Arriba azul, verde abajo,
Pleno abril, sol esplendente,
Y yo sentado en un puente
Que cabalga sobre el Tajo.
Ara el buey con gran trabajo
La lejana sementera;
Zumba la abeja doquiera;
Cada planta tiene flor;
Los cielos dicen: ¡amor!
Y los campos: ¡primavera!

Vibra en la extensión lejana,
Que el Tajo hirviente recorre,
La voz que en gótica torre
Da a los aires la campana;
Católica y musulmana,
Infundiendo asombro y miedo.
Desde el puente mirar puedo,
Entre mil tintas bermejas,
Cúpulas, torres y rejas
De la ciudad de Toledo.

¡Cómo resaltan, bañadas
Del sol por los rayos puros,
En cornisones oscuros
Almenas desportilladas!
Sobre ramblas aplomadas
Se mira en conjunto vago
El rudo y constante estrago
De los siglos, que han escrito
Su paso sobre el granito
Con ortiga y jaramago.

¡Toledo! rico tesoro
De señoriales contiendas,
De cuentos y de leyendas
Que enaltecen al rey moro:
Te envuelve en nimbos de oro
El sol que tus campos baña,
Y tienes la pompa extraña
De una majestad caída,
Que refleja, ya vencida,
Todo el esplendor de España.

De tus grandezas testigo,
El Tajo a tu voz responde:
Sirte de plata que esconde
Misterios del rey Rodrigo.
En ti buscaron abrigo
Héroes de raras historias,
Cuyos hechos y memorias
Impiden, a extrañas gentes,
Con tus desgracias presentes
Nublar tus pasadas glorias.

Toledo, soñé en mirarte,
Y al fin feliz te contemplo,
Como silencioso templo
De la tradición y el arte.
Vengan otros a estudiarte:
Nunca atizó mi ansiedad,
Ver si pueblan tu ciudad
Almas grandes o mezquinas:
Me basta ver tus rüinas,
Me encanta tu soledad.

Ya sin puente ni rastrillo,
Destrozado el minarete;
Sin lanzas en el almete
Del paredón amarillo,
Semeja el feudal castillo
Mansión de espectros sombría,
Do nunca el rayo del día
Halla, al penetrar ligero,
Ni en la sala al caballero
Ni en las torres al vigía.

Sólo la indiscreta fama
Cuenta que en tiempo pasado
Tuvo el castillo clavado
En la puerta un oriflama;
Fue prisión de hermosa dama
Cautiva en redes de amor,
Y a tanto llegó el rigor
De su infortunada suerte,
Que, por celos, le dio muerte
Con el hacha, su señor.

En angosta saetera
Su nido cuelga el vencejo,
Y crece el duro cornejo
En la inútil halconera.
Encubre la enredadera
El desgastado blasón;
Sin lengua está el esquilón;
La poterna sin cerrojos;
Hay en el glacis abrojos,
Y ortiga en el torreón.

El sillar tosco y plomizo
Llora en el musgo su duelo;
Cruza de tarde el mochuelo
El húmedo pasadizo;
Sostiene el arco macizo
Un pesado corredor,
Que en el ángulo interior
Guarda en piedra mal tallado
Un Cristo crucificado,
Que ya no inspira fervor.

Los altos muros deslava,
Retratando las almenas,
El Tajo, cuyas arenas
Pisó tímida la Cava;
Bajo su lecho de grava
Oculta el undoso río
Todo el pasado sombrío
De historias y tradiciones;
Joyas, armas y blasones
Del gótico poderío.

Con soberbia majestad,
Por la historia consagrados,
Alza sus muros calados
Coronando la ciudad,
El Alcázar que en la edad
De heroísmo sin segundo,
Vio con asombro profundo
Salir de allí, sin mancilla,
Los leones de Castilla
Para dominar el mundo.

Allí el rencor acibara
Bajo sus cotas de acero
A don Pedro el Justiciero
Y a Enrique de Trastamara.
Si cada piedra guardara,
Por mano de Dios escrito,
De la virtud y el delito
Las luchas que ha contemplado,
Lanzara el mundo espantado
Frente a cada piedra un grito.

Mas tan sólo de grandeza
Y ostentación son destello:
Siempre lo grande y lo bello
Vive en la naturaleza.
Hasta en su muda tristeza
Tienen pompa las rüinas;
Defienden secas espinas
Las tumbas de ilustres muertos,
Y en los salones desiertos
Son reinas las golondrinas.

¡Soledad! ¡silencio! ¡estrago!
El tiempo con mano ruda,
Siembra en el alma la duda,
Y en el muro el jaramago.
En vano el mentido halago
De una brillante memoria
Alza recuerdos de gloria
De polvo glacial y leve,
Que sólo levanta y mueve
El huracán de la historia.

Sigue el hombre por la tierra,
Como ayer, triste camino,
Incansable peregrino
Siempre con el mal en guerra.
¿Quién vacila? ¿quién se aterra
Ante tan rudo trabajo?
Arriba azul, verde abajo,
Pleno abril, sol esplendente,
Y al mar empujando hirviente
Sus claras ondas el Tajo.

