Poetry

Whe’re you going, poet

By: Daniel de Culla

Photo by Isabel Gomez de Diego (de Culla by immovable bike)

-Whe’re  you going, Poet?

-With this bike that’ s going nowhere, I’m going to take a walk through the streets of Ampuriabrava, Girona, where I’m spending a few days and, if its tires aren’t  punctured, I’lll travel the world any other day. A World that normally has a lot to see and a lot to suffer; but little to gain. A World in the power of some greats, men and women, guarded by thugs, who consider us other lazy, homeless people.

          From a group of people, walking past me, I hear something like a saying or a chuck; this:

“That a rich man asked a pedigree, at the door of a church:

-Why do youre asking? You don’t have a trade?

-I’m a summer waiter, sir.

          Exclaiming the rich man, turning his back on him and without giving him a coin, just as nuns and priests do:

-Normal that there’s so much unemployment.

          Near the beach of this Avenue, on the shore of the Gulf of Roses, next to the Mediterranean Sea, I see some poor people of solemnity, ragged, drugs, forgetful and drunk, who have nowhere to go, but they do have a dog that barks at them. Listen to its bark.

          Also, I see, now, in front of that bank or savings bank office, a group of people protesting against a possible eviction that is going to be carried out.

          I ask one of the relatives:

-Why are you being evicted?

          He answers me:

-Sir, my family has stopped paying the mortgage receipt for a couple of months. A bad month, anyone spends it, with money, of course; but it’s that my family will pass it all from now on, because it has nowhere to live or fall dead. The grandparents who held them are stiff (dead).

-I hope it gets better, but not by sticks, I replied.

          Following the path, caught my attention two ladies, I don’t know if midwives or greengrocers and, since they blocked my path, I stopped to listen to them without getting off the bike.

          The twos were talking about a group of three priests who had just emerged from a church across the street.

          One said:

– The grace is in each one of his crown, if not in the end of its cocoons, Chisdasvinta.

The another:

– Sometimes his virtue is so much, that they bend to his bad inclinations.

          She paused, looking at me, and continued:

-Look at their faces, Sisebuta. Their faces say it all, any physicist would say it: they’re badly inclined, vicious, thieves, falsifiers.

-But you Chisdasvinta,  have you studied something?

-I`ve studied Philosophy, Chisdasvinta. And sometimes I write Poetry and Short Story.

          I went on my way and, on another street, I saw, next to some garbage bins, a bedspread, plates and vessels, a sideboard or table, some pots that were empty, and other things.

          I asked a passerby who stood in front of the furniture and utensils, as if he’s watching to see if he was interested in taking something, since he had recently parked his car very close to the containers:

-Hey sir, and all that seems new, why is it there?

          He responded to me:

-An embargo and his collector have come to that building next door, where that family is crying on their doorstep, and they have left things that have not interested them.           I, who have an easy tear and cannot see these things, got out of there jumping with the bike.

###

Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, painter and photographer. He’s member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He participated in many Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève .He has exposed in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos.

Categories: Poetry

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