Journey To Lisbon
Winter Journey to Lisbon
Up rua Garrett I walked and it’s steep, in Baixa, the old heart
of Lisbon, past a shop that sells lottery tickets that sits beside
a shop that sells religious artifax, which is next door to a shop
that sells Cartier watches, if you buy a ticket and win, there is
money to decorate you mother’s grave and to buy a watch for
yourself. At the top of the street there is café Brasilia it used to
be Fernando Pessoa’s drinking den, the place is full of solemn,
nice Portuguese who, dressed for the occasion, drink nice cups
of coffee, their forefathers used looked down on Fernando,
irreverent poets and writers must go and drink elsewhere.
The master poet is now a statue sits outside in the rain and has
his picture taken by tourists, one wonders what he thinks of it all
as he sees the statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the Largo is called after him he is bald and
is dressed like monk. From Largo Chiado I could see the harbour
where tug boats ply their trade on grey waters; the church
“Incarnacao” where Antonio used to pray is beautifully restored,
but empty god had left by the backdoor, the front door was too
heavy, but I saw woman weeping near a statue of Christ, “opium
for the people? ” Yes, why not?
It is getting dark the Portuguese are swallowed up by the Metro
as middle aged men with folded cardboard boxes, look for a shop
doorway where to bed down; and over this scene hovers Amalia,
the great Fado singer, she came from poverty too, famous in her
own life time she had the sense to be a friend of the powerful and
made it to the top. When her friends toppled from power she was
out in the cold, but not for long the Portuguese quickly forgave her.
Fine rain falls on Fernando’s hat and Antonio’s bald head, empty
streets the city sleeps and leaves the space to cats, the sleepless,
whores and their sad clients.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Related quotes
Algeria Touchriek
My name is mr. touchshriek
Of touchshriek with mail over and fantasy
My shop sells egg shells off the shesores and empty females
Im thinking of leasing the room above my shop
To a mr. walloff domburg
A reject from the world wide internet
Hes a broken man
Im also a broken man
It would be nice to have company
We could have great conversations
Looking through windows for demons
And watching the young advance in all electric
Some of the houses around here still have inhabitants in them
Im not sure if theyre from this country or not
I dont get to speak much to anyone or that sort of thing
If I had another broken name
Oh, I dream of something like that
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Segue - Algeria Touchshriek
My name is mr. touchshriek
Of touchshriek with mail over and fantasy
My shop sells egg shells off the shesores and empty females
Im thinking of leasing the room above my shop
To a mr. walloff domburg
A reject from the world wide internet
Hes a broken man
Im also a broken man
It would be nice to have company
We could have great conversations
Looking through windows for demons
And watching the young advance in all electric
Some of the houses around here still have
Inhabitants in them
Im not sure if theyre from this country or not
I dont get to speak much to anyone or that sort of thing
If I had another broken name
Oh, I dream of something like that
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shop, she shops!
Once she constantly smiled
Bought cloths and jewelry that gave her style
Shop, shop, shop
She shopped till she dropped
Shop, shop, shop
She just could not seem to stop
Her credit was on top
Her spending way rocket up
She paid with cash or credit card
This Lady was absolutely shopping mad
Shoping malls!
Markets stalls!
Shoes, clothing, and handbags she bought all year long
Spend, spend and spend daily was her beloved song
Shop, shop, shop
She now shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
This lady has now put a stop
Today is different shopping expedition
This time spending with supervision
No more that crazy spending addiction
Her credit card is cut
Her goods seized, the whole lot
Today she spends, her pockets hurt!
She has become street wise
Haggling with each price
She has become precise
About what she needs and not what is nice
Shop, shop, shop
She shops like a flop
Shop, shop, shop
Her spending has taken a big drop!
This lady has now put a stop to shop!
