"seville" poems
I launched her with my small remaining band
and, putting out to sea, we set the main
on that lone ship and said farewell to land.
Far to starboard rose the coast of Spain,
astern was Sardi, Islas at our bow,
and soon we saw Morocco port abeam.
Though I and comrades now were old and slow,
we hauled till nightfall for the narrow sound
where Hercules had shown what not to do,
by setting marks for men to stay behind.
At dawn the starboard lookout made Seville,
and at the straits stood Ceuta t'other hand.
'Brothers,' I shouted, 'who have had the will
to come through danger, and have reached the west!
our time awake is brief from now until
the senses die, and so I say we test
the sun's own motion and do not forego
the worlds beyond, unknown and peopleless.
Think of the roots from which you sprang, and show
that you are human: not unconscious brutes
but made to follow virtue and to know.'
3.6k
[Las Meninas, Oil on Canvas, 1656, Prado, Madrid]
I am the first proud pronoun I
against the fear of my invisibility
each morning rising from
minor nobility like my parents
(no son of a converso – lies –)
into the light of mastery;
now as a Knight of Santiago
- the king himself painted the cross
you see in Las Meninas -
nobilitas is in the faces
royal with ancient lines
(you understand I did not
trade
am Moorish of Seville
and Portugal).
Not from the mind but back
into its expectation.
I see the work reflected
into the lens of sense
to supplement the work into the real
express itself by what
a slavish love of detail cannot supply
it was the power
to give them what they did not see
the scorn in lips
from ****** generations
bought by my brush
among them into monarchic trade
and what they thought as glory,
dwarves and all larger than life.
that painted me so high
those royal portraits by the score
keyed to the colour of fame
silvered and golden
mine.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 7:11 AM UTC
Poem
I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?
Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.
Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like
a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels
and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall. I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars
My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards
I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.
If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me
and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature
though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.
The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.
I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
Poem
I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?
Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.
Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like
a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels
and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall. I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars
My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards
I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.
If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me
and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature
though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.
The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.
I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
i walk up
cigarettes in hand
you already have a conversation going
and i'm out of the loop
something about john's motorcycle
i don't know anything about motorcycles
i can't chime in on this one
i stand and take a long drag
i feel the haze fill up my lungs
let it out slow
watch it swirl and tumble away
i'm nervous
so anxious
i've been off my meds for days
the cigarettes are keeping me calm
-ish
you look at me
eye's bright with intelligence
piercing and i feel like you see through me
but, i know you don't
"right, seville?"
you are being sarcastic
you are always sarcastic
sarcastic and a bit woeful and i like it
"oh, yeah totally." i offer up
matching your mockingly inquisitive tone
i'm in on it now
you invited me in
the same way you always do
the conversation rambles on
i throw in a comment
take some drags
and then another one
we're on car engins now
that's some thing i know
all the while i couldn't care less
because i'm watching your eyes flash while you form thoughts
your lips contort while you make words
your hands fly while you explain
i finish my cigarette
i walk away
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
Overkill, that's what this is, a battle uphill
Who cares? We're just in it for the thrill
Excuse me, miss, can I have the bill?
Pay it off with a twenty-dollar bill
Gotta get to the bullfighting in Seville
This is what I do, you could say I'm mentally ill.
Better get a check-up with Dr. Phil.
I'll just tell him rhymes are what I instill, its a unique skill
Keep doing this even when the world is spinning like a windmill
Like the Storming of the Bastille, there is no escape, take a sleeping pill
Deep water runs still, I'll toss you on a George Foreman grill
Make your Last Will and Testament, because this is overkill.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Dilly dally ****
Ranieri has now gone.
Sacked by the Leicester board:
Watch them wield that deadly sword.
He won the league last year,
Then made Leicester disappear.
Should have been given a chance
To win the Relegation Dance.
Vardy grabs an away goal at Seville
Then next news the manager is nil.
It was a very nasty shock,
So early in the turning of the clock.
Ungrateful and disloyal too,
Those owners haven’t got a clue.
Hard-nosed business it may be,
Whatever happened to that word “We”?
They should have built a statue in Claudio’s name:
He’ll still be blessed with endless fame.
I’ll leave you with this sorry thought:
Football’s no longer a proper sport.
Paul Butters
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 4:06 AM UTC
In Seville
My lock is like a wheel
that treasures the land
with strands of sand now an inroad to soul
in times of grain this platitude of health ahead of tides
the salt on shore implores unfinished deeds
as art deplores any nurturing of needs
with stars out this race beyond the chariot again
and proves that this orient has rightly won a gathering if seed roaring in a stream of catchment nigh
where these overtones are songs
and round about the fields along the Guadalquivir.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
A friendly Story
He the modest farmer was cutting green juicy spring grass
those that had spring flowers entwined it was for his donkey
that had been in the stable in the winter
He put the fodder in a jute sack and when it was full carried
it home to the donkey now in the yard
The animal ate and ate alas there can be too much of a good thing
its stomach full of gas it took flight over the mountain to Spain
where it landed outside the famous cathedral in Seville
Its arrival caused some uproar the believers looked up and said
but where is Jesus?” An *** and Jesus they had read their Bible.
