Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BULLIER, by PAUL FORT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BULLIER, by                    
First Line: Pals of an hour, lovers' content, pocket-book and sentiment
Last Line: Sentiments that stir the pulsing youth of france.
Subject(s): Death; Happiness; Love; Dead, The; Joy; Delight


Pals of an hour, lovers' content, pocket-book and sentiment.

Bullier whose splendour Ottoman, adorned with globed electric lights, a bevy of
fair maids delights from the Tavern of the Pantheon, the East for twenty cents
displayed, each odalisque in whose hareem for a five franc piece may be seen,
save when the Lenten world repents, Bullier in gay mode Ottoman makes welcome
all the sentiments that stir the pulsing youth of France 'neath its electric
colonnade.

Loves of a year, loves of a night, pals of an hour or an instant slight, fancies
of students, passion-bent, the whims of future notaries, -- pocket-book and
sentiment, young process-servers' lunacies! if this should last one's life
entire would one's good parents be content? -- Hark to that churl in passion's
fire: the lightning stroke, to die thereof, that old quack-doctor who'd aspire
to little Esmeralda's love. "Dost thou remember when they played "Espana" since
that hour malign my heart bleeds . . ." We may well opine the doctor will not
die of it. Later 'tis we the world will quit seared by the lightning of his
trade. -- Pals of an hour, lovers' content, pocket-book and sentiment. -- And
the prizes of the lotteries: Venus' loveliest devisings: these glorious passions
of a year, and the sizings, the sizings, like the sweet butter that they smear
baby's wheaten slice above, the sizings that each day we shear from the soft
loaf of love!

I shine at Bullier, Passion's bard, I, Grand-Master of Sentiment. There I bring
my hat a la Rembrandt and my cravat of dark foulard where gleams a Caesar's
effigy and my frock-coat such as one might see on a Berlioz or Delacroix or an
1830 Hamlet, fain to the Courtille to fetch his pain, and my indolent acridity
to seek Manon who flies from me. She sees my shade on the stair extend when
black in Bullier, I descend, dragged at my heels as if 'twould be the mantle of
Mounet-Sully!

The East for twenty cents displayed each odalisque in whose hareem for a five
franc piece may be seen, save when the Lenten world repents, Bullier in gay mode
Ottoman makes welcome all the sentiments that stir the pulsing youth of France
'neath its electric colonnade. -- Naught of the music I have said.

Yet it is sweet tonight. It earns a place. I must not leave it out. They play
"Espana" and the rout of Bullier all about me turns, or ought to turn beyond a
doubt. But breast to breast, limb brushing limb, the muses of the Pantheon, with
painters' botching 'prentices or blackamoors of all degrees (as with embryo
servants of the State whom seats in Parliament await), mechanically are
Bostonning. A dance precise as cudgelling. Arms stiffly held, like levers staid.
No more the terpsichorean wealth, impetuous bound, heroic spring, kick to unhook
the moon on high! But the air of having not the air. One is American, my dear.
And why increase the pace at all? One is not epileptical. "Shun, shun
hysterics!" is the cry. "'Neath the electric colonnade one caters to one's
precious health.

Manon takes her fill of joy, alone, beneath her hat of roses white. From arm to
arm she passes on. She whirls, half-swooning with delight. Each that desires her
favour wins. 'Tis that one sweeps her off her feet, and round the pair the ball-
room spins. Useless to aid her. Flying fleet, already other arms have clasped
her. Her charms a negro's arms eclipse, whom amorous tremblings overmaster. A
kiss from those full, blubber-lips . . . and Manon lifts her eyes of blue
towards a brow enormous that displays round beads of sweat, a gleaming dew. "A
negro's kiss, this one repays! They say felicity 'twill bring." Manon hoists
herself to tip-toes' height and gives her lovely head a toss that somewhat lifts
the roses white, drooping, Ophelia-like, across dishevelled hair. A woolly head
bends 'neath the nails of fingers ten, and, with pursed, heart-shaped lips,
Manon impairs her mouth's fictitious red on that enormous, sweating brow. "Good!
I will pay my homage now to your fair eyes, Jeanne la Roquine. -- Have you seen
her 'gainst her negro there? What, must one dote on blacking then? -- Courage,
'tis but a silly prank. -- Sweet child, I know the charm I lack. 'Tis but my
garments that are black. All negroes boast a sultan's rank.

Pals of an hour, lovers' content, pocket-book and sentiment. Here blacks obtain
a sultan's power.

Jeanne la Roquine, come, leave the throng and sit beside this charming hedge. --
Thanks! Poetry sets my teeth on edge. -- Tender heart, do you think I read you
wrong? Your ruddy hair is ravishing. Come 'neath the grot; 'tis sombre blue. . .
. Your fingers steal to my cravat? I'm no tame pigeon. None of that! Drop your
paws, Roquine. No, let them be. Beneath your snowy fingers, see, my Caesar
sparkles in the gloom. Past praising is your deathly hue."

In the room a pistol shot rings out. "Roquine, do you smell the powder-reek?"
But still Roquine is pale of cheek. More pallors come, in ghastly rout, amid the
murmuring crowd to spread, now in mid-Boston halted dead, with the orchestra's
arrested bows, gesticulations stopped in air -- You were there? You saw it, I
suppose. What occurred? -- Miserere. Be it so! 'Tis that old pseudo-medico
who killed himself in his despair. -- Ah, 'tis no every-day affair. -- There by
the shooting-booth he bleeds . . . His cocktail was but half consumed. Esmeralda
drank a gin. They called each other names obscene. -- To thoughts of death my
soul was bowed but aloud the epigram I spoke which suited the occasion's needs.
-- "You have it there, the lightning-stroke. You said beside the shooting-booth
he bled? His shot is paid, in truth." -- "Esmeralda drank a gin. They called
each other names obscene. This piques my curiosity," suddenly cried Jeanne la
Roquine and towards the shooting-booth took flight. -- When I arrived beside the
blood among the foremost Manon stood. Then I saw her nodding roses white above a
smile of artless youth.

Loves of a year, loves of a night, loves of an hour or an instant slight. 'Neath
its electric colonnade Bullier, in gay mode Ottoman, makes welcome all the
sentiments that stir the pulsing youth of France.





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