The banner reads culture is constructed not consumed! Wise words. Two poems this post that I wrote in Catalunya. The first was a dream. The winter of 1962/63 was the worst I have ever experienced. I remember seeing dead birds frozen on top of the snow drifts.
He dreamt of snow
light powdery stuff
that settled on his coat
amazed at how it stuck
like 1963 all over again
and him full grown this time
walking through chest high drifts
that held no chill
as if the months of sun endured
had burned out of him
the ability to feel the cold
he would wake to the same blue sky
the same heat as yesterday
I assume it was the extreme heat that prompted my dream memory. This second poem was written as I watched the last evening of the festival.
VIC, LAST DAY OF THE MUSIC FESTIVAL 2026
Impatient to relive his youth
he walks quickly to the square
to find the place rammed
by like the minded
come to reprise their glory days
he stands on the periphery
until hooked by that song
the one that sound tracked his 19th year
and is lost in the rip tide of the past
until the music stops
By the way Vic is pronounced Bic in Catalan. The swell of emotion for the last act, local boy made good, Quimi Portet was something to behold.
I leave you with Quimi.
Until next time.
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