Behind the behind
Behind the holiday inn near the bus station used by us the masses
and immigrants and those who wander in no man’s land.
There are streets of houses kept in a gloomy mood of semi-poverty and cheap wine.
I walked these streets, shuttered windows, here and there a small shop
run by a Pakistani, how they can make a living out of it is a wonder.
There are cafes too I nearly walked into but had to stake a step back by a smell
the was Mongolian by its muscular scent.
We had been to a gigantic old hospital where dying is against the law,
yet doctors and nurses to keep it open, a valiant fight that was doomed to failure.
She had a hip problem waiting for transport took three hours the boredom
stretched endlessly before us in a part of Lisbon few sane tourists will see.
Back at the bus station, I found a corner of a second-hand shop I bought a book
of prose poetry and got one for free.
I marvelled at the seller, an Indian from Bangalore, selling poetry in Iberia.
Glorious Spain after 1492, and the cost
Long forgotten, but for Bartolomeo de Las Casas
O the lie of OUR WORK ETHIC! How did Catholic Iberia
Rule the Americas (1492 -1898), dominate Europe?
You can rule, too, if you enslaved all of the Americas!
Iberia, I long to breathe you in
as long ago I did. . . and then exhale
sangria nights with lace against my skin!
Sweet temptress draped in beauty, you unveil
Flamenco’s soul, exhuming history -
impressions left by ancients on your face -
from Roman glory’s remnants by the sea
to Moorish structures’ arcs of ageless grace.
Oh, how could I retreat with more to learn,
to make no sacrifice, nor question why
I had to keep my plans and not return
to your broad plains beneath Castilian sky?
Time stole my youth; I can’t go back again.
You could have been my home, belovèd Spain.
Feb 6, 2020
for John Hamilton's "Your Best Sonnet 2020" contest
(my best one that was not at least a previous winner in one of your own sonnet contests this year, John.)
“Córdoba, lejana y sola”
– F.G.Lorca
The eyes of the women from Córdoba
are olive green
and steps are shadows,
but you are going to Cádiz,
where the wind recognizes
as its only our longest street.
The trumpet plays in storages and ships depart at dusk.
And in Gr?nada, the orange pickers,
pick tears.
In Córdoba, women wear long black dresses
and hide their lips,
but you are going to Cádiz,
where every mother is at the pier and the contrabass
plays in storages. And at dusk leave the boats.
And in Gr?nada, the orange pickers,
pick tears.
In Córdoba, time falls asleep behind grids and the sun slides on rocks.
And in Granada come evening shadows.
I won’t be travelling to Cádiz.
His eyes on me were dark and bright.
Two burning coals, they pierced my soul.
My lover, my once-upon-a-time bright flame!
How fiercely we burned into each night. . .
those long delicious nights when youth
was as sweet as wine
and fresh like a blood red rose newly bloomed.
Yet how long did we expect that we could burn
before our flames burned out?
How long can roses endure before they wilt?
I had to leave the continent Iberia.
I left that place where youth and passion thrived.
Eduardo, with the piercing eyes and sultry smile,
has vanished with my youth.
And that wine, so sweet, so totally imbibed -
vanished with him.
I am left with naught but ashes for my memories -
the ashes of a once fresh
blood-red rose.
Feb. 23, 2019 for Edward Ibeh's Poem Titled Saudade Poetry Contest
Now for John Hamilton's 'Your best free verse from 2019' Poetry Contest
One day I will go to Cordoba
Walk along the old cobbled streets
And hear the echoes
From many centuries ago
When the Muslims ruled Iberia
I will see the colourful flowing robes
Or white against the dazzling sun
Endless gardens of symmetry
Exotic flowers, fountains, cascading waterfalls
Cordoba enters my soul
The scent of spices and sweet perfumes
Will waft from the bazaars
The scientists, physicians, poets
Alive with thought, buzzing with ideas, vibrant
A new, tolerant, exciting way of life
An amalgamation of people, religions, languages
That is how we worked best
Lived at our best
How I yearn for that Cordoba
Behind the Façade
Behind the Holyday Inn near the bus station used by
we the masses and immigrants, there are streets of houses
kept in the gloomy mode of semi-poverty and cheap wine.
