Barcelona

Above Placa Real the palm trees nod
like caged giraffes. Pubescent prostitutes,
dressed-up in ra-ra skirts and Lurex boots
patrol their pitch. As evening falls an odd
pink light pervades the patched Baroque arcade.
A girl steps from the shadows, face aglow,
like some doomed saint by Caravaggio;
her sallow beauty mocks the drab parade.
Across the faded square a duo plays
upon accordion and clarinet,
up-beat and strangely phrased, 'Those Were the Days'.
Fooled by the atmosphere of veiled regret,
we quietly deny what we became,
pretending yet, 'our dreams are still the same.'

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"Barcelona" is a Baudelairean city sonnet, which begins with a striking image of palms as caged giraffes. The "caged" aspect of that image leads on to other negatives like patched, drab, and faded, but there are also pink light, beauty, and music. The atmosphere is tawdry, sad, exotic, and romantic. This well-executed sonnet is a bit confusing as to point-of-view. The opening lines are generalizing and observational. Then we have a close-up of a beautiful girl, and must decide whether she is one of the patrolling prostitutes: line 8 perhaps says that, though she is pale and sickly, her beauty contrasts with the other hookers passing by. Then the sestet gives us music -- the forced gaiety of a Beatles tune -- and the speaker is no longer an observer but part of an inclusive "we." Is the speaker now to be seen as one of the parade, or as one of their customers, or simply as a deluded member of humanity?


[This message has been edited by Richard Wilbur (edited May 12, 2008).]

There were several contenders for the sixth spot: "Food," "I'll Call Him Art," "Finale," and "A Coat, a Hat and a Gun" – all of which I'll comment on later (I know, small consolation, sorry). In the end I chose this one because I first read it several years ago, and I've never forgotten it. Its memorability is proven. Those giraffes, but especially that line, "like some doomed saint by Caravaggio," have stuck with me since I first read this sonnet in 2003.

I still have no idea what a ra-ra skirt is, or Lurex, but somehow the specificity makes the picture more vivid for me, even though I'm making up some of the details in my mind's eye.

This is nice. Quaint and glitzy at first then graceful and introspective and beautiful. Like a distant tango. Marvellous metrical seduction and suave rhyme.
Just great.
Janet

This is memorable, with the Caravaggio girl and the music and song lyrics at the end. And the giraffes. It moves fluently through a lot of beautiful language, none of it wasted, as it paints a scene and sets a mood. Nice pick.

RM

Great poem, yes, but a couple questions:

1) Am I the only one who wants to know a little more about the "we" in the last few lines?

2) How does the first line scan? My ear wants to make it start with two anapests (and therefore a foot short). Is it in fact iamb trochee iamb? Or is Placa accented on its second syllable (if so, wouldn't it call for an accento escrito [sp?]?), thus making the whole poem regularly iambic? (And if it is as regular as that, is that a problem?)

Questioningly yours, --Simon

I think the poet intends: iamb, trochee, iamb, iamb, iamb (just as in L6).

I think I share Simon's second question. I too would've liked a little more story to go with the atmospherics, but the "atmosphere of veiled regret" is terrifically well-captured. It's a very fun read.

Quick follow-up to John's: I hear line 6 (as the whole poem, bar perhaps line 1) as regular IP.

Huh, really? Well, hell, Simon. I can't hear "from" taking more stress than "steps" - and I thought that it was an expressive substitution, the second beat's coming more suddenly than expecting mimicking the girl's suddenly stepping out from the shadows.

Tomayto, tomahto!

Can't say how I'd scan L1, since I don't know how Placa Real is pronounced. L6 has a delicate spondee-ish feeling in the second foot. L12 starts nicely with a trochee. Otherwise, I hear iambs throughout. I don't mind wondering who "we" are. The poem is like a dream or a Fellini movie. I think the secret of the couple is hidden in the preceeding descriptions, like dream interpretation.

aBOVE PLAca reAL the PALM trees NOD
is how I assumed it was stressed. A luminous poem I think. Those caged giraffes! Just wonderful.
It's a shame that moment when the girl steps from the shadows didn't coincide with the quatrain's beginning but that's not a serious matter. I love it.
Janet
(edited out "lunimous" but isn't that a good word?)

