Street Consell de Cent, Eixample, Barcelona; 15.58
The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The ghosts of her
Departed leaves.
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
Loveliness—
(John Updike, A child’s calendar, November)
Train from Rotterdam to Schiphol airport; 16:23
I was born in the valley of bricks
Where the river runs high above the rooftops
I was waiting for the cars coming home late at night
From the Dutch mountains
I was standing in the valley of rock
Up to my belly in an early fog
I was looking for the road to a green painted house
In the Dutch mountains
In the Dutch mountains
Mountains
I met a woman in the valley of stone
She was painting roses on the walls of her home
And the moon is a coin with the head of the queen
Of the Dutch mountains
Mountains
I lost a button of my shirt today
It fell on the ground
And it was rolling away
Like a trail leading me back
To the Dutch mountains
To the Dutch mountains
Mountains
I met a miller on the back of a cow
He was looking for the wind but he didn’t know how
I said: Follow the cloud that looks like a sheep
In the Dutch mountains
In the Dutch mountains
In the Dutch mountains
Mountains
Mountains
Buildings
(In the Dutch mountains, The Nits)
Ambassade Hotel, Amsterdam, 17:07
If you’ve seen a mount of sea foam,
It is my verse you have seen:
My verse a mountain has been
And a feathered fan become.
My verse is like a dagger
At whose hilt a flower grows:
My verse is a fount which flows
With a sparkling coral water.
My verse is a gentle green
And also a flaming red:
My verse is a deer wounded
Seeking forest cover unseen.
My verse is brief and sincere,
And to the brave will appeal:
With all the strength of the steel
With which the sword will appear.
(If you’ve seen a mount of sea foam,
José Marti, Versos Sencillos, Poema V)
Si ves un monte de espumas,
Es mi verso lo que ves:
Mi verso es un monte, y es
Un abanico de plumas.
Mi verso es como un puñal
Que por el puño echa flor:
Mi verso es un surtidor
Que da un agua de coral.
Mi verso es de un verde claro
Y de un carmín encendido:
Mi verso es un ciervo herido
Que busca en el monte amparo.
Mi verso al valiente agrada:
Mi verso, breve y sincero,
Es del vigor del acero
Con que se funde la espada.
(Si ves un monte de espumas,
José Marti, Versos Sencillos, Poema V)
Street, Terramar, Sitges, 9:18
There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.
The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.
How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.
Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.
(Billy Collins, The best cigarette)
Shop, Sant Pere de Ribes; 11:48
Cher frère blanc,
Quand je suis né,
j’étais noir,
Quand j’ai grandi,
j’étais noir,
Quand je suis au soleil,
je suis noir,
Quand je suis malade,
je suis noir,
Quand je mourrai,
je serai noir.
Tandis que toi,
homme blanc,
Quand tu es né,
tu étais rose,
Quand tu as grandi,
tu étais blanc,
Quand tu vas au soleil,
tu es rouge,
Quand tu as froid,
tu es bleu,
Quand tu as peur,
tu es vert,
Quand tu es malade,
tu es jaune,
Quand tu mourras,
tu seras gris.
Alors, de nous deux,
Qui est l’homme de couleur ?
(Poème à mon frère blanc, Léopold Sedar Senghor)
Train from Barcelona Sants to Sitges; 00:21
L.A. proved too much for the man,
So he’s leavin’ the life he’s come to know,
He said he’s goin’ back to find
Ooh, what’s left of his world,
The world he left behind
Not so long ago.
He’s leaving,
On that midnight train to Georgia,
And he’s goin’ back
To a simpler place and time.
And I’ll be with him
On that midnight train to Georgia,
I’d rather live in his world
Than live without him in mine.
He kept dreamin’
That someday he’d be a star.
But he sure found out the hard way
That dreams don’t always come true.
So he pawned all his hopes
and he even sold his old car
Bought a one way ticket
To the life he once knew,
Oh yes he did,
He said he would
Be leavin
On that midnight train to Georgia,
And he’s goin’ back
To a simpler place and time.
And I’ll be with him
On that midnight train to Georgia,
I’d rather live in his world
Than live without him in mine.
Go, gonna board, gonna board,
Gonna board the midnight train.
Gotta go, gonna board
Gonna board
Gonna board the midnight train
(Midnight train to Georgia, Gladys Knight and The Pips)
Underground Barcelona, blue line 5, station Entença; 23:52
Desventurados los que divisaron
a una muchacha en el Metro
y se enamoraron de golpe
y la siguieron enloquecidos
y la perdieron para siempre entre la multitud
Porque ellos serán condenados
a vagar sin rumbo por las estaciones
y a llorar con las canciones de amor
que los músicos ambulantes entonan en los túneles
Y quizás el amor no es más que eso:
una mujer o un hombre que desciende de un carro
en cualquier estación del Metro
y resplandece unos segundos
y se pierde en la noche sin nombre
(Oscar Hahn, En una estación del metro)
