"catalan" poems
Dear Spanish breeze,
You rolled up my inspirational sleeves.
You gave me a glorious sight and placed me in an inventive light.
I call you a thief in the night for robbing words out of my mouth.
You guide my fingertips and the lips of my pen
by kisses of daydreams and endless ideas.
I am a home where the sweetest poems abide in.
Ready to come out and imprint a thousand pages.
What a delight to travel through poetic time of this artistic city.
Dear Spanish sun,
You burned my lack of poetic desire.
You colored my inventiveness like you darkened my skin.
I admire the way you have inspired me to become the poetess i aspire to be.
Your ravishing art undressed the indecisive poetess in me.
So here I stand emotionally naked in front of written truth
ready to loose myself in your Catalan atmosphere.
"Rest your ears darling and let your eyes whisper poetic visuals," you say.
And i close my eyes. I travel through this dream till forever ends.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
You smell like rain
kissing dry earth. Your
magnificent torso rises
over buttocks I want
to sculpt. Your skin is softer
than cocoa butter and I am
lost. In your eyes, I see
stories. In your taste, I forget.
The rhythm of your heartbeat
lulls me to safety. But
will you stay to steep
the tea? Or halve my pills?
Everywhere is mulch and moss.
And fog and despair. But I come
back to the smell of rain.
And wait
for the sun to shine.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
II.
Oh ! vers ces vétérans quand notre esprit s'élève,
Nous voyons leur front luire et resplendir leur glaive,
Fertile en grands travaux.
C'étaient là les anciens. Mais ce temps les efface !
France, dans ton histoire ils tiennent trop de place.
France, gloire aux nouveaux !
Oui, gloire à ceux d'hier ! ils se mettent cent mille,
Sabres nus, vingt contre un, sans crainte, et par la ville
S'en vont, tambours battants.
À mitraille ! leur feu brille, l'obusier tonne,
Victoire ! ils ont tué, carrefour Tiquetonne,
Un enfant de sept ans !
Ceux-ci sont des héros qui n'ont pas peur des femmes
Ils tirent sans pâlir, gloire à ces grandes âmes !
Sur les passants tremblants.
On voit, quand dans Paris leur troupe se promène,
Aux fers de leurs chevaux de la cervelle humaine
Avec des cheveux blancs !
Ils montent à l'assaut des lois ; sur la patrie
Ils s'élancent ; chevaux, fantassins, batterie,
Bataillon, escadron,
Gorgés, payés, repus, joyeux, fous de colère,
Sonnant la charge, avec Maupas pour vexillaire
Et Veuillot pour clairon.
Tout, le fer et le plomb, manque à nos bras farouches,
Le peuple est sans fusils, le peuple est sans cartouches,
Braves ! c'est le moment !
Avec quelques tribuns la loi demeure seule.
Derrière vos canons chargés jusqu'à la gueule
Risquez-vous hardiment !
Ô soldats de décembre ! ô soldats d'embuscades
Contre votre pays ! honte à vos cavalcades
Dans Paris consterné !
Vos pères, je l'ai dit, brillaient comme le phare ;
Ils bravaient, en chantant une haute fanfare,
La mort, spectre étonné ;
Vos pères combattaient les plus fières armées,
Le prussien blond, le russe aux foudres enflammées,
Le catalan bruni,
Vous, vous tuez des gens de bourse et de négoce.
Vos pères, ces géants, avaient pris Saragosse,
Vous prenez Tortoni !
Histoire, qu'en dis-tu ? les vieux dans les batailles
Couraient sur les canons vomissant les mitrailles ;
Ceux-ci vont, sans trembler,
Foulant aux pieds vieillards sanglants, femmes mourantes
Droit au crime. Ce sont deux façons différentes
De ne pas reculer.
Jersey, du 7 au 13 janvier 1853.
