ON THE WATERFRONT OF THE MEDITERRANEAN
even in October
sun blazes, if only
it could burn the
dark mist from me.
Buildings the color
of light, La Rambla
de Mar. Pale sales,
cotton candy. I
wish I was who I
was, longing for
eyes dark as
Lorca’s
LA RAMBA DE MAR
as if sun could burn
the blues out of
me. It scorches
the black I’m
wrapped in.
Darkness in me
trapped as the
Santa Eulalia’s
historic schooner
permanently
moved near the
Columbus monument
tho on Saturday
mornings the schooner
sets sail around the
harbor for 3 hours
BARCELONETA
once custom built
to house fishermen
who this lived on
this triangular
spit of land
juts out into
the water
gritty, charming
broad sandy beaches
Someday I will wonder
how I could have
wanted more
AGRADA FAMILIA
like a cake in the rain,
an unfinished dripping cake.
For over 130 years
Barcelona has worked
to bring Antoni Gaudi’s
vision to reality.
Warm October wind,
poppies in the garden.
For a moment I don’t
think about what’s
coming, hypnotized by
these towers and
spires dedicated to Mary,
topped with a cross
that will shine like a
light house, visible
from far out at sea
SAGRADA FAMILIA
“nothing is invented—Gaudi believed,
“it’s written in nature,”
like the trunks of trees, columns
blossom with life—brown clay,
gray granite, gray basalt.
For a moment, I could be in
a rain forest as far from what haunts
as a dream can pull me. Four
red porphyry columns,
doves, turtles, pelicans, chameleons.
In stained glass light, somehow
I think of Coleridge calling love “a
local anguish”
4 GATS COFFEE HOUSE
down a coble
stone side street.
Suddenly in the
warmth, a giant bug
on the wall, sketches
and paintings by
Picasso, Santiago
Rusinal and Ramon
Cases. I can imagine
coiled into Picasso’s
arm. I would be
like Dora—everyone
says I look like her–
sipping absinthe,
a decoration but
taking the gossip in
RAMBLAS, A SLIVER OF BARCELONA LIFE
cafes, flower stands,
dancers, prostitutes.
I should have come
to Barcelona years
before the blues
dogged me. Even
in the sun, even
with petals in more
colors than I know
names for. The sun
feels black. Even
artists and wild
street mimes,
fountains, statues,
pigeons can’t pull
me from this mood
tho a man with a
shower wants to wash
everything bad from
your brain makes
me smile
RAMBLAS
drink from the
fountain and you’ll
come back to
Barcelona. Once
a stream flowed
under these wavy
tiles. Rambling
means stream in
Arabic and I am
doing just that in
awe of those Plane
trees with their
peeling bark. And
then the Ramblas
of flowers, seeds
for radishes, greens.
peppers and beans
never seen in
the U.S.
LA BOGUERIA MARKET
an explosion of
chicken legs, bags of
live snails, stiff fish,
delicious oranges.
Odd odors, sleeping
dogs. As far back as
1200, Barcelonians
have brought animal
parts here. Tourists
are drawn like moths
to flame to the area
below the stained
glass sign. Locals
know the stalls up
front pay the highest
rent so they inflate
their prices but if you
go to the right of
the aisles, the clientele
gets more local
and prices drop
dramatically
COLUMBUS MONUMENT
somehow, facing
away from the Atlantic
Ironic that Barcelona
celebrates the
explorer. The
discoveries of this
man started
300 years of decline
for the city as Europe
began to face west,
the Atlantic, the
New World
rather than the
Mediterranean and
the Orient
CATALAN
here the trees grow
boughs like a
woman’s hair
running, the winds
so strong the
trees grow sideways
ON THE WAY TO THE HOTEL
no bull fights,
we pass forbidden
arenas style, Moorish
style, minarets. Palm
trees, flags and
more flags. Let
Catalan Separate.
Upper floors for the
rich to parade from.
When the arenas
dry out people
dress in their best
clothes to see
and be seen
ON THE WAY TO THE MEDITERRANEAN
8 am light on
castles like buildings.
Drizzle, palm
trees. We pass
forests, white flowers,
white geese and
nearly miss
the moon still
hanging in
the cloudless sky
COAST OF MEDITERRANEAN
medieval castles,
four cats in a bicycle basket
black bikinis on the
beach. If only I had just
come here when I was
who I was
THE SADNESS OF ONLY ONE NIGHT MORE
salt wind blurs
Placa de la Cala
Villa and Sant Bartemeu
Santa Tecla’s Church
will fade like dreams
along with those
tanned biceps
and stories. Some
how in a photograph
with him I look
pale, somehow scared,
too timid to
remember what I did
HE’S QUITE A FLIRT
the man across from
me at dinner says,
“but he has stories!
I had a drink with him
the other night. If he
writes a book about
his life, I’ll be sure
to read it.” I think how
he told me people
are tense in Paris,
Paris is losing what
it was but in Barcelona,
it’s like the colors,
free and fiery
All poems in this series published online in odyssey.pm
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