Following
is the poem that Shawn Dallas Stradley wrote about Pilar
Pobil:
The
Spanish Woman
Pomegranate
strength
It happened right there
in front of all the society guests,
the virile
flowers,
the voluptuous
paintings
and the quiet
green of evening.
She was even married,
but this did not matter to my young-man heart.
Cornflower
beauty
It
was in her garden,
no one knew
no one noticed
no one suspected.
The peace of her victorian home
resting in
the avenued streets
with strong tides of color
rising and blooming throughout.
Espana,
her native
home recreated,
not the rocky
mountains
of my native
west.
Her life is art of true intent,
no pretense.
Lavender
vulnerability
Paintings of iris
clematis
and sunflowers,
sensuous
women,
and silent
cathedral masses,
bright shrimping
boats prepared to set sail,
repose in the garden,
as do quiet guests
and brightly painted chairs
in silent green alcoves
along walks of stone and brick
edged with
moss
an a cool summers eve.
Chartreuse
simplicity
This place
far removed
from my dusty life,
into vibrant expressions of emotion and joy
that tumble from voluptuous canvases
under wisteria trellises,
like walking through
breathing
in
living
one of her
potent paintings.
Disarming
sunflower
Turning,
I see a woman
dressed as a summer memory
My Duchess
of Denver
wearing yellow
pants and jacket,
and a straw
hat rimmed with bright flowers
handing out
invitations
in the Colorado
sun
to an afternoon
cocktail party.
The only
other woman I have known
whose very
life is art and poetry.
Rose
serenity
Wine and song,
green and light
rise and flow through the garden,
como relatos de Espanol
and stories
in English of
diamonds,
distant travels,
ideas and
art
softly mix
and float across the misty air.
Intellectuals pontificate on cerebral theories
of no consequence
amidst the
grandeur of the peace.
Pumpkin
innocence
Some speak of the chaos
of this colorful collection,
chairs with flowers,
growing,
as it were, in the garden,
and flowers flowing into the house.
For me,
no chaos,
only unity,
completeness,
wholeness,
perfection
of being.
Intimate
sea
Ha, how can I call her old?
Simply because she has spent more years
awake than
I?
I remember the rose garden of the Queen
and the moonlit
walk
con la senorita
Maria.
Now, I walk with the queen
in her rose
garden,
and return three mysterious nights
to bathe
in the tranquil jeweled evenings.
Midnight harmony
I, the awkward young poet,
wander freely and invited
among garden rooms.
She, the queen,
with vibrant eyes paints stories,
taking time
with each young man
explaining
the paintings that take their fancy
como el toro
negro del Medio Dia
with reality
indistinguishable
beneath the
hot Spanish sun
or
las tres
modelas sensuosas
lime,
lemon,
tangerine.
Fuchsia
clarity
And now the guests are gone,
the paintings taken in from the garden.
Soft raindrops silently begin to fall.
Y yo,
solo,
en el jardin de color y pacion
in love
with the young Spanish woman.
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