Bar at the Folies Bergeres

by Edouard Manet

a se

quence

of p

oem

s

BELLE EPOQUE

Somehow sad she is not the belle of the ballher share of champagne is unopenedwhile what she gazes on is reflected behind her.

No, the gaze is enquiring, no, amazed, nojust observant, just as Manet wanted,to show the possibility of looking at gaiety

while not interested in taking partin merriment, questions the whole basisfor cheers, even the other near face

is serious, though is this one seriousabout having a good time and so thereis no expression to go with it -

could this man, this gentleman want somethinghe cannot have, is not for sale, will remainunopened champagne behind the counter.

Jam

es B

ell

"love takes off masks that we fear we can

not live without and know we can not live

within"  james baldwin    

only a little while longer loveand we can go, quit this place.i can peel away this mask of

indifferencebefore the cracks begin atthe corners of my mouthbetraying us with a smile.

Sherry

Pasq

uare

llo

when you were rationalwe talked about our housemade plansbought furnitureplanned a future

now you don’t want to knowthe furniturein boxessits in the hallyour paintings stackedagainst the wall

when you were rationalwe talked of childrena family giving up drinknever waking in the gutteragain

now I don’t know where you arewhose bed you warmor what you drinkour children deadon a whore’s hand  

when you were rationalyou said you loved me

Jim B

ennett

Manet's Girl

Sandwiched between two bottles of Bass Ale,oh how très un-French!  Ma chèrie, you look

... bored ... what can I say, we dilettanteslook at you as if you are a cod in a fish store,

the buzz of our artsy conversations reflectedin the mirror, monsieurs and painted mesdamesof the demi-monde, but you ... you look so innocent

and bored.  I am sorry mes amis and I bore you so.Here's a Louis d'or.  Please, child, eat tonight.

Ch

ristoph

er T

Georg

e

She remembers everything.Runs through fields of childhood,hair flying, friends’ shouts echoing louder than the chatter round her

now.Sees the boy who loved herbefore she knew what love expected,feels his hands’ sweat on her palmsas they grip the counter’s edge.Hears her mother’s wheezing lungs,wipes blood from powerless lipsthat bestow nothing but womanhood,responsibility and pain.At this moment of stillnessin a whirling world,she thinks her life is over.

Stu

art N

unn

I can't say I go for these Manet bitchesmy bar is much smarter, my clienteleso smartly francaise, my companionsjust the thing, their parapluiesto catch raindrops. My sense of Parisis nattier, fresher than theirs.They can dress us as dancers,and often do. It's all they can do,but I own the rainbows. I thank you, sir.The glint stays in my eye and hair.

I'm Renoir's girl.

Sally

Evan

s

the painter of light and air, not he who sketchesclothes for his model that she would never wearto cover a nudity she will never let him view.

Dear Suzon…Leave, Jacques, my feet hurt and the night is far too young. Return to your mistresses and dream of when you’re good enough to lie as well as M. Manet.

Suzon at a Bar at the Folies-Bergere

You, monsieur, bore me, another Parisian thugwith artistic aspirations and no talent, not fitto weed M. Monet’s water lilies and garden.

Mademoiselle, all I ask is a little kindness, an address,

perhaps a bit of late supper after your shift ends,maybe a shot of the absinth hidden beneath the

bar.

All artists are liars – actors, poets, authors, sculptors,

dancers, painters – it doesn’t matter; all would sooner

lie than tell the truth even when they gain from it.

Witness, monsieur, this painting we are in – a reflection

in a looking-glass, and nothing true to this realitywe imagine is as authentic as God could make it –

the bar foreshortened, the bottles different, the barmaid a fat harlot too willing to chat upthe villain wilting her smile with his garlic breath.

The painter excuses his inability to paint the baras it is as only an impression, yet the only artist who does not lie is he who keeps the canvas blank,

Gary

B

lanke

nsh

ip

Des Folies Des Rêves/ The Follies of Dreams

I was mad to think you would be the answerto dreams I had when I was so naïvewhen you came to take me away from fieldsdozing in lavender clouds under my windowJean Claude cried because he was losing his

sisterI told him I would bring him back sweets and

toysmy mother looked so worried as you took me

awaymy father counted the money you gave himyou promised to love meyou said I would wear a silk couture gownwe would be married in the cathedralits bells would play for our life togethernow I wear a jewel at my neck from M. Boisvertthe butcher who sells his famous sausages

everywhereyou don’t notice what I wear as long as I’m here to meet the men you bringtonight I’ll leave while you’re having another

absintheI’ll sleep on straw again with the child within

me

Barb

ara

Phillip

s

another dreary nightlistening to some blokethrow flirtatious commentsabout my hair, my eyesmy beautiful lips come on, I’m no oil paintingI mean, look at those gorgeous oneswhose eyes dance with laughter their breasts full of promise I’m tired of this pretencegive me one of those voluptuous ladiesand I will die a happy woman

Jazz

Is this how you see me; blank, reflected, human,

but not like you?I am confined to this vision,the lies that describe and define me,that empty hint of covetousness and lustin this stranger’s eyes,no more strange to me than the

multitudinous liarswho stare right through me.

I could court you,listen to each and every one,but I am weaving my own short taleone that begins with my liberationand ends… for you anyway, in something brutish, loud and short.

I shall not apologiseI shall not explainI shall simply step over your ashes and

walk away,for this, I can wait.After all, I have eternity.

Caro

lyn E

dw

ard

s

I hatethis damn placerich people chattingunder the chandelieryour breath stinks of

scotch whiskeyand you want more of me

after workfuck off

Caro

l Sirco

ulo

mb

After Manet

I thought I knew what he was after, when he said

he’d like to paint me, make me live for ever. I’d been around, the bar was always full of lowlives, artists, riff-raff, slumming

aristos from half a dozen countries, on the pull. Fancy words come cheap from Paris gigolos, and all of them come out ‘let’s go to bed’. But it turned out I was wrong, dead wrong,

about him: he was the worst, the one most full of sin, with that charming tongue so supple and so

clever,for all he never laid a hand on me that way. You can see for yourself: the others only

wanted skin; but he came with brushes, sly and innocent,

and stolesomething of me, my youth, a piece of soul.

Paul B

lake