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A rose in the high garden that you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped of impressionist mist.
Greys looking out from the last balustrades.

Modern painters in their black studios,
Sever the square root's sterilized flower.
In the Seine's flood an iceberg of marble
freezes the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads the paved streets firmly.
Crystals hide from reflections' magic.
Government has closed the perfume shops.
The machine beats out its binary rhythm.

An absence of forests, screens and brows
Wanders the roof-tiles of ancient houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon looms like a vast aqueduct.

Marines ignorant of wine and half-light,
decapitate sirens on seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for form and limit conquers us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors flee.

Cadaqués, the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of steps and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An old god of the woods gives children fruit.

Her fishermen slumber, dreamless, on sand.
On the deep, a rose serves as their compass.
The ****** horizon of wounded hankerchiefs,
unties the vast crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
wreathes bitter brows and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but fail to beguile,
and appear if we show a glass of fresh water.

Oh Salvador Dalí, of the olive voice!
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush
or your pigments that circle those of your age,
I salute your yearning for bounded eternity.

Healthy soul, you live on fresh marble.
You flee the dark wood of improbable forms.
Your fantasy reaches as far as your hands,
and you savor the sea's sonnet at your window.

The world holds dull half-light and disorder,
in the foreground humanity frequents.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
mark out the perfect scheme of their courses.

The flow of time forms pools, gains order,
in the measured forms of age upon age.
And conquered Death, trembling, takes refuge
in the straightended circle of the present moment.

Taking your palette, its wing holds a bullet-hole,
you summon the light that revives the olive-tree.
Broad light of Minverva, builder of scaffolding,
with no room for dream and its inexact flower.

You summon the light that rests on the brow,
not reaching the mouth or the heart of man.
Light feared by the trailing vines of Bacchus,
and the blind force driving the falling water.

You do well to place warning flags
on the dark frontier that shines with night.
As a painter you don't wish your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of unforeseen  clouds.

The fish in its bowl and the bird in its cage.
You refuse to invent them in sea or in air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen,
with your honest eyes, their smal agile bodies.

You love a matter defined and exact,
where the lichen cannot set up its camp.
You love architecture built on the absent,
admitting the banner merely in jest.

The steel compass speaks its short flexible verse.
Now unknown islands deny the sphere.
The straight line speaks of its upward fight
and learned crystals sing their geometry.

Yet the rose too in the garden where you live.
Ever the rose, ever, our north and south!
Calm, intense like an eyeless staute,
blind to the underground struggle it causes.

Pure rose that frees from artifice, sketches,
and opens for us the slight wings of a smile
(Pinned butterfly that muses in flight.)
Rose of pure balance not seeking pain.
Ever the rose!

Oh Salvador Dalí of the olive voice!
I speak of what you and your paintings tell me.
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush,
but I sing the firm aim of your arrows.

I sing your sweet battle of Catalan lights,
you love of what might be explained.
I sing your heart astronomical, tender,
a deck of French cards, and never wounded.

I sing longing for statues, sought without rest,
your fear of emotions that wait in the street.
I sing the tiny sea-siren who sings to you
riding a bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a shared thought
that joins us in the dark and the golden hours.
It is not Art, this light that blinds our eyes.
Rather it is love, friendship, the clashing of swords.

Rather than the picture you patiently trace,
it's the breast of Theresa, she of insomniac skin,
the tight curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship a board-game brightly painted.

May the tracks of fingers in blood on gld
stripe the heart of eternal Catalonia.
May stars like fists without falcons shine on you,
while your art and your life burst into flower.

Don't watch the water-clock with membranous wings,
nor the harsh scythe of the allegories.
Forever clothe and bare your brush in the air
before the sea peopled with boats and sailors.
Catalonia
This is my first opinion in a new slim volume of vignettes
they are celebrating in the streets of Barcelona they are and the independent nation now,
they were independent, but now they are a republic.
Tomorrow the people will be sober, where is the money coming from,
they have to print their version of the Euro, the one they had is no longer a legal
tender. Businesses and banks are moving to Spain, Catalonia is a member of no one.
If the Catalans are willing to suffer years of need, just to be a republic, that is ok,
but this freedom movement full of propaganda of suffering Catalans will hurt them
more than Spain that merely followed the rule.
It was not about independence but about money Catalonia is prosperous an as
the saying will not pay for the poorer region it is as simple as that.
Andrew Duggan Nov 2017
Once the black armies marched in Catalonia.