For one day there was not a word about presidential election
In the USA, but a story of a beast that had eaten too much spring
grass and was full of gas but the story ended well the donkey was
sent back to the unassertive farmer in Portugal
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
I ain't ever belonged to no one--
not even those that came before,
those frightened immigrants and spanish tangerines tumbling
below deck, toppling into the scattered bed rolls that still smell
like cumin and tarragon, sea and spiced salt seeping through the strong lungs of every youthful San Fermin boy in Pamplona
the raised voices in Seville singing San Jose and my mother's
maiden name--
i fumble in the dark for things to keep me rooted
the strong arms of working men and their weak hearts
barely beating
secondhand boys breathin' dollars an' truck exhaust
lookin' for their match, someone that'll fit
or do 'em just right
sharp things that'll sit pretty and
look good in lowlight,
and me with my tulip bulb heart
plantin' myself in wax, in muck,
in Utqiaġvik, Alaska
during the Polar Nights,
in my palms, beneath pillows, sproutin out the lungs of
those unassumin' who think i'm healin' them
of all the silly, misplaced ideas
but they got me creepin' out the sides of their cheeks
hookin' these delicate stems
leaving thin perforations all along their sheets
gratin and sharpenin they's teeth--
used to think i was the sun
real pretty and smooth like them stones
you find down near the river
or leaves just 'bout to fall, clingin
to low hangin' branches
just askin to be plucked or swept away
but i'm not any of those things
just a girl
lord, the awful truth
just a girl.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
Sunday,
Ants overcrowding a timber.
The timber gasping for breath..
.
Monday,
Rock inches a bit.
The vapor of light shines around.
.
Tuesday.
Belle awaits ninth evening to dance on ice.
Silence engulfed.
The Barber of Seville abandoned his play.
.
Wednesday,
Gulls hanging in the wind.
Staring at the waves
and ignoring my fishes lined the barbecue grill.
.
Thursday
The nightingale just escaped from its cage
So obsessed by liberty
It forget about warbling
and faded like chuckling far away.
.
Friday
Indifference lazy
Invoke piety
and yawns ..
.
Saturday.
The lark motivated.
Weddings blares from every direction fields.
The lark stiffs in confusion.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
The Matador
I was thinking of taken the bus Seville
But don't know what to do when getting there
Unless I run into a female Toreador
I once met in Seville she was good at killing things
She had once worked at an abattoir, alas, too many men
Surrounded her, she didn't see me
That was long ago she must be 70 years old now
And probably glad to see a man who remembers when
She cut the ear of the of her prey and held it aloft
And the spectators were ecstatic.
Perhaps she has turned away from this slaughter and
Become and protector of all animals.
Did I tell you I was in Seville ten years ago with
A drunken girlfriend?
In a bar, she got up pretending to be a matador,
This was embarrassing
I had to get her out and to the hotel
But, she was in a festive mood
and disappeared in the night.
There are idle moments when I wonder what happened to her.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 3:52 AM UTC
I let my feet dangle over the edge of the bed
Hoping the monsters will drag me underneath
My flesh is rotting
And my heart smells of decay
My bones could use some breaking
I'm over due for a good long cry
And a little blood letting
Somedays the ache just doesnt hurt enough
The cold comfortable numb has its teeth
Sunk too deep into my soul
And I can scream
But no sound escapes my mouth
I'm trapped on the sunny side of the sun
And the fires only cool me as I wander pointlessly about
I'm just lost in a dream a sleep away
From a bad shave
The kind of shave you can only get in Seville
My throat is thirsty for a kiss and a bite
From your warm lips
Or cold steel
Death is suppose to be lovely
Around this time of eternity
And I would die
For just a moment
Of that promise
Of forevers bliss
Slithering slyly on your tounge
My ears desperate to feel it say that one word
That four letter word
Full of grace and pain and beauty and truth
And if I cant have that
Then the end of the world
Can't get here soon enough
I just hope those monsters are hungry
And nasty
And mean
I need to bleed a little
Before my heart burst
It just feels too good to be true
You're too **** beautiful
And I'm not worth
A dime of your lipsticks
Much less your love
And my bare neck
Is overdue for a shave
Its just my body needs the dying
My heart and soul
Won't go anywhere
There yours
To hold in your hands
Or hide on your shelf
They got that forever
Kind of love
And its dancing flames
Spell out your name
Where are those
Monsters
Anyway...
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
A friendly Story
He the modest farmer was cutting green juicy spring grass
those that had spring flowers entwined it was for his donkey
that had been in the stable in the winter
He put the fodder in a jute sack and when it was full carried
it home to the donkey now in the yard
The animal ate and ate alas there can be too much of a good thing
its stomach full of gas it took flight over the mountain to Spain
where it landed outside the famous cathedral in Seville
Its arrival caused some uproar the believers looked up and said
but where is Jesus?” An *** and Jesus they had read their Bible.
For one day there was not a word about presidential election
In the USA, but a story of a beast that had eaten too much spring
grass and was full of gas but the story ended well the donkey was
sent back to the unassertive farmer in Portugal
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
In Madrid as we walk slowly fast
The present merges with the past,
Our slender hands are coloured Grey.
Laden with treasure but growing empty of feeling.
Hear the time go rushing past in deafening silence,
Pity me who you worship with your love on the speeding train.
I hold your warm hands but sense some coldness there.
Your happy kiss sears my face in this icy breeze of summer.
This is the Seville my lost feet remembers,
The corners of this maze that turns so straight,
The hours of wait that unravel so quickly.
Like silky music entwined with rough sackcloth
Our wealth cheapened by the masterpieces we past.
The enrichment of our minds despite empty pockets,
Eyes that warm our mocha chocolate skin with glares.
As I melt in your arms at the airport on this our last day.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC