Marie Claire Poem by David Lewis Paget

Marie Claire



Down in the valley, beside the Seine
Where it's cold and damp in the autumn rain,
A couple once opened a restaurant,
And called it the Café d'Aubijon.

The chef was Henri Apollinaire,
His wife, the beautiful Marie Claire,
And Henri worshipped his wife, complete
From her hair right down to her darling feet.

Marie had more of a roving eye
For the guests and the diners, passing by,
While Henri slaved over plates of veal,
Marie saw hearts she would like to steal.

She flirted, fluttered and teased with eyes
That promised much to the less than wise,
She often removed her wedding ring
And leant so close, she was whispering.

She'd show each guest to his tiny room
In the long drawn lull of the afternoon,
Then disappear for an hour or so
While Henri dealt with the guests below.

Then down amongst the crème brûlé,
The Guinea Fowl and the consommé,
The Chef sat brooding about his life,
Breaking his heart for his faithless wife.

So many guests had come and gone
From Caen, Toulouse, from Avignon,
From Brest, Limoux, from Vaux Sur Mer,
He wondered what he was doing there.

But every time that he saw his wife
His heart said: 'She's the love of my life! '
He never would think to challenge her there,
Her loss would shackle him in despair!

A change came suddenly over her
When a guest called André Carpentier
Took up her offer of room and board
And sneered at Henri's estouffade.

Too thin, too thick, the wine was sour,
He sniped, was muttering by the hour,
For nothing was well enough done, by half,
And Marie Claire had begun to laugh.

For every sneer, she laughed aloud,
To Henri's shame, a miserable cloud,
That stank as rotten as pourriture
Hung over his head and his future, too.

She taunted and teased with André there,
She wore perfume, let down her hair
She shortened each skirt in the cedar robe
While down in the kitchen, Henri moaned.

Then she went visiting André's room
Each day, for part of the afternoon,
The business dying, it slowly failed
The door was boarded, the shutters nailed.

He still served up their dinner and tea,
But cooking for not just two, but three,
Still André quibbled, but shamelessly
Sat with his hand on Marie's knee.

After a week of total despair,
She went for a walk, did Marie Claire,
André asked if she'd ever come back,
But Henri's eyes were ringed, and black.

He told André that he'd better go,
But Andre scowled, insisted: 'No! '
'I'm paid up here for a month and a day,
'Til Marie returns, I think I'll stay! '

Henri cooked for them both that week,
His touch was light, and the food unique,
Cuisse de mouton, parmentier
He served to the hungry Carpentier.

Wine so red with a strange bouquet,
Served with lashings of pink pâté,
Jambonneau and some crêpes suzette
And snacks, and biscuits and plain rillettes.

Henri said that he couldn't eat,
He told André: 'I admit defeat!
You've taken the love of Marie Claire,
You should be together, it's only fair! '

On Friday night as the meal began,
André lost the use of his hands,
Then a numbness rose in his feet,
He opened his mouth and he tried to speak.

'Love is a horror, ' said Henri, then,
'It lifts, then drags you back down again.
But you, my friend, have the problem solved
You can have your love and your cake - Resolved! '

'You've eaten and drunk your fill of her,
Marie, thin sliced and as cordon bleu
Each tender morsel you passed on through
Has made just one from the two of you.

But now the tables are turned, you see,
For she is starving, my poor Marie,
She's always happy to try fresh meat;
So glad that you offered! - all she can eat!

He left the room to his guest awhile
And then returned with a winning smile
Pushed on a chair with castors there,
While tied to the frame, was Marie Claire.

Au naturel, not a stitch in sight,
André looked up, and he blanched in fright,
Marie had the looks of a cripple who begs,
She'd lost both arms, and where were her legs?

Now still they sit, those lovers two,
Who stare as they eat each other's stew,
For André's legs are a thing of the past,
With other bits that he seems to have lost.

For Henri fed her the ris de homme,
While André chews on the sliced mouton,
He can't complain, for she's eaten his tongue
And she can't flirt, for her eyes have gone.

2 August 2008

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Frank Cannon 02 August 2008

Tres magnifique! !

0 0 Reply
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
David Lewis Paget

David Lewis Paget

Nottingham, England/live in Australia
Close
Error Success