The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her

head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she    

sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
    
‘you’re just jealous cos the
             voices only talk to me.’

And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she

sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.

Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.

I say, "when you left, half my body went with you";
I can't walk with one leg, cant breathe with one lung
So, how do you expect me to survive a minimal of 2 months

Now there's just a print where your body once laid
My sheets can't cover the canyon it displays
A hole where my heart is, a hole in my home
You once kissed my chest below my collarbones

Now the demons from within come crawling out
The firmly grab onto my skin and screech with the mouths
They howled your name but I did the same
I simply just wanted you back again

Now since their settled I sympathize their pain;
The warmth of your heart, your hand and your sweater
Seemed to be the only thing that'd make them sane
You babysitted their hearts as well as mine
Knowing that after much time they'd have to combine
Without hesitation in your exquisite mind,
You felt you'd chisel the marble of this dismantled body
And somehow turn it into the works of Antonio Gaudi

L’être Méditerranéen et la mer

« Écrit à partir d’un extrait d’une lettre à un ami prenant le bateau à Barcelone pour se rendre à Tanger »

Ce soir ou demain, vous serez sur notre chère «Mare nostrum» dont seuls les Romains arrivèrent à tisser, certes par la violence, l'unité provisoire.
Vous vous promènerez sur le pont en humant l'air marin, mêlé aux senteurs d’embruns salés, de peinture et de goudron et vous vous sentirez «en partance »; délicieuse sensation si rare de l'être libre enfin « désamarré » des vêtures de plomb de ses habitudes et contraintes, l’amoindrissent et le ligotent. Vous êtes enfin partis et pas si pressés que cela d'arriver « à bon port », tant le voyage, lui-même, est attrayant, enchanteur et bariolé de curiosités enfin assouvies. Vous serez alors en mer entre le goût de la méditation à laquelle nous incitent la vaste étendue marine et l'excitation bouillonnante de vos enfants ravis.
Cependant le temps ne sera ni à la nostalgie ni à la tristesse, mais a une forme de communion sans hostie, entre la terre et la mer, entre toutes ces hautes civilisations qui se sont succédées et se sont si souvent inutilement combattues sur ces flots irisés et ces rives empreintes d'une si grande beauté et d'une paix apparente, hélas, tant de fois brisée par la folie des hommes.
C'est alors, peut-être, que tous deux, ressentirez et peut-être voudrez bien transmettre à vos enfants  d'être, avant tout, des Méditerranéens.


En effet, « être méditerranéen», ce n'est pas seulement dû à un coup de dés du hasard, ni au seul hasard relevant de son lieu de naissance. Non; c'est d'abord la participation à un «art de vivre » qui mêle étroitement uni les idéaux Apollinien et Dionysien. C’est aussi une chance donnée d'atteindre ce si subtil équilibre de l'Esprit Humain qui nous a donné : Ulysse, Averroès, Le Maimonide, Cervantès, El Greco, Ibn Khaldoun, Leonardo da Vinci, Dante Alighieri, Pascal Paoli, Antoni Gaudi, Albert Camus, Yacine Kateb et Youssef Chahine.

« Etre Méditerranéen » c’est refuser le malheur des êtres, ce qui provoque et crée  ces actuels «naufragés de la honte», tous les  «attentats nihilistes et meurtriers» aux  prétextes divers qui  se déguisent sous des motifs pseudo ment religieux; ou sont le fruit d'indignes rivalités de puissances,  de la confiscation de cette ressource de l’Humanité, le pétrole. Car cette violence  risque de ruiner nos civilisations millénaires. A l’inverse;  « Etre Méditerranéen» c’est vibrer à ce vaste « chant du Monde», porté par les meilleurs poètes et philosophes, lesquels ont toujours œuvrés pour une humanité et une convivence meilleures, plus riantes, plus soucieuses des êtres et vraiment fraternelles.

Paul Arrighi (Texte écrit, cet été  sur le cargo «Le Girolata» relu et modifié à Toulouse le mardi 19 janvier  2016)

Sooo shivered from
a deluge with heed,
at the naked and as nerves
bundled half as much
as I curled in to gasping.
They reminded me to call upon
the book of a Spanish
painter of the souls
as substance course clocked,
splattered with a trail
of blinding sunset upon gold rouse,
flowed constantly like rims
of Gaudi’s great work,
placed as a silken fabric
of blue paint yet

Let’s go, you and I.
And sweat beneath the African sky
Watch the lions lazing
And the wild dogs playing.  
We can sip Amarula
And listen to the hyenas laugh and cry
As the mythical sunset
Silhouettes giraffes and Acacia trees.

Let’s go, you and I
And walk the streets of old town Barcelona.
Find old timey cafe and luxuriate
In sangria and itty bitty tapas
Stroll by Sagrada and gawp
At Gaudi’s home.
Maybe we’ll stop for some ice cream
Maybe we’ll just go back to the hotel

Let’s go, you and I
And swim the blue blue seas of the Bahamas
Nervously Play with the nurse sharks
Hoping they’re not the other sharks
Take those long walks on those beaches
That everyone likes.
We’ll sit on Jankanoo and drink sky juice
Until we can truly reach the heavens

Let’s go, you and I
And ski the Slopes of the Swiss alps
We can stop at small cabins and drink
heartwarming schnapps
Take trains that slink around mountains
And sprint through white capped forests
We can put snow down the backs
Of each others jackets and
Squeal in furious delight.