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited May 04, 2008).]

This is my favourite thus far, but I've known it for a while. As for Hutchcraft's point about the 'we', I don't think it's a real problem. One gets the general sense of outsiders. And in the poem's context in the chapbook in which it appears, it is quite clear that the 'we' would be an English family on holiday.

I like this very much, as well. It takes a long time to "get to the point," yet manages to hold our interest through painting an interesting picture with such restraint that there's almost an element of very quiet suspense as we begin to wonder what the pay-off will be.

I might quibble with what strikes me as an excessive reliance on modifiers, many of which are very effective in isolation:

caged giraffe
pubescent prostitutes
Lurex boots
odd pink light
patched Baroque arcade
doomed saint
sallow beauty
drab parade
faded square
strangely phrased
veiled regret
quietly deny

Two of them in particular, "odd" and "strangely," strike me as somewhat evasive, since I would prefer to know how the light was odd and how the song was strangely phrased, not simply to be given the conclusion.

Yet having said this, much of my complaint is redeemed when I learn "what's really going on," which, I take it, is a couple on vacation trying to salvage a doomed relationship. They sought European beauty, but what they found were prostitutes and doomed saints. It might be unrealistic to expect the N, who is by his own admission still somewhat in denial, to understand the nature of the strangeness or why the light is odd. In fact, this may not even be a real vacation, but a dream or a nightmare.

I spent far too long on my "quibble" to give proper balance to my reaction to this sonnet, which is overall positive, and I wouldn't be suprised if, like Rose, I remember the sonnet for years to come.

I dislike the enjambment to "upon," a preposition for which I have limited tolerance, especially in such a position. Also bothered by the lack of indefinite article. Why not just "on an accordian and clarinet?" But this is a very fine, wistful and wise sonnet. Second place on my list. Is the last phrase from the song?

[This message has been edited by Tim Murphy (edited May 05, 2008).]

Rogerbobby's point on adjectives is an interesting one, and good solid orthodox workshopping, but in this case, I think the relative lushness of modifiers is a smart move. A caged giraffe has a very different physicality than a giraffe, the implication being long neck, low ceiling, and the image wouldn't work without the adjective. A prostitute in boots could be a 45-year-old Texas hooker in ropers (not likely in Barcelona, I know, but you get my drift). I like the oddly phrased music as it implies a certain lack of precision, tells you something about the narrator. He's apparently a non-musician. The music sounds 'foreign', but he can't quite say why. And 'patched Baroque' is pitch-perfect.

Quincy

This is a long-time favourite of mine.
Talk about atmospheric.
I think this is one of those rare poems that justifies its generous modifiers.

David

Oh shit, David, I thought you wrote it!

That's a nice compliment, Tim, but no I didn't enter this year--or more specifically, withdrew my entry when I realised it wasn't finished.

Barcelona's one I wish I had written.

Best,

David

I, like Simon, have no sense of the narrator or what he's doing in the poem. The first 11 lines are magnificent, with the exception of "upon." The scene is beautifully set, we are breathless waiting for the action, and then somebody from the audience suddenly leaps upon the stage and steals the limelight. There needs to be a way to tie regret and stubbornly maintained dreams into the rest of the poem and into the ambience of Barcelona, and there isn't. I tried to force the concept that "we" were the prostitutes themselves, but couldn't. The poem is too short.

Carol

This one is easily my favorite of the 6 poems posted. It so captures the flavor of Barcelona which I was lucky enough to visit some ten years ago. There were a lot of exciting things happening there - street artists displaying their creations, musicians performing and inviting people to dance in the streets, exotic aromas of food I'd never smelled before, even exotic caged birds for sale on La Rambla. The most delicious meal I've ever eaten was in Barcelona - tomato bread, rabbit and lobster stew, champagne, and even iced tea made especially for us because we (Americans) asked for it! And we visited the Zoo which put any zoo I've visited in the U.S. to shame. How I wish I could return to Spain. If I could, I'd spend my whole life traveling wherever I want, whenever I want. But alas, I am just a commoner who must get up and report to work everyday.

