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Poetry in Fiction, Samples – Slumming in Paris Part Two, , With the Children
Welcome to Paris : Chapter – To Notre Dame
Third in Series, Poetry in Fiction
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Pictured Left : “Slumming in Paris, Part Two“
27,286 Story Words.
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Titles are available on all major online outlets.
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“the intent of this blog is to incrementally build a body of thought that works toward integrating various topics, yoga, fitness, and the arts – it’s a process…”
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Poetry in Fiction, Samples – Slumming in Paris Part Two, With the Children
Welcome to Paris : Chapter – To Notre Dame
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Categories : Fiction – Paris Page – Poetry in Fiction
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Linked to dVersePoets OpenLinkNight # 118, hosted by Bjorn
Bjorn provides a nice change of season prompt :
The colors of the season are also warm and the beauty of a nature going to rest is tangeable in the poetry I expect to read tonight. And from the southern hemisphere I expect to see some beautiful spring poetry. And if your poem has a story to tell, or make a statement – controversial or not – I look forward to that too.
Here in Central Texas, we’ve been in a belated Summer 😉 but today, the seasons changed to Fall the only way they could here, a sudden lowly high of 58, the coolest (our local weather man says) in six months!
But I’m not complaining. I prefer this severe reset from the heat. And tomorrow, and for a week or so, we’ll have highs in the 70s. It’s about the only way to switch off the heat around here. 🙂
My selected poem from a prose piece of mine, is taken from a time and place where they would have welcomed our lingering heat. My time frame for the poem below is only a few weeks from now (a year ago), in Paris.
There’s a line in the fiction work, after the characters in my book visit Notre Dame, that says :
“Exiting Notre Dame, the low flash of daylight, on the flat stones before them, was like passing onto a sheet of white ice. The ‘850 Year Celebration’ sign, posted above the raised bleachers, created the sense of an arena.”
Experiences of extremes, or even simply strong variances, make an impact on us.
That’s part of the story in the story for the excerpt below.
It’s, I’ve come to assume, part of life.
My challenge, which I enjoy, has been to embed and convey that experience convincingly, on various levels, in this fiction work (“Slumming in Paris Part Two“) and in the poetic reformulation below. I hope you’ll enjoy them.
Sincerely,
Adan
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Poetry in Fiction, Beginning a New Series of Posts
My previous, and first two posts in this new series, taking prose from my fiction work, and seeing the poetry in that excerpt, were pretty clear cut, relatively easy for me. The lines from the two different chapters in “The Old American Artist” (here and here) almost screamed poetic. At least potentially so. 😉
In this case more pure narrative and dialog is interspersed with what I’d typically create as my own poetry.
So the challenge, and fun, was seeing how much I could keep and adjust and split, to create a poem of the prose.
I wanted the result to be of and within the original story, yet a stand alone piece.
It’s been an interesting exercise. 🙂
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Fiction & Poetry, Pros & Cons
It’s kinda ironic that, the strength I see most in each, is in its context.
The fiction excerpt has much more power in its context within thousands of other words to give it associated meaning.
And the poetry rendition of that excerpt, gains its power, from its opening to whatever it is the reader brings to the lines. Isolated from everything, except the reader.
I like both. 🙂
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Image from Post : Paris is Personal – Poetry
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Slumming in Paris, Part Two, With the Children – Welcome to Paris
Chapter : To Notre Dame
Fiction
Green Man calls coming from both Buzz and Zilker, they crossed the suddenly busy morning traffic, onto La Petit Pont, an immense Plaza to their right made visible as they crossed the Seine. Scaffolding and signs proclaimed the grand church’s 850th anniversary. And Notre Dame, which had been visible in peeks from as far as before reaching the Blvd St Germain, spread freely before them, filling them with the impacts of ages of souls enduring, centuries of sections of buildings joined into one church.
Gracing the world with endlessness set in a moment of stone.
Standing side by side by each other, at the base, where the bridge crossed the southern, left bank of the Seine, they stood quietly.