A time when nobody could think. Folkloric and religious celebrations smashed, a fumbling of tasteless glass.

Bayonets gleamed in the half lit shadows of the internment camps.

We challenged the greed of those who made this affair
To teach our children what was true.

A momentary adjustment to the order of things.
And those who take your dreams to shape them to their own.

Now the past is remembered in Barcelona, Girona, Lleida, and Tarragona.

Fire songs in every town remind us that autumn is near,
and distant shots of rainfall wake the ghosts of those that bled for this soil.

We sing and march to warn the watching world that is entranced by Europe’s spell.

To walk free in the medieval winding lanes of Besalu, and drink with friends in the bars of Peratallada.
a deck
now with
Bedouin high
there dream
her red
quotient in
Catalonia with
Montserrat qua
mountain deem
hindmost their
trials to
independence back
to innermost
Barcelona as
watershed lariat
begun this
year Ole
a story in  Spain
Skylar Keith Dec 2017
I said I didn't want to talk
so I ignored you
Too long

I said sorry
You said it's fine
Silence

Ups and downs is what we had
The fifteen days with you were nice
We are over it now

You give me balance
Yet your surroundings are in chaos
I am my own chaos

I think of you at times
Hoping that you are safe
In the turmoil of Catalonia
worry for a friend
EssEss Oct 2023
It takes considerable research to pick an ideal vacation spot,
The end result can be pleasantly surprising, more often than not,
Spain offers a multitude of choices that can be very exciting,
It is those small tucked-away towns that are the most enticing

Cadaques is a pretty Mediterranean location in Catalonia's Costa Brava,
It is a hippy seaside town akin to a hidden cove, that is no mere trivia,
Located on a small peninsula on the eastern side of sunny Spain,
It has all the trappings of an ideal getaway resort, with much to gain

It is the most inaccessible town north of Barcelona, though seductively beautiful,
The road winds through mountains replete with hairpin turns that are an eyeful,
Passing through cliffs one after the other, a rocky coastline is the final descent,
Entering the Spanish village with a breathtaking landscape, makes for rich accent

The idyllic setting, with unbeatable tourist infrastructure, is a veritable holiday haven,
For anyone looking to enjoy sun and sea, the attraction is like a piece of heaven,
The beach town gleaming above the cobalt-blue waters is a joyful sight to behold,
The allure of the windswept pebble beaches is so mesmerizing, if truth be told

The village is always teeming with tourists lazily walking the cobblestone streets,
The animated incessant Spanish chatter with exciting overtones is such an audible treat,
The blazing sun beating down all day from a spotlessly blue sky is never a deterrent,
To people of all ages sauntering the streets, joy writ on their faces, that is so apparent

Colorful sun umbrellas can be seen planted all along the beach, spicing up the milieu,
While the adventurous brave it out to get their suntan, unmindful of little else in view,
A dip in the clear blue water provides an exhilarating experience thro' the day,
The feeling is of total relaxation charting new frontiers, in a wholly different way

It goes without saying that Cadaques is a delightful town for the epicurious,
Restaurants abound in plenty, as they wow to whet the appetite of the curious,
Visitors flocking in droves at all times of the day, is such a common sight,
The menu dished out is of an irresistible variety - naturally, a gourmet's delight

Dozens of gelato shops can be seen virtually in every street,
The vast variety of flavors is mind boggling and an inviting treat,
Serpentine lines at each shop reflect the popularity of this delicacy,
Experimenting with combos is perhaps a fitting culminating fantasy

For strollers, the meandering lanes of Cadaques are an absolute delight,
The sloping by-lanes lined with shops on either side, are an interesting sight,
Skilled artisans flaunt their wares, with determined attempts to persist,
At the end of it all, the inclination to splurge, is undoubtedly difficult to resist

Spanish painter Salvadore Dali's house in Cadaques definitely merits an outing,
A walk around the house depicts his life in the village through his painting(s),
The scenic walk around the well-preserved grounds holds a lot of history,
That he was a tremendous inspiration to the locals, is of little mystery

Groups of people can always be seen walking from one end of the town to the other,
Animatedly chatting mundane and specifics that is delightfully difficult to decipher,
While the preponderance of Spanish locals is perceptible, global participation is nothing less,
It is this cosmopolitan aura that lends color to the charming town, stopping short of iconic-ness

The sound of lapping waves still rings in your ears long after you leave this quaint beach town,
You wish you could turn the clock back and dash back yet again as if making a U-turn,
It is this very quintessential charm that lures visitors to the hidden town with quiet coves,
Spread the message through word of mouth, that visiting such places merit many encores
Dan Feb 2017
Do I have to love anybody?
Like I mean in particular
Do I have to pick and choose one soul to love for X amount of years until they die or I die or one of us becomes "dead" to each other?
Do I have to pick and choose
Or can I love everyone?
Can I love the idea of people
The idea of being alive
The idea that we are working everyday for a brighter future
The idea that we won't stop fighting as long as there's somebody left to save
Almost every girl I have ever had a thing for
Is in a happy relationship now
And I'm thankful for that
Can I love the sun?
Even though I say I hate how it gets in my eyes and makes everything too **** hot or too **** bright
Can I love the moon?
Even if I barely take any moments to appreciate it
At night all my blinds are shut tight because of silly paranoia I know is silly
But can I still love the moon?
I have love for a million boxcars thundering down train tracks and a million semi's whose occupants will make it home just in time for the weekend
I love Gordon Downie and his infinite courage and strength
I love the spirit of Catalonia that comforts me when I start to get sick of the world around me
Today I can't think of anyone I hold too much animosity towards to say I love them in some regard
And if this is wrong
And I can only love one thing out of all the things in creation
Then I'll love "us"
All 7 billion
Of us

I'm sure St. Valentine was coerced
He doesn't seem like a box of chocolates and flowers kind of guy
I'm sure somebody bought him out
Walter Alter Sep 2023
his heraldic crest
a donger and yarbles rampant
upon a field of green clover
it was a stone slab of course
donated by a few eggheads in exile
his best friends were his *******
shall we redefine the human condition
my guru continued via implication
you are tied to your ******
with many rivers to cross it's all a river
float like a butterfly sting like etc.
his heels had wings goat wings
danced merry on their way to work
there's an idea lurking in here somewhere
from the lurking transcendental government
standing guard between the seen and the unseen
try not to bleed so much kids digitize instead
this is a novelty sing along tune
hooted by two adolescent chimps
nearly inaudible due to the sound of
heavy earth moving machinery
the crowd groaned to get the signal
booed him uncompromisingly off stage
he ran into the gloom of fog and introspection
calling taxi taxi taxi in the rain
played all the frequencies at once
could have led to open rebellion
but instead was hailed a master of definitions
please make of it what you wish
since there is nothing left to do
but go bowling on rockabilly night
while madmen comics kept us ROTFLMAO
with astounding feather and glue tricks
so that his work in the aviary could have
a reaching interplanetary dimension
utterly without consequence whatsoever
the ***** press wouldn't touch it
and retired from the drapery business
it's up to us to steer this sucker
down the Grapevine and find parking
where our epic turns right on Main St.
BBQ skewers swished in the starlight
yes he was a romantic and a romanticist
Pushing the Topic up Through the Earth
was the finally finished pamphlet's title
where this goes on the graph
is anyone's guess
take it line by line
of course it was more fun
not being a running target
I am but an orphan foundling sir

From "Pageant of Naked Mischief" available on Amazon
A tract can be coined a cake
and love of her biosphere but me
in Doeville shall rupture her mandrake
those herds of desert shores
with a torch will believe in me azores
when shy of antrorse
gypsies rebel there
as Jugendstil has accomplished Sezession
well eat lark in Catalonia
As assylum seeker Puigdemont
Chikelu Eshe May 2017
satisfaction when falling
into the bottomless
two minutes slip by

all my lifetime of trying to recognize
spiritual masters, instead -
potential parents
flood the tunnels with the bad manners and
dressed in dark grey and green

such repugnance -
decadent as **** malevich
i crawl into his smoky rib cage
forget that the language
is dead.
he pauses, rushes and pants
paints his face skeleton
eyelids blank like i pictured - but
no seattle sound. math rock and machines going off they rocker
no rolling stone
**** her string along that neck
come back reborn. shut the door
collapse in the bathroom, throwing up
into the telephone -
sa ding **** made up words
or looped cuban songs -
back in the day is gone
not anymore not anymore

what do ripped jeans mean to you?
or 16th century persian poets?
when your mind is set afire
swarthed
you like women in klimt’s canvas
light beams through your slits
so you won’t drown in
ruthless thoughts stream
when your deafened ear catches
the ovations
pervading, dying blue note
still not the ending

madame blavatsky unfolding the envelope:
i’m the circle on palm leaf manuscripts
with a dot in the middle -
you’re the reason. the clarity and the void
the eye in between
the missing capstone, i am the folklore
strange beings with fishtail and
i might be the lizard
king, violet violent dressed in crimson
you squeezing them lemons
tequila so creamy
when spiky black leather rips through
the wires, sound effects are your favorite
print shops, in them zines. your dialect
you savor - licking your lips,
saturated and smeared, paranoid
black sabbatical
moon-kissed.

i know you all umbilical visceral
bite your teeth into and cut
catalonia - two halves, dry mouth
and scorching sun
you know i’m subtler than the red
a lotus flower growing in the west
silk sheets in ultraviolet, as soon as
you come to rest
i can smell the war in your curl
jet black and charcoal -
no matte.

no hole in your chest - yet
microchips, they flicker
under your skin as the muscles twitch
in the rem sleep;
black madonna’s humble soft gaze
through the painted veil. marble or onyx
did you feel defeated? when you’ve fallen?
into the bottomless - unknowing
fungus-like growing
upsidedown along with the
torus

cycles and waves, when it’s not subatomic
i wish we’d perceived past the
electromagnetic; distant planets and stars
tease my potential. if only
i wasn’t eclectic, if only
i was in zazen

i accept; sit back sense the vibrations
mind-vacuumed perception not split into parts;
a black whole: if you, color, still there
up high; this deceiving metronome
sound time-travelling in circles
splashes across; carmen in carmine
a girl walks home alone
feline; l'via, cygnus,
jimi,
come on
why don’t you set me free
King Kong
in stripe
as groom
of *****  
still star  
in underworld
these legions
of force
who whatsoever
will take
her on
as siny
so Catalonia
won't dare
throng her
even today
without me
Re: Referndum in Barcelona
marta effe Sep 2017
That wave
in Catalonia
That almost touches your toes

You don't need anything else
Or anything at all
Ophelia Jan 2018
catherine is in blue
and bandages her finger with grass and a feather
her mother is sure she took on grace whilst in the womb
who is first and and yet an afterthought?
catherine is bleached
between girls breathing rococo and the washing machine that doesn’t distinguish the separation of her name or fabric
ever maid
where does she go and you begin?
that brother has the ocean compressed in his eyes
and it’s the ships that go by in the night
that make her as penitent as the Magdalene
catherine is moving
and if she takes on the sun it’s best to leave some in Catalonia
if she carves herself in flesh
she should do so herself
Alex Apr 2018
I’d like to believe I’ve known you over many lifetimes.

I’d like to believe I met you in New York City, as you browsed through records on a cold 1962 evening.

Perhaps in Paris at the end of the war.

Tinker parades marching down the “Avenue Montaigne”.

Perhaps you were standing on the corner demanding they “don’t forget Catalonia!”.

Maybe I smiled and accepted a pamphlet and remembered those nostalgic hands.

Maybe then they reminded me of summers in Grimaud and not Christmas in Mexico.
Johnny Noiπ Feb 2019
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SassyJ Jan 2020
See her mouth gently clad
as the grasshopper hop avidly
whilst the ants swamp in anticipation

See her weigh the upsized eggs
as her fertility sparcely disappear
casting shadows to his peripheries

See the two rocks collide and form
yeilding  to the uprooted dead plants
a homage of the great masturbator

Dali! take me to the planes of Emporda
at the bay of Cadaques, our beautiful Catalonia
let's escape and hide to the Alberes hills

Dali! take me to the jewel of the hidden hills
for their rotten love is a petrefaction
a parallel to our mystic crown
To Dali, How so? The Greatest Masturbator (1929)
Once again, stranger, I am thinking of you,
atop that hotel in Catalonia
on the cusp of a new wave, 
sun blazing, streets like a hive,
the fizz of euphoria.

