light verse and musings from the lawnchair
Laws of attraction.
Eye of the Beholder
They said that she was beautiful,
In a certain light.
So by day, she hoarded candles,
And lit a few each night,
Or stood beneath a street lamp,
Half in, half out of sight.
She knew it was unlikely,
Yet still, she hoped he might
Be among the passers-by
when the moment was just right.
Then by shadow play, or molten wax
She'd feast on him that night.
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The phrases that start these walking poems sometimes well up from unexpected sources. I was buttoning my coat as I crossed a plaza and recalled my mother teaching me to count the buttons on my shirt with the verse “Tinker, taylor, soldier, sailor….” and somehow that segued into the image of a Victorian parent planning her children’s future. I guess I was having a Jane Austen moment.
Women’s lives were restricted but their minds were not.
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Unlaced One son to the army Caring for the elderly, Because their corsets are so tight |
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On a trip this summer, I had the chance to admire a collection of quilts. The technique of quilting actually requires a lot of pre-planning, design and calculation – very rational stuff. But the visual result can be wild and dizzying, as the colors play off each other and invariably the whole is somehow greater than its parts, something that the quilter must see before the quilt exists. Back home, I began a series of quilt designs on my iPad, and walking to work one morning, the first two lines of this poem came to me.
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Starry, starry night We love the works of madmen How brave! The man who looked outside |
You could call this one “the mom rap”. On the way to work this morning I saw a woman pushing a baby carriage while walking her little dog on a leash. Efficient, I thought. A happy image. The little dog was certainly happy anyway. The mom? You don’t really know. Her pace looked a little mechanical. One person’s happy excursion is another person’s nullifying obligation. Maybe she’d rather be running. Maybe she’d rather be designing spacecraft, or coding software, or doing whatever it was she used to do that required more than 20 minutes of uninterrupted concentration. Don’t let the books with pink and blue covers and curly writing and gauzy madonna photos in the background fool you. Motherhood is not the same for everyone.
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Walk the Baby Walk the baby Have a baby He doesn’t care. He’s never there. He says his money (and so would I, and so would I, at something else.) But all my time No flow of words No time to write, no end in sight. You tell the doctor Why should you lie? Walk the baby It may be best. |
This poem came to me as I was waiting on the underground platform of the Barcelona Ferrocarrils. Just as I reached the platform, I saw my train depart. Gripped with the inevitable frustration, and the knowledge that I would be late to work, I remembered the advice of my friend Nassim Taleb, who says “never run to catch a train”. And somehow, Shakespeare found his way in there.
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Late again That doppler sound,
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This one was inspired by the constant battery of perfume advertisements that seems to accompany the winter holiday season. The images of women who look like they have been lobotomized or seriously drugged as they float through wispy clouds and satin drapery. Ooo, la la.
Living with hunger
She’s learned to live with hunger
and shoes that cause her pain.
“She’s every man’s desire.”
Oh, not that crap again!
You can see her on the TV
and in posters on the street,
but she doesn’t look like
any living woman you might meet.
Now she whispers to the camera.
She’s only wearing gauze.
Your eyes are glazing over, darling.
Here’s a cloth to wipe your jaw.
It’s just an advertisement.
She’s a phantom, my dear man!
Come serve the goddess in your household.
That is… if you still can.
It’s full night now when I walk home from work. Barcelona’s brief winter has arrived with a sharp, cold bluster. As I head down hill from Vallvidrera, the evening star shines low, fat, and bright, and yes, Christmas is in the air.
Midwinter
Something always quickens in midwinter.
Perhaps a babe?
Perhaps some slouching beast…
The stars grow cold, and one, more bright.
We plan the ancient feast
and build the fire, and stare at flames.
The solstice gives us pause.
And somehow we will find the strength,
to dine with our in-laws.
Note: the Poolside Laureate is fortunately blessed with wonderful in-laws!
There’s a shop window I occasionally pass, that has an enormous door standing on display. It’s theatrical, it’s gaudy, and I’ve never seen a house it would fit in. But to see it is to want it. You imagine that wherever it is, it’s quite a different world on the other side.
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Invitation A story lies behind this door. Absinthe must be the drink of choice, Walls may not talk, but doors sure do, |
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Until recently, my morning walk to work led me to the doors of a well-reputed business school. Usually I focussed on the beautiful gardens and buildings, as well as the people walking by. Almost every day I saw something worth writing about, something beautiful or curious. However, Barcelona, like any city, has a darker side.
The morning I saw a man digging through the garbage bins located practically at the doors of the school, the irony gave me this:
The Business School
Dumpster diving at the business school, now that’s a sight to see! His family’s going hungry, but he’s got a fine degree.
He did just what they told him and he doesn’t understand why the speculation failed him when he bought up all that land.
It was easy! No one mentioned he was trafficking with air. He thought that he was clever! now he’s closer to despair.
He lives near his alma mater until the bank calls in the loan. That could happen any day now. He could even lose his home!
He hopes that no one sees him as he’s sorting through the trash. He doesn’t want his kids to know that they’re completely out of cash.
He bought into a system that turned out to be a lie. You must admire his dignity. he’s still wearing a tie.
The patron saint of Catalunya is Sant Jordi (Saint George), the dragon-slayer. His day is celebrated throughout Catalunya every year on April 23rd in a festival of books and roses. I had a whimsy of George/ Jordi, riding home from work, tired after a hard day of jousting, or killing barbarians, or whatever, and when he gets to the village, he finds everbody’s yelling about the Princess being held captive by a dragon, and he knows his day isn’t over yet.
LEGEND
It wasn’t a good day he’d had.
In fact, he was tired and sad.
When he saw that dragon,
his spirits were flaggin’.
That reptile looked so very BAD!
But his Princess was caught in a tower
instead of their honeymoon bower.
So he hefted his lance,
and he took his best chance.
A legend was born in that hour!
Personally, I’ve always had a soft spot for the bad guy, the dragon.
Rhyme - With Good Reason
light verse and musings from the lawnchair
light verse and musings from the lawnchair
Flowers to feed the soul
light verse and musings from the lawnchair
Poolside Laureate 