Let’s go, you and I.
And squish our way through the streets of New York
Relieved when we can pop into a shop
To escape the crowds.
Necks sore from looking up
Small town people in the Big Apple City
Central Park for pretzels and Snapple
Times Square later, neon addiction sated.
And a boat ride to see lady liberty

Let’s go, you and I
And bare our feet in Balinese temples
Speak to the monks in broken English
And then retire to our curtained gazebo
To indulge in the sins they can’t
We’ll get massages and champagne
Then ride our bikes along pothole
Ridden dirt roads.

Let’s go, you and I
And get Nuevo Chic in London’s west end
We can catch a show in tux and evening gown
Then head to the pub and catch a pint
We can walk the trail, hunt Jack the Ripper
And visit The Tower.
Cross the Thames and maybe
No definitely
Another pint in some quaint little place.

Let’s go, you and I
And lie in bed late on lazy Sunday mornings
I’ll poach the eggs and make the hollandaise
You can put some upbeat daytime jazz on
Then we can go sit in the garden
Under the oak tree and read
Each other poetry
Until it’s much much later
...

My words never come out exactly how i intend them
It's like i’m speaking simultaneously in another dimension
I can’t convey the feelings that are circulating
The sounds and images remain in constant fluctuation
I would love to recreate or make art out of vinegar and sangria
To turn these sounds into spiraling images and metaphors
More splendid than the Basílica de la Sagrada Família
But instead my words become islands of the Galapagos
With nothing tangible to bridge the empty spaces with

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.

In truth, my love for you is more like gunpowder
Than mere candle light
Thus I had to light them one by one
And so distantly

I kept them between metaphors
and more subtle words of my burning desires
So that you’d never be hurt by its fury

I held so much loss in my hands
That I could see it everywhere
That I could never be surprised
By its appearance

After every expected parting
I moved on without much of a scar
As I was callous with all of my faults
And you’d never have to mourn for a full heart
Never have to mourn for a heart that’s
Never gained, never lost

But, you softened me,
Cut me open with shards of your soul
And I fell in love with the pain
With your sorrow

Yours was the light of life I could never lose
Once held inside of me, I would never again
Bear the darkness

How I wish I could wake and walk beside you
How I wish to read to you in my voice and not my words
How I wish to be close to you not in inference from silence
But in laughter and teary smiles
To walk the streets of Toronto,
To Paris, to Florence, to Barcelona
See every Van Gogh, Rodin, Gaudi,
And even Otto Dix and Ghiberti
To hear old tales of the tenements
And relive ancient dreams through the operas in New York City
We could even go to places less worldly
To see ghost in the streets of York
And greet sir Newton’s spirit in Westminster Abbey  
And there’s a bookstore in Venice I had always wanted you to see



Yet,
I dare not even wish for a kiss
For
I did not want you to see me
In the light of real life
And extinguish the fire that kept me sane
Kept me alive

I could not bare to lose you completely
So I let my words be there for thee
But I see you have found words better
Than any born within me
And so I thought of taking my leave
For though few would love you as fiercely
All will love you better and calmly

How I wish I could love and hold you freely
Tightly and fearlessly
Yet, I know I am not ready
A child so unkempt and messy
So fueled with readily jealousy
I am trying so hard at bettering
But I could not change so timely
I had to be certain when I held your hand
I would not hold it too tight or too loosely
I could never endure darkness without thee
Yet I cannot hold your fire momently
I know that you would never in a million years
Wait for such an unlovable me
Yet, I would hold my soul for you eternally
Making it more and more cozy
So that your fire could reside within
More comfortably
Even if you’re never burning for me

1.
A seducer snails’ past
Her Calling mission has reviled
Undoubting triumph

2．
Olympic monument
Reunification spikes
spirits of justice

3.
Her calling mission
Transmit to earnestly love
Unveiled the truth

4.
Harmonize rhythmic move
with a secular ring
She performs a wild ballet 

5.
The waves of light
Transparent erase recreation.
Wind swirled her faith

6.
An entire steel
fairies bumble, tumble, fumble 
in bloom white

7
Mysterious sketch
An angle of 17 degree
legendary explore


8.
136 meter measures
holly patient in affliction
ego human mind

9.
Fantasised loop
how sad that it’s not aware
tremble gamble dreams

10.
Clouds rumbles
He moves toward the sun 
Gold torch, birds crowd

11.
Calatrava attribute to Gaudi
The earth’s great sketch trick
eyes to hip in glories.

12.
Emotions are tides
Barcelona was heir to full
gazing at distant galaxies

The company owned
the village.
Residents slaved in the textile factory,
Huddled in Communitat, a social,
industrial haven for the soul.
They shared a workplace,
Housing, amenities made
by modernista architects.
All that was missing was
A church.

