Quotes about french, page 12
Xenophobia!
I don’t have French phobe,
African or Persian phobe.
To travel all over the globe,
we have to rid of all phobes.
I don’t have phobia to visit
The Church, Mosque or Temple.
But I feel phobia while seeing
People who brainwash the ignorants to convert
or blackmail the poor to jump to a new faith
at the point of swords or rich awards,
eating buns or modern guns.
When the priests misuse the abodes of gods
and fake sages resort to filth in ashrams,
I want to beat them with cudgels or worn-out slippers.
Do we need brokers between the people and gods
to translate our prayers into a tongue unknown?
I smeared sacred ash on the foreheads
of a French couple in a temple of Lord Siva
and told them the Almighty’s blessings
for that day are theirs!
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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We Did Our Bit At Waterloo
It was the year of 1815
on Sunday the 16th of June.
Wellington and we British lads
arrived here in the afternoon.
Napoleon and his Frenchmen
were waiting for the ground to dry
before commencing with the battle,
and today looked like he’d try.
We stood across the Brussels road
and were ready to begin the day,
but the French had beaten us to it,
by eleven their guns were firing away.
For two hours solid we came under fire
and things weren’t looking that well,
until Colonel Colbourne gave the order
to stand up, fire back and give them hell.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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French Kissing.
I don't like French kissing,
it isn't that I'm frigid
but kissing with the tongue
is best left to the young.
Us old'ns all have tartar
it sticks around our teeth
Oh there is no mystique
you'll see it when we speak!
I don't like French kissing,
although on reminiscing
there was a time I snogged
a dreadful boy called Rog'
Another thing I note
is that it clogs the throat
of course I'm only guessing
I don't indulge in necking.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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Chagrined (Revised)
Reached new depths of spectacular failure today
could not stay awake for a riveting discussion on
the French elections - and couldn't concentrate
on a stimulating news reel about endemic crime
in Marseilles
Nor express my joy in discovering Greek Robin
Hoods reconnecting electricity for the poor to save
their dignity or my delight in machines taking over
boring human jobs; it means seeking creative ways
to provide for our needs
My words fell into Sounds of Silence, even the star
pupil couldn't break the spell, impossibly failed to
express what he felt, amazing in-depth discussion
on intricate French election procedures, blood-
curdling stuff by the way -
Must have fried our brains, words and terms ran
away pursued by a voracious language plague,
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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Survive Adult Life
Anastasia Krupnik asked open-ended questions
doing a project on her career, wanting to become
a bookstore owner to sell her dad’s poems; today
we did open-ended questions in French Class for
grown-ups - over the hill and almost lying in our
coffins already -
How to use open-ended questions reverberated in
sepulchral tones as we studied arranging a meeting
on interior decoration and preferred mode of trans-
portation - my favourite subjects - my brain, never
willingly cooperating, exploded; I managed to ask
closed questions
About paintings and cars, proving myself village
idiot again - flabbergasted to know we still have
to study the seeming preserve of primary school
students - proving that reading children’s books
is the only way to survive adult life; so bizarre -
mere words
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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Scam Reader
Who are you to tell me what tomorrow will bring
acting like you’re the next best thing.
Reading your tarot cards and interpreted by a fool,
she purposely said wrong things which where cruel.
Speaking French and acting you speak English no,
that’s ____ I think you should know.
Half of what you said wasn’t even true,
starting off with a contradiction how stupid of you.
Now if you were a true psychic you wouldn’t need your cards,
you could give me a reading in the dark.
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poem by Christina Sunrise
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Picnic in the rain
The rain was pouring down,
we set out for the park,
children in the back seat,
mothers in the front.
Picnic baskets packed,
tasty treats for all
we took a big umbrella
we'd need before nightfall.
A bottle of red for Al',
a can of beer for Jan
some Pepsi for young Josie
and a flask of tea for Anne.
Our French students came with us
spitting out French words,
oh la la and non, non, non
was plainly what we heard.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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American Boys, Hello!
Oh! we love all the French, and we speak in French
As along through France we go.
But the moments to us that are keen and sweet
Are the ones when our khaki boys we meet,
Stalwart and handsome and trim and neat;
And we call to them-'Boys, hello!'
'Hello, American boys,
Luck to you, and life's best joys!
American boys, hello!'
We couldn't do that if we were at home-
It never would do you know!
For there you must wait till you're told who's who,
And to meet in the way that nice folks do.
Though you knew his name, and your name he knew-
You never would say 'Hello, hello, American boy!'
But here it's just a joy,
As we pass along in the stranger throng,
To call out, 'Boys, hello!'
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Art Of Catering
The Art of Catering
There was a time I believed everything I read, even in Reader’s Digest.
one such story was about a French soldier in the world war one who,
in his breast pocket carried a notebook full of verses written for his
true love in Lyon, a daughter of a welder. His adulation saved his life.
It was not for me to reflect upon how a note book could stop a bullet.
I told mother I wanted to join the French foreign legion get wounded,
not too serious mind, all this to impress the girl next door she didn’t
like bookish boys who wore round black framed glasses. I threw my
glasses away and for two weeks couldn’t read and tended to walk into
lampposts. I challenged the biggest bully in the school yard for a fight…
and got a bloody nose. I became a trainee cook and the girl next door
laughed till she cried. Back then cooking was not a big deal. Now that
no one, not even women know how to make an omelet cooks or chefs
are super stars and show their skills to adoring fans on TV.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Paris State Of Mind
It was the Paris feeling of it all
assaulting my senses
as I slumbered and dreamed
on imagined European time
White noise buzzed
with sophisticated speak
clicking on cobblestone
to Chanel boutique snobbery
As the Eiffel Tower loomed large
drenching the city in warmed light
my dreams paused, to images of home
longing for Lady Liberty, a fine french gift
Scents of the city of lights cling tightly
lavender, roses and mint leaves
hurry me back to my imagined luxury
dreaming of the Hotel Le Bristol Paris
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poem by Robin Bennett
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