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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The Video Shop
The local factorys been pulled down
By an overseas corporation
Now all of my brothers are looking around
For alternative occupation
I was sitting by the telly with my brother, kenny
When suddenly the penny dropped
While all of my brothers are sitting at home
Ive got a bank loan and Ive opened up my very own
Video shop
Video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
Comedy and tragedy are all sitting on my shelf
And if youve got a fantasy
For a small rental fee
You can set yourself free
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
From all of the depression in you head
Caused by all the living in the red
Ive got a bootleg version of citizen kane
A second hand copy of psycho
Ive taped them off the telly so you shouldnt complain
And theres no guarantee youll get your money back again
From my video shop
My video shop
If you want to escape, I can rent you a tape
To relieve your situation
If you feel a bit low, I got a good peep show
cos everybody knows almost anything goes
At my video shop
At my video shop
One fifty a day and Ill fly, fly you away
Its nothing to pay to fly far, far away
I can help you through that lonely night
Ive got technicolour, black and white
I can guide you through those empty days
Make you smile and take your blues away
O let me fly you away
At my video shop
Fly, fly you away
Another factorys been knocked down
But nobody ever complains
And all of my brothers are customers now
We all play video games
I can see it in the eyes of all the lonely wives
If theyre bored and they feel like a change
I do sales, rentals, even a swop
And if you feel like a change, well it can all be arranged
At my video shop
At my video shop
At my video shop
At my video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
And everyone who walks in through that door
Has got something that theyre looking for
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
Oh, at the video shop
Oh, at the video shop
Oh, at the video shop
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your shop door
I looked at the sign on your shop door
it didnt say open or closed
I tried the handle because I wasnt sure.
Thats why im here inside
Well that and the fact I want some sweats
my dad often goes to the Cafe
and they look at him when ever he eats
he takes a packed lunch
he sits on the seats
there was this one time when he got a punch
it was because he wasnt allowed to buy
they threw him out they give him a black eye
they spat on him and I never knew why.
I looked at the sign on your shop door
it didnt say open or closed
I tried the handle because I wasnt sure.
That cafe he entered was open
and he was not there when the window was broken
he just needed somewhere to sit on a rainy noon
an accent like his?
The roads were his only room.
They're tools? Knives, falks and spoons
His? a shovel, a graft, to dig out the root which so many hold onto.
I pass your shop every day thinking,
'Open or closed to enter I dont know if I want to'.
poem by Daniel McCann
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Down the Sweet Shop
The little corner shop
full of special treats
Chocolate, bottles of Pop,
and jars and jars of sweets.
With pocket money in hand
given to me by my Dad
sometimes a little bit extra
if he heard I'd been a good lad.
I really loved that little shop
it was every young boys dream
you could get everything you'd want
Football Cards, Toys, and Ice-Cream.
My dad used the shop as well
he'd pop in to buy his fags
and Mum did her weekly shop
she'd get me to help her with the bags.
Then along came the big supermarket
the little shop began to lose it's trade
so sadly it had to close it's doors
an end of an era again I'm afraid.
But I'll always remember the little shop
stood there at the bottom of our lane
yes it may have only been small
but it had more style than any supermarket chain!
poem by Kevin Halls
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One Of Us
One of Us.
There is a smudge on my computer screen I try to clean it with spit,
but no. Perhaps it is finger mark left behind by those strange people
who sit in back of the computer repair shop? Their diet is cola and
chocolate, yet they are thin, bald and so weedy looking I have must
whisper to them or they will shrink away. They sulk too if I disagree
with their findings it will take weeks before I get my computer back.
When the owner shuts shop they climb into toolboxes, the ones with
the helpful drawing of a screwdriver. Maybe the smudge is a camera
eye, they sit in there and watch me. When I have drink tonight I’ll
pour it in my bedroom, then go into the bathroom, smoke a cigarette.
Buy a can of cola and a bar of chocolate, eat and drink in front
of the screen. And they will say: “Look, he is one of us.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Pavement Cafe
In the café where I sit I can see the village’s church, nice building
typical Portuguese architecture and painted white. I walked inside
it once, didn’t like that so much, as it had dark corners and whiffed
of sins not yet forgiven. It is quiet here now as the people prepare
for winter sleep in damp houses. There are a few tourists about
mostly elderly bad on their feet. The church bell tolls one o’clock,
it is good to know time even in Paradise. Today I will go for a walk
in the village’s cemetery a lovely place full of flowers and often
with pictures of the departed when they looked ruddily healthy
and the claw of death had yet to touch them; and I mustn’t forget
the good silence. Whatever the argument was it means nothing
anymore. The waiter brings me a coffee and a sly cigarette which
I smoke with guilty pleasure, yet looking out for my doctor he often
comes here for his coffee. Yes, this is another perfect day.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Loving Fun
Old lady
Age - 65
Old man
Age - 80
Booth are
Begger's...
shop to shop...