2.2k
I won't write a letter to some president
Whoever they may be
Because if they ever truly wanted freedom
They would tear down the fences
And make the White House a shelter for the homeless
Or they would fill all the empty houses on my street
And every other empty house on every other street with empty houses
If there is something I've learned from 21 years
Is that its the common people who make the real change in this world
It's the common people who build the world for all to life in
For me this started at Peekskill
When 20 thousand men and women
formed a wall so Paul Robeson could sing safe from harm
Then I learned of Spain in the 30s
From the Asturian miners to the Catalan anarchists
The guns that protected Madrid and thousands of voices singing A Las Barricadas and No Pasarán
And some nights I whisper a curse for every bomb that struck Guernica
Meanwhile in West Virginia common people fought for equality at Harper's Ferry and for the rights of the workers at Blair Mountain
And even today in southern Mexico, it's the common people who are creating Zapata's great dream of a world where land belongs to those who work it
The people of this world are capable of such beautiful things
All the dollars in all the banks can't buy out the human spirit
And all the bullets in all the guns can't lessen the strength of us all standing together
And just as a wise man once said:
"We carry a new world here, in our hearts. That world is growing in this minute."
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
You could have been my Catalan queen.
Such a pocket-sized delight,
Like the one sung by Jack White,
But more of a fun and friendly scene.
You studied graphic design,
And looked after my Spanish group,
And made me want to always stoop
To embrace you for all time.
I'd have given the world to see that smile,
See your beauty one more time,
Sit down with a glass of wine,
Or beer, sangria for a little while.
The offer was open, disguised by others,
And I strongly felt that you were keen,
But, alas, the student's disco scene
Would prevent us from being lovers.
And so I sit, alone with pen,
And mourn what was never meant to be -
It breaks my heart that it is likely
That we will never meet again.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
It’s early,
shutters yawn open
drawing in an already spirited sun.
I reluctantly roam
an unchartered narrow maze
of whitewashed walls.
Fingers squeeze
a mint mil Pesetas banknote
and list, written in my mother’s
stern and starchy hand.
I am the outsider,
inside and out.
I inhale
pine dust, bins and septic tanks,
I exhale
a huff of childhood hopelessness.
Shadows startle me
with machine gun Catalan.
I didn’t hear the rumble of the water truck.
Didn’t look right when I crossed the road.
Didn’t thank the stranger who saved me,
until now.
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC
In the salted corner of the square,
A small glass door opened to watery air;
I glanced down there throughout siesta,
Anxious at the root of a dry tongue
For wine squeezed from the ochre hills
Behind Cambrils, she sold in empty
Water bottles, a Euro for a litre.
I hurried down through the Casa Gallau,
Quickly as my sunburn would allow;
Dove into light as though onto hot sand,
Around cars that sounded like fire fights,
Squinting in the peppered, robust sun
And in - the old woman waiting, “Adeu!”
Then back upstairs, but slower now:
To watch TV in Catalan; to face
A frying pan balcony;
to get drunk and think of rain.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
We took the weight off below the pine
On the cool wood of a bench curled
around its rough trunk.
Red dust drifted from the road in clouds,
Like spectres from a battlefield,
And the air above had blanched
In a shrill high noon intensity.
Sweat escaped my face
Like weeping-
The rules of the race had changed
And we two could run no more.
All around was the sound of a child
Crying and calling in Catalan
To its copper-eyed mother
as she smoked a cigarette.
We did not speak.
Between a creak in the branches
And the aromas of flowers and feet;
we had nothing left,
Not even the sunlight.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
Green and red a coloured dichotomy
Bonds of flowering fibrils
Indigenous, invited and online
Stranded in a sea of political division
Caressed by rivers of power
Anchored by community ageless spirits
Murals born and adorn
walled souls cracked, repaired or in despair
Painted Words, empirical symbols and smashed pottery
Cooling nuclear cores
Superfish, super-algae, superheads
Figots bridge the widening chasm
A crystal star lights the way to the other side
Eyed windmills defend the borders
Catalan tree of life in a chequered country
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 6:10 PM UTC
Yes, sort of like plaster
of Paris, but it's nailed
to the stud as were the
Catalan Separatists.
