New Orleans

[ninanevermore]

When I read at the open mic on Saturdays, there is one piece that currently gets requested every time of late.

"Do the one about the French Quarter. I love that one."

I'm kind of getting bored reading it. I wrote it after the flood, but I couldn't write about the tragedy that was happening. It was too much like watching a good friend drown, live on TV, and not being able to do anything about it. New Orleans was a flawed city, but you fell in love with her anyway if you spent any amount of time in her company. So I wrote about that, about loving the Big Easy even though you know she's no good for you.

It may suck just reading it on a screen. I worry that part of the appeal of my work is that I know how to read it, how to perform it, and that this is why people like me. I have no idea how my poems work as literary works without me there to interpret them for people.

But let's give it a go, anyway.


Love Poem for New Orleans

She's a floozy that you fall in love with
against your better judgment.

She's fast and dirty and corrupt
but you just don't care
because she's so beautiful
and so charming,
and when you're in her arms
she talks you into doing things
that you'd never do
anywhere else.

You know she's not true
and she doesn't love you,
but her voice is Jazz
and her blood is Zydeco
and when she sings the Blues
you give in and give over to her
anything she asks.

Her heart is in the Quarter
but she gives no quarter herself;
she's ruthless and mean
and she'll take you for everything
you're worth -
in fact, you think nothing of it
when she tells you to hand over ten dollars
for the three-dollar drink
she's just served you in a plastic cup
so you can take it with you
out into her streets
where you trip over the cobblestones
as you make your way back
to he haunted room
you've rented for the week.

It must the be Voodoo
that leaves you so spellbound
that you stand transfixed in the square,
in front of the Cathedral
and under the stony gaze of Jackson,
wishing you could stay in her wicked arms
just a few more nights.

No, she's no good for you,
but she stole your heart
while she emptied your pockets,
so you make up your mind
that it's no big deal,
you'll let the Big Easy
keep your money
and your good sense
and call it a fair trade;

because while your wallet is empty
and your pride is laid low
your soul is as full
as a steaming cup of coffee
served up at 4 A.M. at the Café du Monde,
where you sit trying to sober up
just enough to remember
how to find your way back
to that rented room
with it's ghost of beautiful dark-skinned girl
that gave you such a fright
your first few nights in town
until you got used to her
leaning over your bed
to tuck you in tight
each time you laid down.


- Nina Erickson
(c)2005

Comments

You were wrong

[lil-ms-drama.livejournal.com]

The poem is awesome even without someone reading it. I've been to New Orleans only once (glad at least it was once) but you described it so wonderfully - and I was one of the ones that didn't go there to get drunk, but do things like sit at Café du Monde sipping Cafe Au Lait and nibbling on a croissant.

Re: You were wrong

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

(((blushes)))

Thanks. :)

I first saw the Quarter when I was 15. My father had us stop for a day on our way driving to Florida to see Disney World.

I fell in love with the city, though I've only been back a couple of times since (including my honeymoon).

I can't tell you much about the 3 days I spend at Disney World as a kid, but I can tell you every detail about the one night I spend in New Orleans.

New Orleans was the REAL magical kingdom, in my book, and will be again with time.

[noblwish.livejournal.com]

Absolutely magical! Of course, having heard you read a dozen or more times before, I can totally hear your voice and picture your expressions, so I'm hardly one to judge.