Poems of Théodore de Banville (Part One)

A chance find of an old book while rummaging through an untidy pile in a small second-hand bookshop not too far from the Sacred Heart Church of Montmartre led me to this nineteenth century French poet.

Paris is my beloved city, I fell in love there and have fond memories of countless heady hours spent with my sweetheart exploring its hidden treasures and pleasures. She was born and brought up in Paris and knows the city inside out. We never went up the Eiffel Tower nor took the boats along the river Seine, but preferred to walk along its banks,

especially on October evenings, when it was misty and could sometimes get surprisingly quiet, with just the lapping of the waves and the occasional jazz music from the saxophone player under the bridge. In those days Montmartre still had a bohemian feel and the artists' quarter was a lively place to wander about.

We are now married and have settled down far away in another country but still visit Paris when we can. So when a chance came up last summer on the way back from a conference in Tuscany for a short visit to see our son who is studying music there, I took it with alacrity. That was how I found myself wandering again in the 18th arrondissement of Paris, this time alone, and ending up in this little gem of a bookstore on rue Caulaincourt.

It was a fairly warm and lazy summer afternoon, the type that tells you to linger and rummage among old books in small second-hand book shops. Glancing into the shop was enough; the dusty unkempt look was too hard to resist. At the far end a man, whom I took to be the owner of the bookshop, sat talking and gesticulating on the phone. I went in. There were books in piles and books, somewhat arranged, in shelves. And there were boxes of old forks and knives. There were also some painted canvasses, large and small, and other knick-knacks, all in their own random places. 

I mucked around and found several interesting first editions, all beyond my reach as was evident from the penciled-in prices. My enthusiasm as a bibliophile was limited to about twenty euros so I moved on to another cheaper looking pile. In that pile was this slim volume, bound, with a brick red leather spine and a patterned paper cover: LE SANG DE LA COUPE - TH. DE BANVILLE, POÉSIES.

Keywords: Poetry