Plâtre de Paris est pour
réparation des os cassès
après des gendarmes ont
frappè des Gilets Jaunes.
Americans use a water
board for extracting lies
from detainees at their
base in Guantanamo.
The International Court
Of Justice has a board of
directors, unfortunately
managed by The Vague.
Baby On Board brings a
smile to my face, because
it does appear as if the world
is being controlled by infants.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 8:46 AM UTC
A Catalan
liaison where
with his
jazz guitar
as Gioconda
in Hoboken
really left
for Athens
and green
pasture of
Ulster that
pokes a
fable with
lure of
capes in
New York
and Saint-Tropez
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 8:51 AM UTC
The final surge of innocence floods
A Catalan January night.
Candy is caught in prams and hoods
Sticky soles kick and fight.
The town walks home, on cloud nine
With dreams of gifts and fads;
My daughter’s hand slips from mine
- her friends are not with dads.
She'll pour a Scotch and cut some cake
To keep the camels warm,
As every year the routine rolls,
Except the smile that says she knows
The last Magi forsook his star.
Adéu, forever, to Balthazar.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 6:38 AM UTC
The result is today. Today, today's memories.
500 people on earth. Then the standard of
service is Dulko mākou'elua 500. Why?
"Red Red Amino Acid, Who will play the
game? I will start later, afraid of death, you
and music, and any of the Olympic winners
in New York three days after me: The Armenian
Embassy in Greece and Catalan, also the
owner of the fish Diana, New York, New
York with me, Cover Haku'omany? 1C 100:
What's this? - Serving Russia. Then, do not |
make the computer a good hele'oe. "||||
"Eleeleululaulula and waiululaula"
Knowledge of the coast is easy. On the other
hand, the time of the wall is controlled And
in Germany. Niu-York, New York. Their
books sell this product; I am the creator.
In Romania § 1. D100 nationality. Get the
logo of the Federation and the sea.
I E'odelo kēia'atikala Think about it. Next |
|hua'ē super car and teacher Lampert. | |
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
all is vanity and the mirror seldom lies
where do we leave us lily smiles
truth and our honesty cries
somehow is away just a while
might as well..
where has the passion
gone..
that kept me top of the
chess ladder 11 conseutive
months..
the salt and vinegar of jennifers mouth
how did more become so less
well that´ s life son
dreams gone south..
ii
back from work
she has performed
her summer time special
bringing home a sick and
poorly animal..
it has only a single eye
and a ****** hole
a cat..
difficult to tell
is it petty to
mention the smell..
it has an infection..
but she put it under
the tap..
i know the routine
by now..
the vet yesterday
the vet next week
day 2
it follows her like
a puppy..
this is what she did
with me
lol..
soon it will be happy..
iii
she calls it stinkey
is that a word even
now we are locked in
so she can get away..
we have had nearly thirty
surprised the landlord..too..
i don´t even take drugs or drink
how durable the human..
but not as strong as this little one
wants to come in..it has food
water but it really wants my room
its lost orb purpling..
now there is ***** spots
but it will come on
only a little cat but
a small victory for love..
now it is crying
its fur is wet and matted
but out of that one eye
so much..
iv
it is siesta and i feel guilty
but football call
of the wild..
i will say on stinky..!
v
oh,the hand of catalan!
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 9:39 AM UTC
Barcelona pays lip service to Spain,
Which tries to claim the city’s favorite son:
Gaudi, architect of modernista fame,
Whose wavy designs of nature, faith are one
Thing that will never turn this Ciutat tame.
His mystic genius saw geometry’s sun,
Which shines through all his creations the same,
Whether secular or sacred. He’s won
The heart of Catalunya, his primal aim.
Yes, Catalan: Forever will he be one.
When the old folks dance the Sardanes plain.
They raise hands so independence will become
The new reality for them, not Spain.
The fight for Catalan prowess is never done.
The people yearn to stand free of Spain's chains.
Gaudi inspires their struggles to be won.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC