New Poems by Fevronia Novak
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Our Lady Gaga daughters
our daughters will grow up
to be perfect artists
like Lady Gaga
they won’t fear the ridiculous
Gaga Oh là là
or men’s wars
c’est comme ça
they won’t let their lovers decompose too fast
in their latex beds
to become sand from tall skeletons
by then
they will be friends with men
they won’t wait for them
dressed like Catholic nuns
boys with exotic names
Alexandro, Fernando, Roberto
coming from the dry mountains of Afghanistan
their red hearts open on inlaid trays
under a tall wet sky pouring snow over New York
our daughters will not wear machine guns
sticking out of their tits
not even a lame sword
they will dangle their burkas,
their Kaldarash skirts or red dresses
for their bad romances
with one breath
over the picture of death
and rule the world
On your way home. Paris
the bus is always too slow
on your way home
crawling through luxurious stores
Nina Ricci, Versace, Jimmy Choo
at the Rond Point des Champs-Elysées
in front of the Grand Palais/Petit Palais?
a marble skull grows
white gigantic butterflies
from his nose
and from the top of his head
while down the road at the Madeleine
the red lights like a magic carpet
invite your eyes in the patio shared by Chanel and Dior
you’re a face like the others on this bus
tired bored indifferent
when the little match girl steps in
with black garbage bags full of essential
matter for sleeping outside
she smells like the dirty sidewalks she lives on
you’re certain she’s younger than she looks
it’s your stop and you forget about her
and all the other ones in your neighbourhood
walking through imposing hôtels particuliers
you can’t forget Walter Benjamin
on 19th century Hausmann’s Paris
and the commerce rivalling art
how he ended his essay with a coup de tonnerre
treading in the shoes of his flâneur
you see the inhabitants of these demeures
growing giant butterflies
from their noses and foreheads
coming up from the realm of hell
The Granny on Rochechouart Street
The Granny who begs at the metro station doesn’t have a shelter
She sits in the cold all day on her suitcase
And is happy when an NGO brings her a sleeping bag to keep her warm at night
She is a Romanian lost in Paris
Her daughter lives in Germany, married to an orthopaedist
But her husband is in a Parisian hospital
And she lingers close by
She tells me she would like to work, to nurse older people
She would rather work than wait all day on the rue de Rochechouart sidewalk
She lives in the street and I can’t imagine what she eats
Since it’s not the little I give her in the morning that would suffice to help her survive in the cold and humid November weather
She has a small curly dog she always keeps tight so he wouldn’t escape in the street. Sometimes she walks him but not too far from her little spot/home on the sidewalk
She enjoys the street show: the busy passers by, students, all the eccentrics march before her eyes like tonight when I get off the metro and in front of me walks a dandy clad to perfection in an epoch suit, with a cane, a young man skinnier than Oscar Wilde but dressed exactly like him and Granny smiles, turns her head towards him and she could become a writer inspired by the great number of performances she watches during her long days outside
she doesn’t have a bed to sleep in, she doesn’t have a shelter but she has Paris with all its splendour and craziness
in her heart a show with bright spheres and ribbons is going on
in her heart there is light
and her soul smiles with a beautiful toothless mouth
with a joy you don’t understand where it could come from