Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON THE PONT AU CHANGE, by PAUL FORT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON THE PONT AU CHANGE, by                    
First Line: They are selling flowers tonight the pont au change along. The air
Last Line: Fly, my arms with roses piled, her pardon to implore.
Subject(s): Flowers; Love; Stars


They are selling flowers tonight the Pont au Change along. The air with every
gust distills the tube-rose balm blent with the scent of dust. Tomorrow is the
day to the Virgin sanctified. An hour all golden-bright streams through depths
of western sky and sheds a tawny light amidst the sauntering throng. One sees
the troubled stir of the place du Chatelet where crowded street-cars glide,
where hansoms jolt and sway. From a square that sprinklers spray a light mist
mounts on high to undulate and blur the soaring Tour Saint-Jacques. The air with
every gust distills the tube-rose balm blent with the scents of dust.

Upon the perfumed bridge I wander with the throng. Roses and pinks that ridge
the concrete railings long, in odorous cascade come tumbling to the street to
mix their petals sweet with the wheels' slow cavalcade, in whirling spokes
enwound, with skirts that brush the ground, with the heedless rush of feet.

Seven strokes will shortly sound from the clock of the Palais. O'er Paris
roofs the west is like a lake of gold. A dubious storm doth scold from out the
cloudy east. The air is warm in gusts. And thinking of Manon I sigh, and sigh
again. The air is warm in gusts, and rocks the ample smell of flowers my feet
have crushed, and I sigh to but behold fresh, violet currents run 'neath the
arch of the Pont Neuf under the dying sun. "Manon, your heart can say if I
have loved you well!" Thunder growls from far away. The air is warm in gusts.

Between the pots of flowers, the sheaves, the fresh bouquets, and each
glimmering aperture of the balustrades, one sees a sluggish river glide 'neath
glints of sombre gold. It seems as though the Seine, oppressed, were soon to die
with the passing of the sun whither turns its yearning tide. Its troubled water
rolled in violet agonies bears far the rosy sprays dropped from the parapets.
From the sun that sets in pain a final, feverish ray twixt the still quays doth
touch the wideness of the Seine. With its burning pulse it beats each little
wave that sighs. Disconsolate I lean on the railing of the quay. The air
surcharged with sweets is full of memories and my thought is of Manon who has
made me bear so much.

What starry ray doth glint o'er the Louvre where, far away, heaven still
preserves the tint of hope? Ah, now I guess. Manon sang of it of yore: "It is
the star of love. Do men and maids that yearn, there, on, high, love evermore? .
. ." You burn through flowing tears, Venus, with diamond sheen, but a dark smoke
comes between, your image fair to blast, as a bitter present conceals a happy
past. What matter to the smoke the tears, the wretchedness of lovers sad who
lean on the parapet at eve. "I will make fast my heart 'gainst all the dreams
that grieve." What though a starry dew envelopes all the night or the swart
tempest's gloom dusks heavens of apple-green. Nothing can touch the heart that
beats for self alone. Once Manon sang to me "Love is ephemeral." "Even as your
beauty is," I answered, "and your flesh . . ." Swift doom will blight these
flowers that tremble 'neath the storm. Heaven thunders, lightnings flare. I feel
my strength return.

O downpour grave, austere, where mounts the soul of stones, and which, in
plashing zones, diffuses frigid light, congeal my soul on fire, render my heart
severe, impose your freshness sweet on the hands I hold to you! The rain a
little clears. Its force declines . . . I wait. . . . What! The full moon
appears? What! The clouds are passed and gone? What! All the heavens in bloom?
And the air with every gust distills the tube-rose balm, roses, and pinks, and
dust? A star of love doth soar above the Louvre? I buy bouquets in goodly store,
laugh from my heart's ripe core. What! Am I a brain-sick child? And to Manon I
fly, my arms with roses piled, her pardon to implore.





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