I was pleasantly surprised by the prostitutes/boots rhyme (don't think I've seen that before), and while I don't recall the prostitutes in Barcelona, I'm sure they were there among the hustle and bustle of the city along with all its fascinatingly gawdy architecture.

Anne, yes, the architecture is terribly Gaudi.

Yup,

I assume that is where we got the word gawdy.

Anne

Wow, that prostitute can't still be prepubescent, can she? I've admired this for a long time but maybe, because of that, I'm noticing the enjambments and modifiers more this time around. Also, wracking my brain to remember a song I never liked, sends me to a particular hell (which may be the point of the thing).

--But she could be post-pubescent.

And here, Frank, to drive you mad:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5pkkAhETYg

I'd suggest "on the accordian and clarinet." The posted version is a little weak; "upon" doesn't sound right and the line seems a little short on stresses. Even this revision isn't quite right. Isn't it a little padded to say "plays / on" or "plays / upon" instead of simply "plays"? Otherwise, very nice indeed.

Normally I'd agree, but isn't it different when there's a direct object? You play the accordian, but you play "Those were the Days" on (or upon) the accordian.

"On" sounds more idiomatic to me, but this poet is English, and I seem to remember someone here telling me that "upon" was more commonly used over there. (Brits, please correct me if I'm mis-remembering.)


[This message has been edited by Rose Kelleher (edited May 05, 2008).]

You are correct, Rose.
In Brit English "on" and "upon" are interchangeable.
Not that I'm speaking to you, you understand.

[This message has been edited by David Anthony (edited May 05, 2008).]

Quiet, and very well handled. Knowing your attachment to Barcelona, Carol, I assumed it was yours - guess not. But it's a fine poem, more mood piece than wrenching sonnet. A velvet fist.

The one thing that bothered me was the Caravaggio reference - such a quintisentially Italian Renaissance artist is awkwardly out of place in Spain and Barcelona, even if the specific image works. Great rhyme and line, wrong poem or artist. Unfortunately, I can't come up with a substitute - Picasso and El Greco end on the wrong stress, Miro is metrically strong but the art doesn't work, Goya has the right art but the wrong sound, etc.

Rose is right about the direct object's being "Those Were the Days." I should have taken another look at the original.

Reading this is like meeting an old friend. I think it's a wonderfully evocative poem, my favourite parts (if I have to choose) are the Caravaggio saint and that arresting opening image of the palm trees like caged giraffes.

The only thing I'm not sure about is the reference to the pop song. I feel references like this can be very personal and very ephemeral, and often mean diddly-squat to anyone else. The line from the song is okay, not brilliant, and I can't help feeling that the author could could have written a better line himself then the quotation.(Heck, I know his work--I know
he could.) But, having said that, I feel that the author gets away with it because the rest of the poem is so very good.

It's imaginative and atmospheric--the sort of poem you can read again and again with enjoyment.

Regards, Maz

But Michael, wasn't Caravaggio known for shocking people, in his day, with his down-to-earth-ness? I thought he used a prostitute as a model for the Madonna, or something like that. (I saw part of a PBS special about him once, so I'm an expert.)

Editing in: Also he was always showing people mostly in darkness, but with just parts, like faces or hands, in the light...



[This message has been edited by Rose Kelleher (edited May 05, 2008).]

I think the pop-song quote is potent in this case because it is an internationally known song set to an old Russian tune
Janet

Rose -

Yes, Caravaggio might have painted ordinary people - but in an extraordinary, stylized manner that focused on the play of light and dark (chiaroscuro - and I hope I spelled that correctly), and the faces were often extraordinarily delicate and sensitive. My problems are that (a) he is so identified with Italy and the Renaissance in my mind that it seems the wrong reference for a poem on Barcelona, and (b) there is nothing "Spanish" about his painting, nothing that emulates the relative in-your-face boldness and simplicity that I think of with Spanish art. As I mentioned, it's a great depiction of a face, and a terrific rhyme - but not for a poem about Spain.

Concerning the Italy/Spain mix-up:

As I recall, Italy and Spain are a mere (dare I say) beautiful train ride apart with the French Riviera along the scenic route from Rome to Barcelona, so the poem was smooth as butter for me. Poems are always subjective to our personal experiences, of course.