I walked these streets windows shuttered, here and there
a small grocery shop run by Asians how they make a living
Is a wonder, cafes too I saw nearly went into one but it
looked so filthy I changed my mind, but did buy a can of
coke in the Asian`s shop
We had been to the giant old hospital call -Ca Curry- and it
was old and decrepit, yet doctors and nurses struggle on
no money is spent on National Health now that we are in
the grip of neoliberalism.
She has bad hips and the wait for our bus was three hours
hence my excursion into the streets of boredom a part of
Lisbon no tourist would wish to see, no anyone famous had
lived here and “Fado” was flaking walls and peeling doors.
Back at the bus station I found in a corner a second-hand
book shop bought a book of a prose poetry and got one for
free, I sat beside her, tried to read Portuguese and thought
it takes an Indian person to try selling poetry in Iberia.
The Piece Iberia Rejected
I like to go to Spain one day soon
Portugal is so tiring and deceitful
It is a fantasy land
Where truth and lies blend
Into a bewildering version of
Arabic influence
That Christianity decapitated.
Spain is a big country with a great mind
Portugal is so much smaller
And their worldviews are that of
What you see in an olive copse
Besides I have family in Spain who reads
And like my opinions
I`m respected elder member of the clan
They want me to come home
And lead them now.
Portuguese politeness is based on avoiding
The truth at all cost
No matter how long you leave in Portugal
They will treat you with
A smiling contempt.
So it is time to leave this land
of sheep herders and lawyers
indelible belief in Dictatorship.
Yesterday evening broke brains so I wanted to assemble expressions of consolation. All the beauty of the words, every word, from submarine to wheat fields and Long Island cocktails, kissed skies by Jimmy, blue, yellow and why not pinky black, snow, wine and vanity. From excuse me dear to goodbye I hate you, from hopeless dreams to aquarium memories, from nowhere, ahh so beautiful nowhere, favorite things of Coltrane at the sundown Madalena’s landscape, world and science, runner poets, fisherman, poetry-man, fishing meanings in the non-sense ocean of spirits. Flowers not to be forgotten, hundreds and freedom too. From wishes to shadow, from shame to joy, short word but important too. Walkers these verbs, blood in our papers, I hope this helps, my friend, ancestors, from Iberia. Thank you again to put all these words together, somewhere near nowhere 88.
An Abridged Story of Wine
The bottom of the nave used to be a lake’s bed, but one night,
when moon was white as search light and the sky maroon,
the lake vanished. Dead fish and toenail clippings at the bottom,
but the soil was rich, and the people who used to fish for a living,
planted vine which bore healthy grapes, but grapes fermented
and wine was discovered. A drink that made them merry, they
sang, slapped flat stones together and made music.
But if drinking too much they ended fighting and used stones as
missiles, and given to arguing about the quality of snow that fell
the year before. In clay pots they sold red wine and became rich,
till Moslems came, forbad the making of wine, they planted pale
yellow orange trees instead. But the juice of sweet blue grapes
has an unstoppable allure it fills heart with music, the production
was moved to hidden dells in Alentejo. When Arabs, defeated by
Christian hordes, fled; Iberia had abundance of red wine but also
sugary orange juice.
Greatest of military men, Carthage's son, bright and bold
Took the elephants of war over the Pyrenees frozen cold
And would delay the Gentile's time fulfilling when the race
Stood proud, under your command of the second Punic war
But then that Africanus, your student with love displaced
Entered North Africa, to plunder, to maim, and there to scar
Except you had relinquished pride for love of native land
To find your Waterloo at Judas unwaning hand in the sand
Tell me how you conquered Spain again, tell me how Iberia
Under Africa's constellation slipped from darkness and hysteria
Into confidence and light; Tell me about Bithynia's fast fleet
That routed the Pergamons, and revenged Antiochus plight
Look now how Alexander, Caesar, Napolean, before your feet
Lay their laurels, and in Tunisia old men eyes gleamed light
When your name is called, but where is your grave, great one?
How past all mighty empires in the dusk of the setting sun?