Gaudi stepped in
in 1898 and conceived his
elaborate construction.
Perennially distracted,
he finished only the crypt.
A keystone project that
synthesized politics, nature
and faith.
Abandoned, in flagrante, in 1914.

The portico forms a forest of
leaning columns.
Convex vaults shoot from
polygonal arches.
Symbols, monograms,
mosaic iconography
adorn the rugged façade.

The Trinity dwells within
the treasures of the crypt.
A dove perches without.
Alpha and Omega,
beginning and end of
a grand, operatic idea.

Workers bowed in
worship, thanked God
for their jobs,
Gaudi for his art.
No one sits there now.
An empty sprawl of the spirit.
Only ghosts settle in
organic-shaped pews.

Gaudi hedges his bets
Against the future.
More than one hundred thirty-five years
Of building the infinite
La Sagrada Familia.
A stone mason’s nightmare.
An architect’s dream,
Painted by de Chirico.
Faith and nature intertwine.
Brown earth smears the facades.
Nativity and passion morph
Into angular designs.
A lizard, a leaf, a cross, a dove.
Bejeweled pillars bend and rise.
Crowned towers reach and climb
Spiral staircases to the heavens.
Chapels pray for silence.
Tourists pray for photo-ops.
All views turn inward.
There is much work to be done.

I take my paradise
Where I can find it.
Sacred or secular,
Stationary or ecstatic.
Penitent pilgrims pack
The width of Las Ramblas,
Marching headlong toward
The burgeoning square
Of Cataluyna, scurrying
Forward for fountains and buses
To whisk them away
From themselves.
The burden of identity weighs
Heavily in each backpack and bag.
The sun brilliantly burnishes
The crowd, beaming with
A child’s hunger for toys.
Nothing changes
Except the country beneath
Your feet.
Tourism is purgatory
To the undirected.
No map, no plan, no
Rescue from impulse.
All roads lead home
Whence you came.
Before the closed
Doors of the cathedral,
Catalans circle, lift arms,
Hop, twirl and dance.
Raised hands
Signal liberation, unbrokenness.
Separation sends an inferno
Spiraling downward, singeing factions
Of language and race.
Yet a divided Spain paints
Its face as united,
Coyly cooing behind
A splayed, perfumed fan.
The perfect picture
For the uninitiated cruise
Ship crowds.
We cool our heels at the
Statue of Columbus,
Still ready to sail
Under mistaken,
Prevailing winds.
O America!
How far you drift
From these tapas bars
And tainted streets.
How far from the graffiti-
Filled neighborhoods.
No space uncovered.
The gritty lust for color, figure
And form.
Self-expression turned
Self-indulgence.
Tourists queue to grab
Their fair share.
All is exotic in Mediterranean
Barcelona.
Gaudi erects his towers
In wavering waves of
Nature and faith.
Inside Basilica La Sagrada Familia,
Construction workers
Slowly hammer his corner
Of paradise into place.
Christ hangs naked
On the cross.
A sacred blue light soothes
Our burning feet.

I take my paradise
where I can find it.
Sacred or secular,
stationary or ecstatic.

Penitent pilgrims pack
the width of Las Ramblas,
marching headlong
down the pedestrian boulevard
toward the burgeoning square
of Cataluyna, scurrying
to find fountains and buses
to whisk them away
from themselves.
The burden of identity weighs
heavily in each backpack and bag.
I share their plight:
the onus of being.

2.

The sun brilliantly burnishes
the crowd, beaming with
its childlike hunger for toys.
Nothing changes
except the country
beneath their feet.
Tourism is purgatory
to the undirected.
No map, no plan, no
rescue from impulse.
Lacking travel's baptism
of fire and freedom,
they learn that
all roads lead home
whence they came.

3.

Before the closed
doors of the cavernous cathedral,
Catalans circle, lift arms,
hop, twirl and dance.
Raised hands
signal liberation, unbrokenness.

Separation plays a different melody,
sends an inferno of deconstruction
spiraling downward, singeing factions
of language and race.
Yet a divided Spain paints
its face as united,
coyly cooing behind
a splayed, perfumed fan.
The perfect picture
for the uninitiated cruise
ship crowds: No trouble
in paradise.

4.

I cool my heels at
the statue of Columbus,
anchored harbor-side;
the navigator
still ready to sail
under mistaken,
prevailing winds.
The crew
still ready to plant Spain's
contagion-carrying flag
in the shallows of faux India's
purifying pool.

O America!
How far you have drifted
from these tapas bars
and tainted streets.
How far from the graffiti-
filled neighborhoods.
No space uncovered:
The gritty lust for color, figure
and form conquers all.
Tourists queue to grab
their fair share.
Paradise need not please,
they discover.
Kick your bucket list to the sea.

5.

All is exotic in
Mediterranean Barcelona:
the languid light,
the briny breeze, the sun
radiating like a silver
grapefruit in the azure sky,
the orange shards of tile
piecing together the face
of heaven.

Gaudi still erects his towers
in wavering waves of
nature and faith.
Inside Basilica La Sagrada Familia,
construction workers
hammer his corner
of paradise slowly into place.
Christ hangs naked
on the cross.
A blue light filters
through modernista stained glass,
falls on the floor,
bathes my feet.