Friday, January 13, 2012

Paul Murphy

Spanish Siesta
The endless beaches myriad to the horizon;
Palm trees bend in the evening breeze
I am an outcast; I ask Elisabeth
For a coffee, she gives it willingly
I wanted more; I’ve gone to Villa Seca
Reus, the names fall like Spanish coins.
In memory I’ve pounded this road:
Anyway, the bookies, the bars, the knick-knack shops,
The Euro-discoes with their pungent, techno beat:
In the port Tarragona,
A tanker lists out to sea, like a dying whale,
This was the town where Pontius Pilate was born:
I have made poems out of flowers,
Flowers with Latin names, but somehow
There are no flowers here; two American
Tourists argue, talk to the Spaniards,
Who greet me with downcast eyes:
They must know I’m bad news, there is
Bad news in the offing, bad weather:
I read the paper, dream of gathering mushrooms
In the moonlight: at the Fundacio Joan Miró
I have a reunion with my blatantly unSpanish-
Looking amiga, reading a copy of Ulysses
In Catalan: bizarrity is compounded with
Bizarrity, I wonder why I bother, I could sleep
In the shade all day; Hasta la vista (baby).


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