12. The Return Of Industry To The Palace Of Versailles 
   (34)

Louis Quartorze decided 
to expand his hunting lodge,
escape the hostile expanses 
of the city of Paris.
An industrial center was begun 
that embraced one hundred arts,
ninety-nine perfected
within an inch of perfection:
elegant gardens to view
from a royal bedroom,
a canal that looked 
as if it had parallel sides,
the moulders of ormolu,
the gilders of fancy cornices,
the makers of tapestries and rugs,
the shapers of silverware 
and deftly crafted pieces
of brilliantly designed furniture,
the mass production of lace,
or rather, its reproduction 
through a nimble multitude
of persistent feminine hands...

In the grounds stood a grove
of humble cottages where the nobles
could play at poverty, 
between fleeing palaces
and changing parties,
fool themselves with things 
that would grace any peasant's table
if they too possessed 
obscene amounts of money...

And then a change of politics,
a breath of fresh air,
a storm that silenced 
this maze of bureaucratic halls.
In a postponed game of tennis
this delicately delegated
art of wavering indecision 
finally met its match.
Now no more the decisive sounds 
of flutes and harpsichords,
now no more the fashionable sounds
of violins and pianos, 
now no more the sensuous sounds
of sweet cantatas; distillations 
of passions flaunted
in accordance with conventions
through the refined mannerisms 
signed and signalled,
recognized and acted upon
by a gentry in a formal world 
of privileged aristocracy;
celebrated through fireworks
to the sounds of trumpets and horns.
Unable to adapt quickly enough
to flee the angry hunting grounds 
of the now excited masses
out chasing necks well furred,
insane mobs who then sought 
much more than the humble sacrament 
of the risen bread alone.
Instead, seeking the better bred
which they did prefer `dead'
and untidily packaged 
for public consumption 
which was then distributed 
in a format that was precisely 
and cleanly sliced 
by the keen edge of a knife
that made no distinction...

But take heart for once more
industry has returned 
to the palaces of Versailles.
Each day standing in shuffling
queues, be it rain or sunshine,
come the tourists laden 
with their umbrellas and cameras,
their camrecorders and guide books,
to stand and stare, 
take this or that tour.
On the uneven cobbles they wait
to book a walk or take 
a tour guided talk through
the impressive State Rooms, 
the Chapel and Opera Theatre, 
le Petit Trianon, and so on,
or the bedrooms of Madame This
and Madame That, I forget which,
or take a stroll through 
the immensity of the gardens 
that still remain,
in itself, quite an event,
or take the travelling train
around this artificial park
to view the hundred and one
water controlled fountains 
and all the other 
sculptured sights...

Cash cows on two legs,
milked at every turn,
an exercise in crowd control
continually shouted at
to stop flashing.
Still a thousand rooms 
are left remaining empty.
Should not such ingenuity
harness them also to the flow
of a stream of self-generated 
funds and therein return them,
in turn, to some faint 
state of restoration?
Why not open then, therein,
a hotel for the travelling rich 
staffed with servants
who will cater for their
every casual whim
and can still remain smiling
before the tips are given?
Why not a theme park, or two,
a classical world of romance,
a romantic world of the classical,
with a center for conventions
thrown in for good measure?
Last, but not least,
why not a backpackers hostel
for the less well heeled,
twenty-four beds to a dorm
down each side, a simple kitchen
to cook a meal in real style,
a post office with a royal seal
to bless such a palace 
built by the masses 
for the masses
said in the chapel..?

Much industry has returned 
to the palaces of Versailles!
Would you like to buy a tie
with regal fleur de lis 
in a silky polyester,
a brochure perhaps, or a map, 
the latest balance sheet
should you wish to invest
in this very public enterprise, 
this world of commerce,
this shabby realm of service
that graciously extracts 
a pocketful of republican francs 
with a cool, Gallic smile..?

13. On The Riviera (35)

Today we flee the south-west of France,
tonight we take a sleeping train to Rome.
In the railway station of Nice
we find we have an hour and a half 
to enjoy ourselves on the Riviera.
So to the beach let us rest a while,
upon the sand partake a simple tea.
Leaving the limbo land of overladen
backpackers forever looking lost
we headed down the built-up hill 
towards the still invisible sea.
Ou est la neige, I asked a bemused local,
but quickly realizing my mistake 
I then corrected myself in the question,
Ou est la plage s'il vous plait?
After a dozen blocks or so we then saw
the much treasured sand that outlines 
the gentle sinuous curve of this bay.
Our sensible packs are placed upon 
the beach with a towel spaced in between.
Resting for a few moments we then prepare 
our repast; tomatoes from Carcasonne,
bread from Nimes, sweet pastries from 
a nearby boulangerie, a wonderful cheese
bought in the very center of Paris itself,
a sparkling grape juice substituting
for the bubbles of a singing Champagne.
O for the delights of the high life imitated,
all the trappings of a style well emulated!
This ribbon of sand dangles, straggles
between the coast, the surf and the horizon 
of a wonderful, deep blue sky; despite 
an imminent sunset, like a fragile piece 
of fly paper catching human flies; a picture 
I found completed in the dark stare of sunglasses.
A race of two people inhabit this golden mile;
the professional and the amateur beach goer;
the well tanned versus the pale and flabby,
permanent fixtures and those that can escape 
this concrete jungle of high rise units with 
penthouse apartments no higher than the next..!