Today is January 6th: el día de Reyes, the day when Spanish children finally get their Christmas presents. (Although we were told that Santa took gifts to children all round the world, he doesn’t visit many houses in Spain as he leaves it to the Magi to deliver the parcels – or coal for those who’ve been naughty – on Twelfth Night.)
Continue reading “kings, sages and magicians”
Category: spanish
female style
The poem I posted a couple of days ago had the Virgin Mary complaining that her sandals weren’t letizios, which is a relatively new entry into Spanish fashion-speke and refers to the high-heeled, peep-toe style of shoe that is such a favourite with Doña Letizia, the wife of the heir to the throne.
That got me thinking about the different garments the Spanish have named after famous women.
Continue reading “female style”
the adjective in question
They say that “on the internet, no one knows you’re a dog” (although I reckon the bitches are usually easy enough to spot). It’s also sometime difficult to tell if the person you’re chatting to is real or a ‘chatbot’.
I reckon that Amy must be a bot –
Continue reading “the adjective in question”
better late than never
This should, of course, have been posted a couple of days ago for the fiesta de la inmaculada concepción on the 8th, but I’d completely forgotten its existence. It was written as an example of ekphrasis – in this case, a poem inspired by a painting – and I think for once it’s absolutely clear that I am not the narrator.
Es injusto, ¿sabes? They’ve hung me here,
expect me to balance on this blue-green planet,
not to slip and do myself a permanent
impaled on that luna creciente, despite the worm
at my feet and this beastly little cherub
pulling at my cloak while his colegas try
and sneak a peek up under my robe;
I’m pretty sure that even that one
over on your right who’s looking
rather more demure is actually
checking in the mirror, just in case
he gets a better view.
As for the clothes, ¡qué asco
de ropa me han dado! Couldn’t they afford
a bit of lapis lazuli? They call me
“Queen of Heaven” and yet they dress me
in the dowdiest of drab without a flounce
or furbelow. It’s no good telling me
my sandals have peep toes – sin plataformas,
ni tacones they’re not exactly what you’d call
“letizios”, now, are they? And what about
that blessed bird? Everybody thinks
that it’s a crown of stars I’m wearing, whereas,
in fact, it’s all the good-luck guano
Paloma, there, has found it in her sacred corazón
– or elsewhere – to contribute to this travesty
of taste. No es justo, like I said;
it isn’t fair: here I am, in Spain, hung
on the Prado wall, while out there
in the street, they’re living la movida Madrileña.
Can’t anybody see I’d really rather be
a flamenco dancer?
state of alarm
I woke this morning to find the country in estado de alarma.
On the radio they were talking about the military being mobilised, Spanish air space was closed and we were awaiting news from La Moncloa. It all sounded pretty desperate.
Continue reading “state of alarm”
don't confuse the narrator 