Musings on the façade of Seville Cathedral
How patiently they suffer, these old saints!
Their sandstone features, crumbled, vague,
some noses gone (some medieval ague,
or Time's cruel drip?) they offer no complaints.
Stranded seven centuries on this reef,
they bake, and wait resignedly, begowned,
for bell-tower shade slowly to inch around.
Do bas-reliefs experience relief?
This church was once a mosque. In point of fact,
the holy ancient venerable Gothic pile
(and here one struggles to suppress a smile)
has relatively recently been sacked,
and only lately put to Christian use.
These saintly faces, preternaturally mild -
do they still fret? Or are they reconciled
to slow decay, as hand or ear works loose?
And do they savour time as you or I,
observing how, below them in the street,
perukes give way to pony-tails and pleats?
Or do, for them, Septembers flicker by
like squandered seconds? Do they muse on Fate
and Destiny? What if my youth has gone?
What if this woman keeps me hanging on?
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Ronda’s a town,
but this rondelet rankles still:
Ronda’s a town
(a placename is a Proper Noun).
Between Malaga and Seville,
you’ll hear the very sparrows trill,
Ronda’s a town.
Ronda exists,
But does ‘rondelet’ rhyme with ‘hay’?
(Ronda exists:
I’ve wandered in its morning mists!)
Or does it, maybe, rhyme with ‘debt’?
It makes a poem hard to set!
Ronda exists.
Ronda’s my home.
Unlike phantom poetic forms,
Ronda’s my home.
Enough of frothy wordy foam!
I’ll stick to things that I can touch.
And I love Ronda very much.
Ronda’s my home.
The beast Alhambra
roared a violent psalm
Vile conversos
horrid moriscos,
the heretic herds
A spear thrust into
our sun’s martyred ribs
Held in hateful grips
the yellow warblers
dripped in crimson sheen
Flying like Michael
the vengeful vassal
of Aragon’s decree
“O Torquemada
Hark the righteous call
King of Suprema
Execute them all!”
Cold unfeeling wretch,
the flesh guillotine
Teeth clicking sparks
lit endless pyres
Three made Seville
weep at the sight of Friars
On one Christmas Eve night Santa and Rudolph got a huge fright.
There was a midair crash that happened in a flash between the sleigh, seagulls and a seaplane in the space over Seville, Spain, in heavy rain.
No one was hurt, only dazed
and while some gulls were grazed, they got away unscathed.
But the reindeer in Spain was hit mainly by the plane.
There's a sweet young lady named Jill
for whom travel is such a big thrill.
She sees many places
and lots of kind faces
in Asheville, Nashville,
Seattle and Seville,
Belleville, Louisville
and Copacabana, Brazil!
Great and Rugged Pyrenees
Whose solid presence demands
Notice of lush valleys
And Spanish oaks that dot the glens -
Prevailing winds churn in wrath -
I stop to breathe in them;
You cut the horizon in half
And grip my eye with icy hands.
Your cohort - a mix of clouds -
Can't forever hide your majesty.
Seville looks on from the south;
Andorra claims the victory.
Her lightning fast moves mesmerized me
she’s the fastest flamenco dancer in Seville someone whispered
well practiced whirls of pinks and oranges captivated her audience
without fans, shawls or castanets
Trying too hard
to appear he’s not trying
Saying too much
without saying a thing
Shapeshifting lover
the fire his mistress
Locked in an image
—whose essence is damned
(The New Room: June, 2023)
there was a young man from Seville
whose wife's voice was chillingly shrill
he said please shut up
he’d more than enough
sending him looking for advil!
(caveat: no endorsement of product intended)
Winter Coolers
The air of Delhi,
Giving the pure air bely,
One-time visit to our Suraj valley,
Where even stone mosses give pure air.
Where the discussion on the Chinaberry,
Giving Great Green Back Order,
To Cloud Computing cloudiness ( pollutants ) Maker,
Giving Originally order to Organized Oregon,
When Cloud bawls and fallen teardrop,
Telling The Kohinoor salvation,
Where on winter flour Dive from Sky,
The rind of the Seville Soar Orange tells the Winter Cooler Current.
Dear Buddha
It’s been a while I know
I do apologise
But stuff gets in the way
These silly complications
Books to read
And CNN
But I’m here now
And so are you
So set in stone
And pond-side contemplation
I’m sure you understand
You always do
So much to exhale
You wouldn’t believe
Not so many frogs this year
Perhaps it’s the heat
And the cat’s not so keen
Bless her
I’m so done with it all
But I see no path ahead
Just snapshots of Arles
And moments in Seville
These scriptures and hymns
Are where I seem to belong
Lenny and Phoebe
The Milk Carton Kids
Charlie’s blues
And the streets of Paris
Let me focus
Let it all go
For a moment at least
Bask in the glow
Of this summer garden heat
And breathe
If there’s any chance
You could point a way
There’s no real hurry
No real distress
I’m sure it will emerge
Somewhere in the undergrowth
But thanks for listening anyway
It always helps
And let’s not leave it so long
Next time
Yours as always
Alban’s son
Lost and confused
And almost done
Ah, at a magnificent place 'twas
this ball held!
With gorgeous jam debutantes,
arriving one by one.
Sorry you were not there!
To behold the debutantes and
their escorts gliding down the
winding stairs
Such beautiful faces,and all
superbly trained in fine cotillion
graces.
First came Rose Petal and Seville
Orange, a stunning pair!
Then Honeysuckle and Sir Hawthorne,
so stunning they drove the crowd wild.
Next, the gorgeous Pearadise
and Sir Quince, so gorgeous we
all did wince!
Cherry and the famed Knight
Elderberry made all heads turn.
Sparkling Dandelion and Prince
Habanero, so lovely, struck our
hearts like arrows.
The Viennese Waltzes began,
a night so memorable.
We all applauded such gorgeous
couples.
Mesmerized by such grace beyond
finite.
Each couple,bowed and left us "
eventually.
With dreams of next years cotillion,
We all pledged to be!
September 12, 2019
*These are names of actual names
of homemade jams and jellies.
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.
(Idle musings on the facade of Seville Cathedral)
How patiently they suffer, these old saints!
Their sandstone features, crumbled, vague,
some noses gone (some medieval ague,
or Time's cruel drip?) they offer no complaints.
Stranded seven centuries on this reef,
they bake, and wait resignedly, begowned,
for bell-tower shade slowly to inch around.
Do bas-reliefs experience relief?
This church was once a mosque. In point of fact,
the holy ancient venerable Gothic pile
(and here one struggles to suppress a smile)
has relatively recently been sacked,
and only lately put to Christian use.
These saintly faces, preternaturally mild -
do they still fret? Or are they reconciled
to slow decay, as hand or ear works loose?
And do they savour time as you or I,
observing how, below them in the street,
perukes give way to pony-tails and pleats?
Or do, for them, Septembers flicker by
like squandered seconds? Do they muse on Fate
and Destiny? What if my youth has gone?
What if this woman keeps me hanging on?
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Carnations and candlelight
black Cadillac Seville sleek
ace of spade fury
six chambers for a lifetime
to set things just right
bang bang
eight balls ricocheting
bang bang
rack'em up, chump
cue sticks red velvety dusted
musk oil grinding virgin blood
diamond dead snake eyes
star mist and streamer
stiletto and sequin
unchain the ceiling
throbbing dreams kneeling
pearls riding moonbeams
sin sighing salvation
cracking pink champagne
black satin bullets and golden chains
drawing down mahogany shades
Caving in the morning
red-eyed and dead glory
two black carnations
sunny side down.
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