Tattoos

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.

Another Tattoo

 

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.

The Business School

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.

 

 


			

Jasmine

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.

jasmine
Jasmine

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.

Compartint la vella manta

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.


			

Orchids in the Consulate

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.


			

Monetize your life

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.

 

Designer Bag

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.

 

 

Dog walks man! See it here!

In Barcelona, you see a lot of people walking dogs, and something made me take note of an interesting dog-human pair I passed yesterday. The dog was a low-slung dachshund-beagle looking thing, and the man holding the leash walked with the slow, jerky steps of someone with reconstructed hips or legs. Neither of them was in a hurry. I thought he was a pretty lucky guy.

Dog walks man!

 

The dog is out to walk the man. He needs his exercise. (The man that is, he’d never leave the sofa otherwise.)

 

They’ve known each other long and well. It used to be the man who organized the outings to the local pipi-can.

 

The dog now fetches other things than what his master throws — medications, the remote control …– It’s amazing how he knows his master’s needs, no words and no command.

 

But if you’ve ever had a dog I think you’ll understand.

 

Dedicated to 3 special dogs: Penny, Brandy, and Lady


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vocabulary: In an attempt to toilet train dog-owners, Barcelona city planners came up with the idea of establishing officially designated dog pooping areas in parks, and coined them “pipi-cans” (‘can’ = dog).

Legend

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.

Peatones al poder!

I wonder what the result would be if every pedestrian on the sidewalk wore a sign saying “this is not a bike lane.”

Caminante, no hay camino

 

The cyclist rings to warn me that he’s riding in my space. If he expects I’ll step aside, he’s about to see my face.

 

I’ll tell him loud and clearly that wheels go in the street, that sidewalks are for walkers. And I swear by my own feet, I’ve right-of-way, and he does not, although it makes him mad.

 

He’s swiftly passed, three red lights run, and surprise! There is a crash. The cyclist races off unscathed. The old lady that he bashed will take a while to walk again, but it won’t make the news. City hall thinks that bikes are cool. Pedestrians, you lose!