Each person, lightly in touch with the persons beside them.
“I didn’t realize,” Arthur said softly, breaking their silence, “the church stretched so far back, from the front. There’s like layers and layers of those arches, and -” he pointed to a wide light colored bridge further east, past a smaller narrow bridge nearer by.
“I read,” he said, “that the view, from there, of the back of the church, is incredible! It’s what we saw when we crossed on the bus to the Bastille. But with time to look.”
He waited for someone, maybe Buzz, to say, they should go there now, but no one spoke.
They were listening to him, and they were attached, visually, viscerally, to the symmetry and nuance of the structure before them. It’s stillness, that moved them.
Buzz slowly raised an arm, and pointed toward the spiky spiral rising from the mid-point of the ridge on the roof.
“There’s statues of people going up, then coming down from the other side!”
Simone, suddenly clasping herself with a chill, said, “Can we go in?”
“Yes, yes! The flyer said free to the public,” said Gricinda.
And the group, grateful to be moving, breaking from their dream, like from ice, a film forming around water, and walked up the gravel path along the anniversary bleachers, scaffolds, rising to their left. Past the daunting statue of Charlemagne on horseback on their right, arm raised with a towering staff, and moved as one, to a tall door on the near right side front of the cathedral. There they joined a short line to enter, noticing carvings above the doorways, above them on the levels rising to the towers, and joined a steady stream of visitors, passing a one word sign in English hanging in the archway. “Silence.”
Tabitha turned to Buzz, smiles growing in her eyes, raised a slim finger to her lips, and whispered – “Shhhhh.”
© felipe adan lerma
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Poetry
They crossed the suddenly busy morning traffic
onto La Petit Pont
an immense Plaza to their right
made visible as they crossed the Seine.
Scaffolding – signs
proclaimed the grand church’s 850th anniversary.
Notre Dame
visible in peeks
from far
spread freely before them
filling them with the impacts of ages
souls enduring
centuries
of sections of buildings
joined into one church.
Gracing the world with endlessness
set in a moment of stone.
Standing side by side by each other
at the base
where the bridge crossed the southern, left bank
of the Seine, they stood quietly.
Each person, lightly in touch with the persons beside them.
Layers and layers of arches
a wide light colored bridge further east
past a smaller narrow bridge
nearer by.
Waited
for someone to say
they should go –
but no one spoke.
Listening.
It’s stillness
moved them.
Slowly
an arm pointed toward the spiky spiral
rising
from the mid-point of the ridge on the roof.
Statues of people going up
then coming down
the other side –
Clasping with a chill.
The group
grateful to be moving
breaking from their dream
like ice
film
forming round water
up the gravel path
along the anniversary bleachers
scaffolds rising on their left.
Past the statue of Charlemagne
arm raised
with a towering staff.
Above the doorways
above them on the levels rising to the towers
a one word sign hanging in the archway.
“Silence.”
Smiles growing in her eyes.
Slim finger to her lips.
Whispering.
“Shhhhh.”
© felipe adan lerma
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Preview
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Two Previous Posts About “Slumming in Paris Part Two, With the Children – Welcome to Paris” :
Processing My Fiction : Referencing Other Stories Within Your Story, An Example
Slumming in Paris, With the Children – Parts 2 – 8 : Chapter Titles
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namaste´- con dios – god be with you
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*** INTEGRATING YOGA FITNESS AND THE ARTS
Related articles suggested by WordPress, additional commentary by me 😉 :
- Music of the Spheres: Why Poetry Requires Music (samueljfoxblog.wordpress.com) –
- a short interesting article comparing / contrasting poetry & fiction : excerpt : “The point I am trying to make here, is that poetry differs from fiction and prose in that there is more substantial sounds, rhythm, rhyme, and symmetry. Poetry is not necessarily better than fiction: I am far from implying that….”
- Evening stroll from Notre Dame (maisouiparis.com)
- Autumn Tanka, poem by Virginie Colline (silverbirchpress.wordpress.com)
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