Interior of Notre-Dame de Paris after the fire of April 15, 2019
A Memory of Notre-Dame
by Christopher Bernard
I had been traveling for many hours from Philadelphia when I was seventeen on my first trip to Paris as part of a package tour for high schoolers I had worked much of the summer the year previous to afford.
It was spring and, despite the exhaustion and excitement after the long journey (my first by plane), when we got to the hotel near the Place Bastille, I decided there was no way I was going to sleep before in some way meeting Paris face to face. So I took my handful of francs and my high-school French, snuck out of the hotel (unknown to our chaperones), scurried down the local Metro stop, and took the first subway to the Île de la Cité.
After arriving at my destination without dropping off despite my first experience of jetlag, I wearily climbed endless levels of exit stairs into the late afternoon. And stood, rooted to the spot, staring almost straight up at the austere towers and the façade known to every schoolchild, and saying over and over to myself for a long, sleep-deprived moment: “Notre-Dame de Paris, Notre-Dame de Paris, this is Notre-Dame de Paris,” before dreamily crossing over to the front steps, and ascending them while taking curious, creak-necked glances up at the tympanum, and then walking gingerly (I wasn’t even sure, as a non-Catholic, I would even be allowed in) through the entrance way – surprisingly small – into the dark, unexpectedly cool interior.
As I entered, the organ burst into music. No services were going on that I could see, and I supposed the organist was rehearsing for Sunday. But it was one of those moments of mystery and magic in one’s life that seem to happen with some frequency in youth, and then less and less often with passing time. My fatigue and caution seemed to fall away. I walked into the cathedral and remember taking a very deep breath, then walked into the music and shadows.
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Christopher Bernard lives in San Francisco.
sleep shatters
my sleep shatters
neath a diamond moon
my eyes sting
in dim bedroom light
white walls like velvet
welcome me home
my embrace
is only warmth
my heart is a vacuum
hoping against dawn,
hoping
at least
for a longer night
cheap nights
the Law & Order theme
reminds me of
blood stained walls,
little flecks
faded orange,
from a dull needle
as I pushed
water through
smoke alarm calling
to disinterested occupants
increasing the panic
and then
hunting a girl
who cut herself
where no one could see,
love
just a mirage
in a personal
desert
hand rolled cigarettes
built
from the tobacco of acrid butts
waiting for the continental breakfast
at a hotel
I couldn’t afford
learning
hunger trumps
shame
the Law & Order theme
the most natural beauty
found
of cheap
nights
in rented
rooms
lady justice
“There is far too much law for those who can afford it and far too little for those who cannot”
Derek Bok
it’s not a crime
to tell a cop to go
fuck himself, not a
crime to film a cop
as he arrests a bum
nor is it a crime
to appear in court
wearing a lip ring
but crimes are betrayals
of the law and nothing
to do with justice.
the law does not care
to have its heart broken
and the jails are full
of proof
the juvenile delinquents
piped in
the people stuck in the system
for 10 years on a 1 year
probation sentence
are proof.
roads are built and police
cruisers are bought with
the fees and fines given
verity by the honor bestowed
to a man with a badge
and the dishonor
we are born with when
we are born
without money.
lady justice,
behind that blindfold
she just weeps.
A LADY THAT KNOWS ALL HOW TO BE HAPPY FOR ALL AND A POET
By: Adesina Ayobami Idris
it’s called.
loss is a picture in
a lettered quill.
birds make mouth
of everything that
left & never returned,
the wind finds my head
a worthy stop
or it rains in the pages
of a book.
noise, i gather each &
dress on a white leaf.
to measure for distance.
loss is a picture in
a lettered quill.
WHAT I ASSUME
I assume much the same as you assume,
& I regret as much as you do,
but I’ll be damned before I rocket a brutal stone
above the eye socket of innocence.
I won’t do it,
& if you know what exists in the uncertain hour,
just before, just before,
just before, just before,
& after all that,
before sliding fetus-like into the ether,
just before & afterwards;
afterwards I promise
I’ll sing the blues
like Muddy says,
It’s nine below zero
with nowhere else to go.
[Italics by Muddy Waters]
Echoes of the past
Joan Beebe (left)and fellow contributor Michael Robinson
When I am alone in the early morning darkness,
My mind takes me back to the times when
I was growing up with my family.
It was a time of nurturing, tears and laughter.
The warmth of love, encouragement and the
Sounds of a family taking care of each other.
The house was always filled with the kindness of
My mom and dad who took in friends, a relative and
A family who was forced out of their home due to
The flooding of our river each year.
Time has passed quickly and I only have my memories
But they are sweet, comforting and full of gratitude.
Not A Bird’s Eye View
Mahbub
A bird flew just touching my head over
It flew away flattering its feathers
I looked again and again
It spoke to me how and what I do
And should do
It’s my love, O bird
You wanted to whisper that I can’t
Flew away over my head
The shade before my eyes
While flying to the sky
Draws hundreds and thousands miles to go ahead
I observe and move forward till I reach my destiny.