Juncker at Bertram's [Eperimental - Erasure Poem]

[FranktheFrank]

Version III
.............................Juncker at Bertram's ..............

.......... ........... ......... the Duchy of Cagliostro never
could .......... be the council ............ broadens .... horizons
....................... I met Rachael ...............
lush in her Princess Soraya dress, from Maastricht.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Her blond hair cut short
like an athlete, her xxx legs xxx loping,
xxxxxxxxxxxxx face clean-cut as if from the rocks
of Thoreau's early morning mountain.

Did I tell you about her eyes,
xxxxxxxxx a thousand fires xxxx flowed xxxx rivers
of lava on Eyjafjallajökull
they want to join and the British want out.

You know some walls are meant to be broken
not climbed." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
I wanted to break, an exit. wanted a way out

She broke the ice, "xxxx visit us in Spijkenisse, xxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx of the Elfstedentocht,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx followed xxxx down to Equal-Odena
in Catalonia, that broke from Spain. "Nothing is impossible,
she said.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx the train from Heiligerlee
to Nisseward xxxxxxxxxxxx crossed many arches
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx spans and flyovers that couldn't
be crossed xxxxxxxxxx. She gave me a note[
xxxxxxxxxx as a token xxxxx that said
could never be broken.

[Bernie01]

Frank---


great first line.


prefer no politics...


Smitten I followed
her down to Equal-Odena in Catalonia, that democratic

republic that broke from Spain.


there is a wonderful frame here for a poem, and you have exciting descriptions. i enjoyed my tourist hop.


bernie

[FranktheFrank]

It's based on some of your poms Bernie
maybe you didn't get it

[BobBradshaw]

Your writing has really improved over the last 2 years....I like these lines esp.:

Her blond hair cut short like an athlete
and her long legs matched the clean-cut features

of her face like a statue carved from Mount Meru.

[Bernie01]

F---

There was no oil in the Duchy of Cagliostro.
but that didn't stop her from sucking out
the bitter lemon of her heart's calloused fruit.

Her blond hair cut short like an athlete
and her long legs
matched the hawkish features of her face.

She walked stiffly like a woman carrying
a hockey stick under her sealskin dress.
If she was a musical at Moulin Rouge
she would close on Saturday.




for fun.


bernie

[Gracy321]

Good one, Frank.
I just don't think I get the last stanza. They land in Catalonia, but take a train from a place that's not there, fly off to Holland, I believe.
Something to do with Catalonia if and when they decide to leave the E.U.?
Enjoyed, but would love a few words to enlighten me.
Gracy
PS: BTW, I saw you mentioned a poem called Tarantula, but I don´t see it. Removed?

[FranktheFrank]

B. and now G.
You guy are too smart for me.

[FranktheFrank]

Okay,

[FranktheFrank]

New title

[Bernie01]

Frank---

no dice, monsieur.


my advice---save the fireworks for the American Fourth of July. for Bastille Day, perhaps.


---Jean-Claude Juncker Seduces Perfidious Albion at Bertram's Hotel
we got the train from Heiligerlee

--- "Come visit Spijkenisse, she said
I am going to a Sipke Castelein's, of the Elfstedentocht,
wedding tomorrow I followed her down to Equal-Odena
to Nisseward


---hat's how I met Rachael Replic,
lush in her Princess Soraya dress, from Maastricht.

---clean-cut as if from the rocks
of Thoreau's early morning mountain.



think hemingway. le carrre. casablanca. Georges Simenon....maybe the best selling mystery writer for a lifetime.


from the Guardian:

love translated crime fiction. It gives me the buzz of a good story but a delicious voyeurism too: the same sensation as when I'm walking down a street at dusk and people have forgotten to close their curtains. Snapshots of different domestic lives, the food they eat, the pictures on the walls, the way they bring up their children. We can learn about a country's preoccupations by reading its popular fiction. Scandinavian crime has become so successful that books from other territories can be overlooked. Here are some examples to show that it's worth making wider reading investigations.

1. The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien Georges Simenon (translated by Linda Coverdales)

‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov.’ — William Faulkner

‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’ — André Gide

‘Superb… The most addictive of writers… A unique teller of tales’ — The Observer

‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant.’ — John Gray

‘A truly wonderful writer… marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the workd he creates’ — Muriel Spark

‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as it he were a part of it’ — Peter Ackroyd

‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’ — John Banville


Simenon:

When they had left Paris at around three o’clock, the streets were still bustling in the chilly late-autumn sunshine. Shortly afterwards, near Mantes, the lights had come on in the train compartment. Darkness had fallen outside by the time they reached Évreux, and now, through windows streaming with droplets, they saw a thick mist gleaming in soft haloes around the track lights.

Snug in his corner, resting his head against the back of the banquette, Detective Chief Inspector Maigret had not taken his half-closed eyes from the unlikely couple across from him.

Captain Joris was asleep. His clothes were wrinkled, his wig askew on his gleaming pate.

And Julie, clutching her imitation crocodile handbag, stared off into space while endeavouring, despite her fatigue, to look thoughtful.

Joris! Julie!

Inspector Maigret of the Police Judiciaire was used to having people suddenly take over his life like this, monopolize him for days, weeks, months, and then sink back into the anonymous crowd.

The rhythmic sound of the wheels carried his thoughts along, and they were always the same at the beginning of each case: would this investigation be challenging or dull? Thankless and demoralizing, or painfully tragic?

As Maigret considered Joris, a faint smile touched his lips. A strange fellow! And for five days back at Quai des Orfèvres, everyone had called him That Man, because they couldn’t find out who he was.

A man picked up for wandering in obvious distress among the cars and buses on the Grands Boulevards. Questioned in French, he remains mute. They try seven or eight languages. Nothing. Sign language proves fruitless as well.

A madman? In Maigret’s office, he is searched. His suit is new, his underwear is new, his shoes are new. All identifying labels have been removed. No identification papers. No wallet. Five crisp thousand-franc bills have been slipped into one of his pockets.

The inquiry could not be more aggravating! Criminal records and case files are searched. Telegrams are sent at home and abroad. And although subjected to exhausting interrogation, That Man smiles affably all day long! A stocky fellow of about fifty, broad-shouldered, who neither protests nor gets upset, who smiles and sometimes seems to try to remember, but gives up almost immediately.

a new novel from a BBC journalist---the opening sure caught my eye:



EXCERPT: SOMETIMES I LIE BY ALICE FEENEY

My name is Amber Reynolds. There are three things you should know about me:

1. I’m in a coma.
2. My husband doesn’t love me anymore.
3. Sometimes I lie.

satirists need not apply.


bernie

[FranktheFrank]

Old pal
You are right
I wrote it as a exercise
and it's about Britain leaving the European Union
and there are crossword puzzle clues in there
but it is very hard.

Thanks for the marvellous reply, I am itching to read it all again.

[FranktheFrank]

This pom is now erasure

[FranktheFrank]

I would like to leave out the 'x's' but I'm not familiar
with that process, the lines close up anyway.