Sant Medir

Well, it’s been a while. And in fact, about a week ago was another anniversary of starting this blog. What does that make it now? Three years? I’ve been away so long, I don’t know.

What have I been doing all this time, you ask? Well, first I finished my bloody thesis, the horrible end of my otherwise quite enjoyable Masters. That explains my lack of posts in January and February – I had no time to write.

But since then, I have done some writing. Most of it started and unfinished, like most of my work, but some done. You see, I’ve been writing for my friend’s website, 52things. The idea is that you create something every week for a year. Doesn’t matter what you create, whether it’s a poem, a cake, a painting or a movie… or, you know, lots of other things. Anyway, I’ve missed 2 weeks, and stuck to the other 14, which ain’t bad. If I miss one more week, I’m OUT. But, conversely, if I produce enough EXTRA stuff in a week, I’ll be allowed to stay in. You can look back through everything I’ve made so far here.

And I’ve been creative elsewhere too – it’s just that that technically counts as my ‘work’ (most of it is unpaid), so I can’t claim it on the 52things site. I’ve been updating the Barcelona Improv Group website (all of that content is my work, by the way), and running workshops, classes, weekend intensive courses…

Anyway, here is a poem I wrote for 52things, eagerly copied here. It’s about Sant Medir, which is a big festival in my neigbourhood, Gracia, and involves a parade with people throwing hundreds and thousands of sweets!

Sant Medir

Lethargy driven out
by thunderous drums
and wailing trumpets:
the Festival of Sant Medir.
Each thump and blart
prods me to be alert,
my calm cocoon invaded
by their exuded jollity.

I wait until it’s safe,
then, bleary-minded, emerge
to a grey apocalypse of candy –
crushed sweets and wrappers
dot the empty streets;
preferring to explore
these remnant roads,
I pick my way past
discards, spares.

Yawn-staggering home
at dark past three,
I sail round the clatter-bang
of the clean up crew,
the sweeping of weary
flourescent-vested women.
There will be order at dawn.



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