SPAIN

Toledo

In Poe’s Pit and Pendulum, a prisoner is subjected to
Inquisition tortures in a Toledan cell, overseen by
Unseen eyes. When you buy the convent marzipan
A chirpy, but invisible female voice conducts
Negotiations via a revolving wooden trapdoor.

They are running short of Spanish nuns. Novices are
Imported from Sri Lanka, the Philippines or Bolivia.
The holy immigrants stand in convent courtyards,
Chatting and smiling shyly as secular first world
Tourists drift past, soaking up historical ambience.

The city used to be a mescla of Visigoth, Jew, Moor
And Christian. Until the Reconquista banished every
Heretic trace. Save in the architecture. Only now do
Craft shops boast of their fine Damesquado, an art
Secreted through time by beauty, in spite of doctrine.

Religion saturates. A bent-double nun is guided out of a
Cab by a novice who smiles and corrects us assertively.
Mosques, synagogues and churches blend into one. A sign
On a restored house in the Jewish quarter welcomes Jews,
Palestinians and other Arab visitors to pass through its doors.

on the AVE, Toledo to Madrid

Fields blanched by frost. Sun a slow-falling
Twopenny piece. Clumps of fat-bellied trees,
Apeing overfed peasants. Half-built suburbs in
Skeletal ascendant. Fields pitted with white rock.
Stunted warehouses. Freshly-tarmaced roads
Brought to a Caesarian halt by rail tracks.
Monuments to old gods. Strutting pylons, proud
As punch. Sky catching hell-fire. City walls.


29.11.05

atrapado

Atocha station looks fantastic.
On its concourse a small jungle can
Be found, hydrated by techno-
Sprays, hung from slender poles.

The ticket office is made of marble.
Computerised with digital screens and
The prettiest station clocks that ever
Ticked. Just don’t try buying a ticket.

First you must collect your number.
Then discover your number is seven
Weeks from the ticket booth. Seven
Weeks later the computers are down.

Should the system ever work, the odds are
There’s no room on the train, which left three
Days ago. Why go to a station to catch a
Train, when you can go there to explore the jungle?


27.11.05

in the bank

An old woman asks me where I’m from
Wrongly guessing Bolivia. All her questions
Have answers attached. She asks if Madrid
Is not muy bonito? She asks if its people
Are not friendly? Two minutes later she’s
Chatting to someone else. In so doing she
Misses her turn in the queue. An old
Curmudgeon reproaches her. You were
Chatting, he shouts. You lost your place!
He jumps ahead, saying: It serves you right.


29.11.05

casa velasquez

A Spaniard talks on the phone. In the
Casa Velazquez. Something’s
Unstable. Smacks of simmering
Cauldron. Watch the fire. Don’t feed it
Too fast. He pitches and rolls in
Blunt Castellano. Behind are the fir-
Covered hills. A hazy sun seeps through
A pekinese sky. The wall the window
Frames was once a frontline. The hills
Belonged to Fascists. These walls
To their opponents. The bullet rico-
Chet danced across the lawn. The
Spaniard keeps talking. The phone’s
A control valve. He talks about his
Project: no way back home. He’s
Strung out like a sniper. Each call
A shot in the dark. Blind hope of
Hitting targets. It’s a phoney war.
Him on his side of the room, me on
Mine. The hills behind us. The
Silent struggle ever constant.


25.11.05

borracho

Digo: Mi vida es lleno de complicaciones.
Un tipo con quien estoy hablando dije:
Espero que no seas como el Fabrizio.

Y asi es. En la vida de trans-idioma.
Lo que alguien tiene, crudo, al frente
De su cabeza, es imposible a traducir.

Entonces. Entonces nada. La perdida
Es perdida. Lo que sabe su funcion
Esta bien. Lo de mas: navigar con suerte.


25.11.05