Here's another poem I wrote on my recent trip to Catalonya. It was another of those writing exercises I set myself. I sit in a square and make notes about my impressions of the place. This usually involves much people watching.
The quiet of the afternoon is broken
by an American who talks too loud
to people a continent away.
I attempt not to listen so focus on the view
it is of an impossibly beautiful blue bay
with the Pyrenees to the left some of which still have snow.
The signage informs me today is voting Sunday.
While his back was turned the square has filled with Germans
who busy themselves taking photographs.
He wanders down a side street
his voice bounces off the smooth walls
until he disappears around a corner.
I have debated with myself about whether or not the line about voting Sunday needs to be in the poem. On one hand it gives a regularity to the stanza length, but on the other, it is a piece of information that is not relevant to the overall poem. Perhaps I am too influenced by Chekov's Gun, which states that all irrelevant information should be removed as it detracts from the clarity of the work.
I leave you with a classic piece of psychedelia courtesy of Amory Kane.
Until next time.
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