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.
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.
A story lies behind this door.
Perhaps one yet to write.
Whatever happens in that tale,
I’m sure takes place at night.
Absinthe must be the drink of choice,
and no doubt candlelight
plays on masks and fancy dress
in that party, out of sight.
Walls may not talk, but doors sure do,
and this one has no shame,
suggesting pleasure with the curves
of its twisted, silver frame.
Another poem that started with the glimpse of a leg of a person standing next to me at a stop light. Nothing special, just a tattoo. And that made me think, how sad! Why isn’t a tattoo special? It’s because of the overkill!
If you walk around Barcelona, you will see lots of people with tattoos. Young/ old/ fat/ thin/ male/ female. At the beaches on the Costa Brava, you can probably see more ink on skin than bathing suits! A trip to the Balearic islands isn’t complete unless you come back with a tattoo! For me, the atavistic charm of bodyart disappeared when it became just another form of merchandise, part of the decor of summer beer commercials on TV.
The dragon wraps around her leg like Druid art of old. A decision on an island made when she was young and bold.
“Let’s be different!” they all said; so each one did the same. Now time has turned youth’s outré badge to a sagging faded stain.
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.
This poem, like others, was inspired by Barcelona’s lovely vegetation. I was walking home from work at about 8 p.m. and found myself enveloped in a heady fragrance that reminded me of my grandmother.
I walk through curtains of jasmine.
It smells like movie stars...
the ones who wore those négligées,
and winked at men in bars.
A fragrance out of fashion,
in close quarters, it's too sweet.
But in a city on an evening
in the summer, it's a treat.
First post in Catalan! This one goes out to those who too often remain nameless. Any native Catalan speaker is more than welcome to correct errors!
Compartint la vella manta
Compartint la vella manta és amor, al meu parer. Encara que siguin pobres i visquin al carrer.
La mare els coneixia, “Són bona gent amb mala sort.” Sovint és el que passa amb la gent que ve de l’hort.
La ciutat els menja l’esperit i els calés. No em preguntis pels cognoms. Són en Joan i na Roser.
In Barcelona, at any moment, in any neighborhood, you can be surprised by a gem of modernist architecture. The Casa Muleyafid, designed by Josep Puig i Cadafalch in 1914, is one I pass every morning. The Consulate of Mexico is currently the lucky tenant of this whimsical structure. Not only do they have a great building, they have somebody who likes flowers. I know, because you can see a pot of tall, gracious orchids through one of windows.
Orchids in the Consulate
The orchids in the Consulate have grown on foreign soil. Carefree, you’ll never see them spin, and neither do they toil.
I wonder if a diplomat from some greener distant place was homesick when she planted them? Or perhaps it was a case of protocol, as flowers are known to make amends in conflicts small and great.
Flowers would be my policy if I were head of state.
They walk towards you blindly, often stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, completely oblivious to the other pedestrians. Ear plugs in, they see only a tiny device they hold in their hands, tapping it hesitantly or in rapid sequence. Addicted to a parallel universe, deaf to traffic and bird calls, blind to sunshine and landscape, dumping personal information into the grand database.
I’ll be generous; I’ll suggest a business model.
Monetize your life
Monetize your life! Put advertisements on your face! Crowdsource pursuit of pleasure, join the social media race.
Be the first entrepreneur whose business is yourself! Get some money for your data, you’ll be on the path to wealth.
Remember this my Facebook friend, what you give away for free is a product bought and sold by some other company.
So beat the others to it! Don’t be shy, (too late for that). Just turn the tables, join the game it’s only tit for tat.
It’s the fishnet stockings. I always try to figure out if there’s some message that they’re intended to convey. This morning, it was someone waiting for the bus. Black fishnets, not particularly sexy old black shoes. A non-descript dark knee length skirt. Holding a Louis Vuitton logo tote bag. And then she turned around. A unhappy wrinkled face, a cheap cotton foulard, and OMG, faint pink streaks in her partially fading blonde over grey dye job. This was in a higher income neighborhood, she was obviously not a homeless person. Just someone who seemed to have given up. And the first line came to me:
The remains of a well-kept wife walked by me yesterday. Her dye job has been slipping, since her husband ran away. Her bag is still designer brand. Authentic (I can tell). Too bad the plastic surgery Did not hold up as well.