The first time you ever held a gun,
made in Oviedo, the M1916 Mauser
slung over one shoulder, a glint 
of a smile on your face saying nothing but 
more than enough nine decades on.

Crow-black hair,
uniform with the sleeves rolled up,
face of anti-fascism
but you didn't know it,
nor did you know the hotel

your feet graced would be gone
after bloodshed, your later years
in the French capital,
the photo of you stored
inside the crucibles of time.
Written: January/February/March 2021.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time - edits are likely. It is inspired by the image of then teenager Marina Ginestà atop the former Hotel Colón in Barcelona on 21st July 1936. The photo is deemed one of the most iconic images of the Spanish Civil War.
A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
The dog and the fire of the sun through the ***** fingertips of St. Patrick, St. Thomas and St. John. | | | | ... | | | | | | | | | | .. | | | | | | ................................. ............. .... | ................................. ........ ......... .................... ................. ......... | |.... ..................... ......... .................... . ......... ............ ....... ......... ......... .... ..... ......... ......... ..... ..... ... .... .... ... ... . ... ..................................... .......... ............. ..................... ... ... .. ........ . ................................ .. ... ..... ...... .. .................. .......... .. .. .. .. ..... ..... .... .... .......... ......... ................. ... | ......... ............. .......... ........... ....... ............................ .... .................. ............ ......... ......... ......... ...... ..... ..... ..... ..... .... .... .... ....................... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... ..... .. .. .. .. .. .. ........ . ......... .. .. ... ... ... ... ..... ..... ..... ...... .... ............... ... ... ............................. the return of breast cancer, ....... ...... ...... .......... .......... Paradise's oily fish court; Description - he who sits on the shores of .. 1 write to express the glory of the teeth so that a trace of malice and its abstracted infancy shall be more tolerable for the land of ***** in the cold; alone and rejoicing in the dance and burning of their towns by the daughters of my people; concerning Thomas of the injury that the dog died from, the cops once not eating or making use of the triumph of the Rainbow's tuning certain keys. Ten thin fingers and good head for about two years, then the keeper of U is English; that is, if the **** ******* the barren wind is carrying water for his 'fallen' and those who are slain by the sword's official website's late nights; the planets manifest when he comes to the police in which he wishes to rise easily to George's banana; a service of the faculty of the funeral in the earlier hours of the day; it is important that they live quite wise to the fourth day as the cause of death in 1953, where they are enervated by the police intervention to call his skin and they cannot hear. AI Tully made $ 5 million in sales caused by the Alexandrian School in the late 1950's; Dallas, Los Angeles, Jorge's myths ending in Las Vegas as prostitutes in late 1950; and was shot 70 years ago by a ******* and Jack the dog, Ruth and bad luck. Texas "Jim" "labeled" loose "S" is the story of the "Top" inserted "T" for | Jorges for 20 years. No doubt, such Clemency is freedom, "Cornelius." George; George named after another agent in the (208) 80 group. Student's small towers in this? Park, South Africa, 481.8 on July 9, David Jones, Jordan on ............ .. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ......... .......... ...... ........... | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ............................ .......... .. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | || | | | ............. ........... ..... .... ....... | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | .................................... | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | As you can expand them? The fourth, he was not able to do the work that you do not understand; the Harlots death and so they are. Marcus 1953 fire. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | .................................... | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí i Domènech, 1st Marquis of Dalí de Púbol, known professionally as Salvador Dalí, a prominent Spanish surrealist born in Figueres, Catalonia, Spain. Dalí was a skilled draftsman best known for the striking and bizarre images in his surrealist work - Born: May 11, 1904, Figueres, Spain, Died: January 23, 1989, Figueres, Spain
Johnny Noiπ Mar 2019
I love the music of the female
black red white American who
lives by the mothers of the big
city boy a girl one night, sour
American girl dead green
and beautiful African American
male & Australian woman snowy
years old in the water dark blue
of death in Europe Body Zone
English in southern Italy Gold
ages colors of fresh Thomas
for example, means power
yellow bad little money food
wife **** certain French
Catalonia to fire solar cardiac
history Germany George's place
minutes, Canadian war skin
changed to the children hot
things of air of head ocean dog.

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