Baby, as ancient as you are
your naivety worries me,
or is it my own? Thinking I
could ever have you again.
Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees
again to set eyes upon glory
of man named Antonio Guadi,
his Sagrada De Familia.
Is he finished with you yet?
Will he ever be? Would I want it so?
Artisans carving sanctity to sky,
what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done?
Do, continue on forever, give me
chance to return.

Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian,
with pollished rellics of former
architecture found in his beaten grains.
I long to melt there once more, in awe of
noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes
taking witness to painted Catalonian
women, *******, with holy devotion
dipping faithful fingers into your
waters, and signing the cross before
dipping into blueness. Good Catholic
girls they are. And handsome Gods about,
oiling each other and bearing wittness
as well. The ice cream boy, is he
grown now? Does he walk by open
mouthed still, where we left such
imprint in the sand for all to see?

When? If, I arrive again, will we walk
Las Ramblas, stare at human
statues, dance with gypsies, drink
Absinthe and be taken by spell of
Green Fairy? Will we then not care
that pretty pick-pockets rob us
blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory
love of it all! Hold me in your fortress
walls forever, should I ever, return.

My Barcelona Baby, take me back.

PJ Poesy

p.s. I never left you.

I once gave you a sock
to cover your can of beer
one hot summer day
on a public field.

I sometimes wonder
where it’s been
since that Tuesday.

Perhaps it went on an early morning jog,
and saw all your neighborhood
looking up from gravel streets.

Maybe it sat at the bottom
of your bag of ***** clothes
when you went to the Laundromat
and offered a spare dryer sheet
to a lady who smelled like
red delicious apples and cheddar cheese,

or maybe it found its way
to the top of Mt. Washington
in the corner of your trunk
behind a bag of turkey sandwiches.

There’s a chance it could have been found
by your daughter’s friend
at her eighth birthday party
and become a thwarted puppet-foe
to her warrior princess doll,

or found by your Labrador
and buried in his favorite spot
under that crooked tree in the yard,
only to be picked up by a hawk
and placed in the bed of her nest.

It’s possible you could have
packed it in your suitcase
on your first trip to Spain,
and walked with it on Las Ramblas
when you bought pitaya at the market.

Perhaps it never left
the bottom of your gym bag
and remained folded
inside your right cleat,

but I like to think
it accidentally fell
on the edge of the Grand Canyon
during your spring break trip
to be captured in a family photo
later printed and framed
in someone’s house in some exotic place
where it could be, in memory, forever.

some places get under your skin
like the ink of a tattoo;
they force their ink into you,
so beautifully-- you think only of
how lovely it will be

to be here, love
to be lovely here
the taste of the sky, the length of the cathedral shadows
the cigarettes we smoked around the fountain
the plaças that we ruled with our infinite youth--
all this
i am leaving.
my own skin, i am leaving it here
to soak in the sunsets on the beach, to wander the tall stone alleys
to drink coffee on the ramblas
to dance drunk in steamy crowded rooms

barcelona,
i leave to you my heart.

Silence wanders here
Sobbing eyes in Las Ramblas
Flowers on blood drops

Its just me and you and everything in front of us, or behind
     especially if gravity operates like chemicals.
Let's go exploring, if you'd like,
     or sit like lumps and metastasize on chocolates.
The stage, the fame, the beer, the strife,
All the things we wanted don't matter in that
     wonderful white space ahead. This hill can trail
     off to the worlds we'll create, so utterly shapeless
     – impossibly white –
     yet filled with color and sound and romp.

The airplane we rode, just the first or last few frames of the film
     (you should start wherever you want)
     it had the new world in its sights to open up the stodgy filth
     and land us tumbling into the great unknown.
We walk ill-prepared, like our fathers,
only so far as what they know.
     A harsh word.

These legs will take me to Tøyengata or Nieve or Las Ramblas
and that street to the river
to the train or the bus
to a frozen tube of horrifying humanity
to land on familiar runways in New York or Albuquerque
     catch you in your mother's Civic
     and bound away.

Where we'll speak – concisely.

That's where intimacy lies: in codes and twitches,
     and very little soft sweet words;
     and, the more we love the less we say,
     'cept to remind each other we're ready to go cartograph again.
Then speak endlessly, drunk in each other's words, and move brazenly, tromp the neigh-sayers and know-it-alls,
stumble our way across frail little ropes,
sprint through orchards to catch smoke.
     Through the door, into bed.
     past the last frame.
     past that sweet little line –
     to let this placid chaos slide down the hill
     and trail off
          into madness.

I'll be waiting by the sleds.
You know what to do.

Who knows  tomorrow
The window will be there
To see such expanse of sky
In your greyish eyes
Blue shadows of invitation
For a nest of peace
In the window blinds
And behind
A crimson indulgence
In raising ripples
People are born
To live for
And adore
Such windows
Of beauty and joy
The only support
Amidst the convoy
Of blood  and sweat
Of terror and threat
On green grass
In Las Ramblas

Who knows
Another yellow rose grows
Tomorrow too
Let's celebrate therefore
At the window door
Some life in exuberance
Some moments of fragrance
And then silently lie
Under the now violet expanse
Of the abundant sky
The wind blows cool and slow
Oranges in the window

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.