Montmartre Journey

Come for a wander with me, my love. Take my hand
and together we shall meander the cobble-stoned streets
of old Montmarte. Come back with me to days past
and I shall show you a world beyond your dreams.

Chance the journey,
for it is the voyage back,
brushing shoulders
with shadows of Hugo, Renior, Monet ,
stepping where Picasso oft meandered,
that is what's important.
The journey down
crooked streets overblown with flowers
so brilliant,
only Toulouse Lautrec dared do them justice.
Montmartre, once, was heart of Paris.
Its beat, lulled the daring, the racy.
Street performers circused,
fueled by the raucous spirit and unbridled energy
centered there, swaying and tumbling
above the avant-garde artists;
reveling in the warm caress of Madame Montmarte.
The tawdry, the garish, the provocative:
defined a way to live, and more, subjects to immortalize.

Ah, tis early, my sweet
but feast
your eyes on Paris at dawn-
pale yellow wash over browns and greys.
Let your mind's eye travel the breath and width of
a Paris morn
drenched in swirling grey, the Eiffle Tower
rising dark monolith piercing the clouds.
See for yourself why
the artists yearn
to wrap their brush in colors.
Paris is a palette like none other on earth,
and Montmarte, the vivid, living, breathing
essence of the paint.

Mosey past the Church of Saint Pierre,
one of the most ancient churches in
a city full of ancient churches,
where Dante prayed beneath the Roman columns.
We watch an ancient woman
black shawled against morning cool
empty her basket of flowers in front of a crumbling stone.


Look, here is the Place du Tertre.
Where I shall commission a portrait of you.
First, we shall sit here, in this cafe, or no,
the one with the red and white striped awnings
and the pots with the geraniums trying to escape.
We sit on metal chairs with heart-shaped wraught iron backs
with pillowed sets as we lean our elbows on glass tables
sipping too hot chocolate.
There is whipped creme on your nose
and we laugh as morning comes to Montmartre.

With the dawn,
come the street vendors
hawking tomatoes and tulips,
roses and roast chestnuts.
You point out an artist
with black beret and goatee
smoking a cigarette through a black stemmed holder.
A Bohemian nightmare
who cannot paint.
There, you say
and we watch as a hunched over old man,
grey hair streaming down his back
captures the essence of Place du Tertre
within a few flicks of his wrist.

A girl, perhaps,
approaches us, in her hand a painting.
You are there with your wild flaming hair,
your eyes dashing green as they search and wonder,
your mouth, wide in laughter,
your hand in mine.
A done deal, clever girl,
and we roll it in your backpack.

We walk the narrow byways of the 18th Arrondissement
skipping back and forth over the wavy bricks that rise
and roll slantwise across the road.
Trailing petunias, fuchsia, blanc,
wave overhead from straw baskets with green rooted bottoms.
We wend our way down the Rue de Steinkerque
and watch as huge boxes of sweaters and blouses
are upended into wooden displays. A whistle blows
and the women, noisy magpies across the street
stream across. Diving into piles-
elbows and hands flying, clothing tossed and layered
as the chatter turns to curses and gestures fly:
seagulls after a shrimp boat
and a free lunch.

Can we wander this way? You point down
another cobble-stoned street. We can, we can.
We laugh past the Moulin Rouge, historic lady
still, a Toulouse-Lautrec poster come to life.

On now, up marble staircase lined with iron lamp posts
each with trailing ivy and weeping begonias,
scents I shall forever associate with Montmartre.
Up, and up, the white marble stairs.
The sun gilds the polished dome of Sacre Coeur
white gold whiteness a beacon high above Paris.
Atop the highest hill in Paris,
the basilica affords a view of all Paris
spread out before us:
landscape after landscape
stretching back in time and forward
into tomorrow.

We rest on marble benches
eating pistachio ices
musing on places where Hemingway wrote,
and Monet was inspired.
We peruse the photos we took today...
of 54 Rue Lepic where Van Gogh lived,
of private gardens spilling scents to mingle with
the strong perfume of the coffee vendors.
One of you, head thrown back, swinging in sheer delight
around a lamppost; no rain, but you sang anyway.
One of me trying to learn how to juggle
from the green and white plaid clown in the square.
The best, perhaps,
taken only moments ago
by a baguette carrying bicyclist
balanced on one foot:
us together
with Paris at our feet.
It truly isn't the destination
that is important,
but the journey