For this week’s Spanish Lace poetry prompt, we consider the Spanish and Castilian people, and those who inspired the coveted lace. A country of artists, craftsmen, and musicians. Listen to the Spanish guitar as the dancers take their place, the clicking drum of castanets, the pounding heels of the footwork. The swirl of color and cloth by the Matador. A narrative of mystery and passion.
Write a poem about the people of Spain, or a single person. Who are they? What do you observe? Capture a moment in the life.
Thanks to all who participated in our photo and poetry prompt. Here is a recent poem written by Richard that we enjoyed:
My European Education
Mother loved the Spanish gentleman,
his sapient ways, his voice that rolled
off the dark oils of Goya in Seville.
Altar to altar she followed him,
with her prayers and lace, her sacrifices,
broken from their lives like fruit from trees.
On the veranda she raised her demitasse:
to Granada, the Alhambra―her dream for us,
purged of the calloused and quotidian.
Along the esplanades she followed him,
gesturing to the ancient relief dropping tears
over the inspirited coins, its sanguine pool
quivering as she passed.
Photo by Elaine, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.
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Marcy Terwilliger says
Richard, such words I never dream of using that make up a poem so lovely. The voice that rolled off the dark oils, relief dropping tears, such beautiful works. I raise a glass of red wine to you.
I had a question for you from a poem you wrote where the last sentence has bothered me so. Your talking about the house your in and the last sentence was something like the sound of grains being pushed over the nail. This has been over four to six weeks ago but I need to know what you meant by that last statement?
Richard Maxson says
Marcy, thank you for your kind words. The last line in the poem you speak of, “A Kind of Sleep,” represents the voice of a house through the wood grain settling around a nail. Long ago I was a carpenter and spent a lot of time in old houses.
Richard Maxson says
Sagrada Familia
Like another Mary, my mother fled,
with her children, and a simple man
with hands cut and scarred
making lace from glass.
In Barcelona, we stood
in the shadows of Sagrada Familia,
in its tangled web, like beach sand
dripped wet to make its spires.
Too young then to realize the sadness
frozen in the cowled faces,
the toil and beauty of Gaudi’s
impossible basilica, I remain
now captured with them, listening
to the mourning doves coo.
Listening for the silent Christ to speak
his lines of no escapement;
listening to the sound of machines
drowning a vision; a baby born, simply
a dream of hope, buried in monuments,
and a photograph of a family lost in time.
Maureen Doallas says
Excellent, Richard. Wonderful opening and closing quatrains. You have a lovely feel for something deep and mysterious in the Spanish temperament.
Richard Maxson says
Thank you, Maureen.
Heather Eure says
Wonderful! Full. Rich. I like what Maureen said– deep and mysterious…
Richard Maxson says
Thanks, Heather and thank you for posting my previous poem.