Flowered patios,
admired for their charm,
Andalusian patios lovingly cared for.
As new-born babies
that Andalusian women take care of
with gentleness, dedicating
their time with the same devotion
to as a baby who needs attention.
Beauty with big eyes
that shines in a blind world
to old emotions.
Patios of my Andalusia,
you sow joy in front of
the ones who feel love
for those old ladies,
whose lives flow among your cares.
I wish you would always live
Andalusian ladies!,
so that our eyes
could delight those magical patios,
full of colors and dedication.
Every flower has your name
written on it, every new wrinkle
on your face is the effort
of your everyday's passion.
Forever romancing
that lingering question…
Quixotic by decree
—windmills turning free
(Dreamsleep: April, 2021)
Listen,
can you hear it
your taste buds losing interest?
A buzzing in the air
black-winged hoverers
flit and fly across the kitchenette
drawn in by the smell of tantalizing flavors.
Too hot for ovens to be on
too lazy for the frying pan to warm
a chilled gazpacho from the fridge
cucumber, onion, pepper, jalapeno,
garliced olive oil, lime juice, balsamic
and a floating entourage of fly in the soup.
"Gazpacho or Andalusian gazpacho is a cold soup made of raw, blended vegetables. A classic of Spanish cuisine, it originated in the southern region of Andalusia. Gazpacho is widely eaten in Spain and Portugal, particularly during hot summers, as it is refreshing and cool". Wikipedia
Rolling down the contours of Iberian Peninsula
the picturesque highlands of lofty Andalusia
fringe the landscape of the great plain of Spain,
cradling the ancient cities of Madrid and Segovia.
In the frenzy arena horny bull charges as if tipsy,
gyrating matador’s muleta whipping it doesn’t see,
for his agile feet move in rhythm of baile flamenco
like the flurry of the trotting steps of the gypsy.
Travel from one city to the other by train,
you need not visit Pygmalion once again,
you’ll make out the aim of mnemonic device…
“rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain”.
July 18, 2019
The bus driver and a rowing boat
I remember a song “A slow boat to China”
There was a man a bus driver who took his wife on holiday to Spain
where his wife ran away with a shepherd
The bus driver went home alone but had the house which exploded
(a gas leak) when he sat on the loo; he was unharmed but somewhat
embarrassed. When the insurance money, came he bought a rowing boat
which had a mast and he could set sail when the wind was right.
He landed in Falmouth before the winter storms.
When spring came he rowed and sailed to the island of Neves where
he met John Cleeve, who wrote a funny article about the brave man
and suddenly the bus driver was famous.
The rich people in Neve gave him money which put in a bank
(there are so many banks) when he went to the bank to draw
out money for an ice-cream, he found he was a millionaire.
High finance is a mystery and something had gone wrong
not for him to ask questions, but he did transfer the money
to a Swiss bank and took the first plane back to Europe.
The bus driver is now a prosperous cattle farmer in Andalusia.
Un día voy a ir a ti, Córdoba
pasearé por las antiguas calles empedradas
y escucharé los ecos de hace muchos siglos,
de cuando los musulmanes gobernaron Andalusia
Veré las coloridas túnicas que fluyen
blancas contrastando con el sol deslumbrante,
infinitos jardines de simetría, flores exóticas, fuentes, cascadas.
Córdoba, entras en mi alma,
el aroma a especias y perfumes dulces saldrá de tus bazares
junto a los científicos, médicos y poetas.
Te vivo con el pensamiento,
zumbando estás entre ideas, vibrante,
una nueva forma de vida tolerante
en una increíble amalgama de personas, religiones, lenguas;
Así es como trabajamos mejor
vivimos entonces nuestro mejor momento,
¡Ah, cómo te anhelo mi Córdoba!
Birds,unlike humans, can fly across the barriers
Avoid the checkpoints,need no identity papers, permits
Or gold stars.
Brothers,why were you separated?
Why could Palestine not be left as one
where ,as in Andalusia before the madness
of Inquisition,you lived together 500 years of peace
Until Christian conformity and suspicion
Tormented and killed you both?
It is we you should be fighting against
Not each other
Are you our own Roman Games?
You ,in the Arena we watch on our screens
We can turn them off but you,brothers and sisters,
are still there.And your children.
What remains for any of us?
Olive and Orange
From the years of 650 and onwards Andalusia
Was a tolerant Arabic province, which even tolerated
the Jewish tradesmen pushing their handcarts on
cobble stones and the Christians with their infernal
bells ringing on Sunday mornings.
The three religions lived side my side in relative
harmony, one can say the following 300 years
Andalusia and part of Algarve was an oasis of peace.
The Arab architecture is still there and in music
one can still hear the Arabic influence not to forget
the poetry inspired in beautiful gardens with running
water and cooling shade, where love was made and
in Yasmin scented afternoons.
Nothing lasts forever the Christian horde came with
their swords -the ISIS of the time- heads rolled in the sand
Andalusia became a Catholic nation, yet the echo of more
a contemplative time lingers on.
This story was told to me by the oldest olive tree in the world
that lives in a valley of orange trees.
Wait if red is color
Of noon
In Andalusia
I wear in rose
If hugs mingle
With kisses of rose
In night
I melt in rose of youth
In Andalusia
The cream of the land has been
slain
And the jewels flushed in the
drain
Tell it not in Abeokuta
Neither publish it in Uromi
Lest the Ancestors hear
and be dumb
Lest the claws of horror glean in
their tomb.
Listen, you cursed bed of
Andalusia!
Let there be no gem nor laces
Be found draped further upon you.
For upon you the
jewel was lost.
You little wood of Lissa,
listen!
For being an accomplice to this
sin.
You have served a million invitation
hence,
To multitude of feet that shall
trudge upon your
silence.
Church Bells
Once I lived in a charming English village, near
an ancient church, every Sunday morning
on my only day off, the bloody bells chimed.
Thought I saw a woman cycling to mass in
the mist, and it wasn´t Germaine Greer.
When Muslims ruled Andalusia, they tolerated
Christians, but a poet of that time -Ibn Baqi-
circa 1059 1112, wished they wouldn´t clang
bells so hard waking him up when air was cool,
sleep sweet and his Christian mistress had to
get up and go to mass. So far nothing has
changed, dear Ibn Baqi, the bells keep on tolling
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.