I’ve never been to the Mediterranean, much less Greece or Egypt or the Holy Land. Never out of the country, for that matter, excepting pockets of Canada. All the same, I’ve flown places in my imagining, and some convey some underlying kinship.

Barcelona is one of those. Seemingly far out of my northern nature, this Latin complex of sensuality, color, and Roman Catholic devotion also harbors a stubborn independence, under its ostensible domination by others. Spanish, but not Spanish. Catholic, and yet harboring a historic realm of heretical lay movements. Add to that a passion for the musical dramas of Wagner, accompanied by industry.

Perhaps my genetic line does run, as a marker suggests, from northern England to the border of Spain, albeit to the west of Barcelona. Uncork a red wine, then, and sit in my Smoking Garden on a summer late afternoon. Muse on a line from one friend in her year abroad, or another, or a daughter while listening to an opera broadcast.

See how they shape the collection Mediterraneo.


Mediterraneo 1

For these poems and more, visit Thistle/Flinch editions.


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