks little in the dark.
(“Ici ont ete arretes Le 5 Fevier 1944 par Le Gestapo, the chef de reseau ‘Agir’ - Michel Hollard. Les Charges de Mission, Joseph Legendre, Henri Dujarier et Jules Mailly - mort par la France le 1er Juin 1944 a Mauthausen”)
In one corner of the bar,
the student sits and stares alone.
He reaches for his mobile phone
to call his Mom in Mexico;
he and his world have travelled far.