*
"Je raffoule de tout ce qui rampe"
she said, as she led me into the swamp
to show me mud flies with too many legs,
certified colors, but darkly flossed.
"Qu'est-ce que vous avez, mon petit renard?"
she asked, while I protested with broken words,
"Do not compare me to the red fox," I said,
"Writers are magpies, filthy birds."
"Scusez-moi," she replied, her spine in an arch,
"mais je comprend pas de tout." Her eyes were dark.
Let me explain, the people of my trade
sift through rubbish and steal the shiny parts.
Saying "Regardez cet scarabee." she placed
an exotic beetle on my face,
stifling my breath, while she traced
her finger down its golden carapace.
"J'ai desolee. Tu n'es pas comme le renard,
et pas la pie. What is the word?
Tu es comme cet scarabee, et moi,
I'm just crazy about everything that crawls."
*I wasn't planning on putting any poetry up on here. This blog was meant to be a more prosey practicing place, but you know what? This poem is unpublishable because it is rife with blatant plagiarism. Should I give you a clue?
**There's that, and I'm not even sure is the parts in french make sense.
No comments:
Post a Comment