My brother Ian, who got me into cycling, loved Barcelona and loved Spanish poetry. After he died virtually all of his unpublished writing and his translations were destroyed when a family member took his computer and destroyed it. My eldest son got this copy of one of Ian’ few remaining poems, perhaps from my mom, and shared it with me. Now I’m sharing it with you.
After grocery shopping I
stop by for coffee at the tapas bar.
Inside there’s sawdust on the floor,
and it’s still dark, as if the morning
weren’t the start of a new day but a
continuation of the night before.
Already drinking tinto with tortillas
several salty men sit at the bar,
being ribbed by an old woman with no teeth.
Shortly after I sit down she lifts her shirt up slightly to expose her paunch
and the man next to her pulls it further up over her breasts,
and squeezing at a dug he checks it like a loaf of bread or meat
for sale in the mercado up the street.
She says her only pleasures are to eat
and sleep, then slaps her crotch
repeatedly and with great strength and gusto,
to demonstrate the region’s perfectly
by laughs and densely worded argument,
another round of tit-grabbing,
then pointing by all at cocks and cunts.
Afterwards we all feel quite content,
happy to begin the day’s affairs
with breakfast at Café Escudellers.
By Ian Davidson