Begein
On the road...
shop to shop
They are not
Husband and wife...
They are
Friends
To companian...!
But;
Booth are
Beger's
Enjoy the life
Loving fun...! !
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Empty Streets
The town is quiet, empty
Street lights cast shadows
In doorways and windows
Curtains drawn, people sleeping
A night rain is falling fast
Through the amber halos of street lights
Lighting the roads and pathways
There is not a soul to be seen or heard
The parked cars line up colourless
The dull reflection of a shop window
Offers little comfort in passing
A stray cat sits ahead in some shade
Staring intent before running away
Into the empty night gone
What little wind there is, cold
A car passes, unknown passengers
The temporary warming light
Soon gone disappeared
Hand fishing for keys in pockets
Through a door into shade
The empty streets replaced
poem by Matthew Holloway
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An Emigre
I have lived in this foreign country long, perhaps longer
then I should. Many seasons I have seen, my hair is grey
brow wrinkled from seeking understanding. I know their
culture and sing their songs. But I came here as an adult,
I have read Fernando Pessoa, know Fado and can talk
about my favourite singers. Yet, this culture is not in my
soul it does not echo in my heart. I wanted to be a part of
my new Iberian country, but when I remember a lullaby
my mother used to sing a cold Nordic winter night; when
guests have gone home and the party is over, I know I’m
forever a pretender. I have lived here long, too long, but if
I go to back to the old country I will be a stranger walking
in a town where no one knows my name and I’ll dream of
my mythical Portugal.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Nice Middle Class Family
A Nice Middle-Class Family
I know the guy, who planned the Lisbon Metro,
he’s French, called Pierre and has a red beard,
the only famous man I know. He lives in a posh
part of Paris, his wife paints livid pictures, lots of
ruby, I wonder why, as nothing in Europe can be
more worthy than the French bourgeoisie.
Two pleasant daughters and a splendid son too
all firmly educated, they can play piano and sing.
His girls are married to young, simple men from
the cultured field of soft carpets and commerce.
They will do well, but not as ably as their father
who helped construct the great Lisbon Metro.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Sea-Shell Shope
She sells those sea shells
Along the sea shore
Cheaper than the sea shells
At the sea-shell store.
It's a shop-keeping nation
In a shop-keeping world.
Shopkeeper, Shopkeeper
What will you do
When all of your neighbors
Are shopkeepers too?
poem by Adeline Foster
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Shop Talk
I seen you in your pajamas
Drinking coffee at the house of pies
You was flipping for the check
And talking like your tongue was paralyzed
You were saying something
That I dont understand
Bout looking other places
While youre holding my hand
Lets stop
Lets not
Talk shop
In front of all these guys
Chorus:
Lets not
Talk shop
Shop talk
Shop talk is talking something
That you dont realize
Loose lips sink ships, shake hips
Bad tips draw spies
I want you when I can get you
But you only want me on the rise
Well I thought I had your number
But your numbers too loud
Now youre standing on the table
And were drawing a crowd
Lets stop
Lets not
Talk shop
In front of all these spies
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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London nights
Fresh summer evenings, shop windows, fancy dresses,
theatres buzzing with crowds,
coffee aroma from cafe doorways.
It could be the middle of the day in London,
it's a city of magic, a city of the night
as the West End awakes.
Lovers walk hand in hand in brightly lit streets.
bars harbour young dudes bubbling
to find romance or just sex.
I slow the car to watch a crowd gather as they
spot a street performer do his thing
and then I speed away.
If you look into the shadows you'll see tramps,
working girls, wayward teens with knives
and empty eyes.
Alongside the rich walk the poor and needy,
the gap is cavernous, shameful
and as they struggle others thrive.
One hand of black jack at The Sportsman
would buy a meal for them but the profit
all goes on the ‘black', a roll of the dice.