I can't really see how the nationality of the painter is relevant. "Those were the days" is not a Spanish song, for that matter, but it would have been popular enough there.
As it happens Barcelona is a Catalan city, not a Spanish one, and the centre of the Catalan separatist movement.
Best regards,
David

As far as the paucity of back-story for the "we," I think that is an integral part of what makes this work so well as a travel poem. The eye of a traveler becomes hyper-sensitized in unfamiliar territory precisely because it is initially unable to attach full-story to those details of life that it plays passive witness to. It is one of the delightful conditions of traveling, and happens in respect to language as well: being in a place where one cannot understand the meaning of the words spoken frees one's senses from their normal obsession with orientation and allows a different kind of picture to emerge...if one can relax, without the guidebook, that is. This is the sort of patient picture painted here. And by leaving this "we" un-explicated, the reader is likewise put in the position of traveler: viewing the whole scene (including the poetic voice) with that light touch and tone that the poem has captured so well, skimming across the surface of the world--a world that is far vaster than any of the tiny dramas which we are from moment to moment entangled in and which distract us from quiet breadth with nagging depth. Not that the traveling eye/poet doesn't draw conclusions or fill in spaces, but it is all done with far less urgency and consequence than the normal plot-line approach usually engenders. This voice never entangles, it merely drifts through mood.

As Quincy points out, of course, set into the sequence from which it is selected, this poem's back-story is allowed to emerge in an unforced manner. But it's reticence in this regard is, I think, what earns it its prize in traveler's literature.

Nemo

Rose

Unlike Carol--arguably one of the most astute readers I have encountered--I do see one back story, at least. And unlike Michael--who is far more learned in these matters than I--I have no problem incorporating an image from Caraveggio into a poem about Barcelona. If we follow this logic is Italy the only place we may reference Italian art?

The story: The tawdry, jaded world the couple is looking into (the prostitutes, the ra ra skirts)is challenged by the purity and goodness of the saint-like girl. Michael's description of Caraveggio's signature flash of bright face in the darkness seems to work well here. There was a time when the couple's love was innocent, pure like that girl. Thus: "Those Were the Days." The atmosphere of regret created by the musicians, the prostitutes--their lives thrown away--can't snuff out the image of this pure girl. Her presence, her tenacious presence in this lurid scene, lulls N and N's partner, apparently, into thinking there is still hope for them, that the love they once shared as represented by the girl is still posssible; but this is only a musically-induced mood that slips over them like fog. Soon, it will dissipate. Notice that the word "doomed" is placed with such force beside the girl. The girl's purity can't survive in such a place; the couple's relationship won't survive, either.

I find it a superb piece. Goethe's Sehnsucht meets Rimbaud's gaudy.

Best
Lance Levens

Lance, I like the back story you found in the poem, and I like the flexibility that allows a reader to supply his own back story and interpretation, but I see nothing in the poem to suggest that the "we" is a couple or that they are travelers, as Nemo suggests. I have no problem at all with the image of a Spanish girl with the face of a Caravaggio saint, but the poignancy and nostalgia of this scene isn't specific to Barcelona. Except for the Placa Real and the title it could be anywhere, and the "we" could be anyone, traveler or resident, jaded prostitute or jaded client.

Carol

I'm not sure I can "prove" it's there, but, as I noted in my comment above, I also thought it was a traveling couple. I think it's just one of the possibilities the mind automatically and immediately tries out when reading this, and it seems "right" because it makes the poem as a whole make sense and therefore "must" be what we're dealing with or else why would the poet be saying these things?

I would agree with Michael here except this isn't really a poem about Spain. It's a poem about a mood. There are no giraffes in Spain either. I still remember a magic frosty morning in a small gallery in London's Bond street when Lara's Theme from "Zhivago" on an accordion wafted through an open window as I looked at an exhibition of Munch. The poem to me is about a bombardment of images that induce a state of mind.
Janet

I'm with Carol on this one. Were the author to turn this into a caudate sonnet, it might prove more satisfying.

I'm in the anti-"upon" camp and am also not too keen on the word "aglow". I also keep wanting to read "have become" instead of "became" in L13.

Finally, if the reader is not familiar with the lyrics of the song mentioned, then L14 might be a little mystifying.