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Postcards from Atlantico – Freeverse broadsheet


Published on

In the spirit of broadsheets of yore comes a handful of freeverse – written "white-hot" while exploring the entire coast of Portugal by the smallest roads possible then, stumbling through corners of Spain that surprised and thrilled me.

Accompanying the poetry are a few paintings made along the way featuring backyards in Portugal and snippets of Galacia, Andalusia, and Catalunya.

Download and print your own because when you've got a poet in your pocket, you've always got a friend.

Published in: Art & Photos
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Postcards from Atlantico – Freeverse broadsheet

  1. 1. Entire Coast of Portugal Red roofs falling cliff high into foaming waves Old man watches sheep who don't seem to mind Wondering where Atlantico turns into the inland sea The signs say no tractors or this way to ferries Brick stoves & clay ovens widely shown the man with the donkey wanders by She's happiest when moving fast and straight or eating small tasty thing with sauces "You are saying these strange things to me but i don't know why" Concrete poles houses thick and white red clay courtyards wrapped in blue tiles guarded by saints of forgotten names protecting palms Melted bold yellow walls churrasquerias in empty yards wood cut even, stacked in jumbles Posters of singers and toros workmen piling info tipico early lunch, dried cod chicken blood, sardines Waving she doesn't watch crossing shady lane with tiny cars the dog with the shortest legs. Adieu Karol in color Cerverjai dark, vino blanco she opens it cold & hands it sits down.Obrigato In the back of the tipico the swarthy introduces Saint Virgilio of Figuero de Foz Patron of wanderers, spicy clams and cold sangria Eyes grutas of secrets grottos holding reflection of monoliths and winters lasting deep into spring. Painting Europa The old Portuguese men in two button-up sweaters and driving caps so old that when taken off, the forehead stands gleaming white against the baseball-glove-leather texture of the faces. To tell you about skinny alleys with rows of habitations, colors as creative and fresh as I could’ve imaged. Iris purple and lichen green, the inside fruit of pomegranate. Me losing my glasses on day four of a 21 day trip. Scenery becoming hazier as the days go by, L. leads me by the elbow in Sitges or Lagos, I can see the things just not where they are. Tile everywhere, sometimes in pictures, sometimes in words, sometimes just deep, rich, unique color. Built forever ago or yesterday. Me up in night on a dark veranda swirling paints into dark windows with wrought iron rails, dangling vines and chipped archways. Standing atop Arc de Triumph with the young one spiraling around the view of Paris avenues of my imagination spoked out everyway towards possibilities and exploration. Sketching madly, drafting in a thousand buildings. continued... Postcards from Atlantico ~ by Dave Olson
  2. 2. Night trains through Spain in a compartment with four Catalan oldsters – digging my paintings and scrapbook. Sneaking away to find a train bathroom in which the window opens for exhaling Amsterdam’s amnesia haze. Cheap bottles of wine and exquisite picnics on empty beaches – bring me your finest meats and cheeses and take me to empty castles to clamber about! Henry’s Tranquility Navigating into nowhere speculating on something better than perfect prince of confusion or driven by pride Please tell me it wasn't for greed, spices or pope but just to go The cove protected heavy ships from plunders the point at the edge of the all anyone knows at this moment at least Why didn't you turn right dancing with Galacian girls or left into well enough now it's the ghost of you and Cristobol me and two earnest Germans watching everything heading into somewhere no longer new. The wind blows the same sometimes we wait in Aljezur patching holes. Sometimes we make it nowhere Navigate elsewhere Henry maybe draw me a line to divide something and don't compare hard. Santiago, April Skin of bright olives, quizzical eyes reflection flashing on a bike with bread or books cold on rocky step ledge three spires fade into drizzly twilight the bells ring again Walking sticks clunking into a square via sacred stairs the bells ringing in discord and grief As the Galacian girls laugh down a impossible alley twisted with greens and orange Where las Templars hunkered hiding three sets of bones through generations of darkness. now in a silver box of seashells. Postcards from Atlantico ~ by Dave Olson