It's not nice but that's London life,
take the good with the bad
and hang on to the light.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The City is a Poet
Church basements with AA meetings
Creeds have reached into the walls
Moved by the coffee shop art
Farmers market with no GMO's
Organic friends and underground papers
Open museums alive with symbols
The rivers and old train depot
I buy you a flower for your hair
We glide down sun set streets
Castles and stores
Mannequins dressed for a haberdashery
Garlic bread and wine
High heels click like clocks
A kiss under the cathedral lights
I am the university
You are the plays
These stones quarried in blues
The jazz of urban night
Papers, names, street signs, ghosts
Grave yards like whispering time
They all come out in the bells
The city is a poet
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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San Fernando
Weit Im suden, leigt ein hafen
Es war vunderbar, dort vor einem jahr
Tausend wunder, dort Im hafen sind die grunde
Das ich bald, nach suden fahr
San fernando, san fernando
Ich komm weider, wenn die rosen wieder bluhn
San fernando, gruss maria
Gruss die sterne und die liebesmelodien
Weit Im suden, leigt ein hafen
Der voll zauber ist, den man nei verygisst
Doch das schonste, doch Im hafen
Sind die lippen, die mich tausendmal gekusst
San fernando, san fernando
Ich komm weider, wenn die rosen wieder bluhn
San fernando, gruss maria
Gruss die sterne und die liebesmelodien
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Quality Of God
In torn dress a poor boy,
Was standing near a shop,
Greeding eyes of this boy,
Bare footed, seeking joy in the shop.
The shop was full of rich people,
There was selling garments and shoes,
Toys too, something in the shape of apple,
People were in fine dress and shoes.
Nobody paid heed at this boy,
And his eyes were tearful,
All were busy in buying toys,
But boy was standing thoughtful.
A lady came there who had bright eyes,
Accompanied the boy and entered the shop,
Bought for him garments, shoes and toys,
Buying all they left the shop.
Lady put her hand on his head,
'Go now' said with love,
Boy smiled and turned up his head,
' Are you God? ' asked with love.
She replied with smiling face,
'I'm His slave not God.'
Answered the boy with confidence,
'I knew that you must belong to God.'
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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Christmas Sells
Dashing through the mall
the last day’s sale parade
Through the stores we charge
spending all the way
Bells on counters ring
credit cards a’flight
Oh what fun to laugh and spend
we’ll shop into the night
Jingle bells Christmas sells
tingle all the way
Oh what fun it is to hide
the cost on lay-away
Christmas sells nothing quells
For opulence we’ll pay
Oh what fun to slide into
financial disarray
poem by Tom Courtney
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Part 1 of Trout Fishing in America
THE COVER FOR
TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA
The cover for Trout Fishing in America is a photograph taken
late in the afternoon, a photograph of the Benjamin Franklin
statue in San Francisco's Washington Square.
Born 1706--Died 1790, Benjamin Franklin stands on a
pedestal that looks like a house containing stone furniture.
He holds some papers in one hand and his hat in the other.
Then the statue speaks, saying in marble:
PRESENTED BY
H. D. COGSWELL
TO OUR
BOYS AND GIRLS
WHO WILL SOON
TAKE OUR PLACES
AND PASS ON.
Around the base of the statue are four words facing the
directions of this world, to the east WELCOME, to the west
WELCOME, to the north WELCOME, to the south WELCOME.
Just behind the statue are three poplar trees, almost leafless
except for the top branches. The statue stands in front
of the middle tree. All around the grass is wet from the
rains of early February.
In the background is a tall cypress tree, almost dark like
a room. Adlai Stevenson spoke under the tree in 1956, before
a crowd of 40, 000 people.
There is a tall church across the street from the statue
with crosses, steeples, bells and a vast door that looks like
a huge mousehole, perhaps from a Tom and Jerry cartoon,
and written above the door is 'Per L'Universo.'
Around five o'clock in the afternoon of my cover for
Trout Fishing in America, people gather in the park across
the street from the church and they are hungry.
It's sandwich time for the poor.
But they cannot cross the street until the signal is given.
Then they all run across the street to the church and get
their sandwiches that are wrapped in newspaper. They go
back to the park and unwrap the newspaper and see what their
sandwiches are all about.
A friend of mine unwrapped his sandwich one afternoon
and looked inside to find just a leaf of spinach. That was all.
Was it Kafka who learned about America by reading the
autobiography of Benjamin Franklin..............
Kafka who said, 'I like the Americans because they are healthy
and optimistic.'
poem by Richard Brautigan
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