Mónica Lou*
*Passionate about contemplation, Mónica Lou Mercadé (Zaragoza 1984) is an artist, photographer and Doctor in Fine Arts from the University of Barcelona and the University School of Design and Engineering of Barcelona ELISAVA (UPF). Dancer and freelance photographer specialized in dance photography, she has worked for renowned international companies, nesting in capitals such as New York and London.
Her work has been exhibited in outstanding national and international museums, such as the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, the Cervantes Institute in Naples, the Museum of Classical Archeology at the University of Cambridge, the European Museum of Modern Art in Barcelona (MEAM), Frederic Marès Museum of Barcelona, the Provincial Museum of Zaragoza and the Pablo Serrano Museum of Zaragoza.
At the same time, she combines advertising photography with her work as a Master's teacher at Euruni (European Business School of Barcelona), where she teaches photography and design. Visit: http://monicalouphoto.tumblr.com
Memory Fragment with Mirabai
After reading Bhakti poets
most of the morning, I open
the door to the street and
sun, strong at the top of the huge
eucalyptus in the park. I walk
down Page, passing by the cherry
trees portly with pink. I touch
the flowers [moths float down
off my fingers]. On the next
block, near my car I must drive
downtown to a meeting, I step
under a willow just as a breeze
blows. The leaves make a sound
of ease as if transporting us both
from the city to a grassy river
bank—his pale-blue rowboat,
the slow rush of an old French
waterwheel—“the beauty of this
world is causing me to weep.”
Macaw
Enchanted by the fat pink
flowers of the cherry trees, I walk
down Sanchez releasing the locks
of lingering winter blues
[the songbirds
add a feeling
of freedom
too].
A rap on an apartment window
makes me stop and glance up. Perched
on the back of a sofa, a plump macaw
looks at me, tilting its head as if perplexed,
trapped behind glass on such
a liberating day . . .
but I am soaring now
to Chiapas and the Lacandon—high
squawks and bright scarlet wings—wild
brilliance through dense
jungle leaves.
Poetry by Virginia Barrett
Mid-June
I leave Goodwill with a book for
you. On Haight and Cole a guy sings
Cat Stevens, his old guitar plugged into
a small amplifier. I linger to catch
the chorus then walk toward the library
on Page to see if Poetic Memory is
waiting for me. It’s after 3pm and
the wind is picking up. I can feel the fog
creep its way over the park as I could
always sense snow coming when I
was a girl. Vermont has nothing to say
to this West Coast weather—seasons so
vague they end up being one
continuous wave. A taste carried you
back four decades this morning eating
whitefish for breakfast. Grandma Gussie
offering you the same in Yiddish at her
Brooklyn table when you were a kid.
Two generations nearly gone. I mourned
my mother most in winter.
Waking to Emily
Rain on the roof after so much sun
not rain but heavy fog dripping in the drain outside
Drain outside only sound
sound arousing you
somehow
I drift off dream again
Your dress at the top of the stairs
a ghost dress small and slim
floating white
the glass case a coffin upright
Arranged as if being worn without a body
the intimate pocket stitched at the hip to hold
paper and pencil should something come upon you
Rapture perhaps
or only sound of rain
a note for a poem
dripping its slow slant-ache . . .
Opening my eyes
to the rectangle of window
the height of the old eucalyptus trees
in the Panhandle
Swaying slightly as you may have moved composing
at the top of the stairs Morning’s finest syllable
Gray light of a daguerreotype
Your unattainable red hair
Circles Circling
I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.
Frank Lloyd Wright
It’s a rare scorching day
in San Francisco, autumnal equinox,
as I eat saag paneer at Pakwan in the Mission
sitting at a table on the sidewalk
sweating but wanting the sun
while dreaming of the beach
offering waves and sand
and that particular seagull freedom
of body and soul
when suddenly I see
a large flock of pigeons take flight—swooping
four graceful rings over the Roxie theater
precise inspired circles
circling
before alighting again
in four long rows
on the telephone lines
and I must remind myself that Nature
dwells always in our hearts as
these rock doves know
having adapted from life on cliffs
to the artifices of urban existence
even embracing the grime
pecking all day at debris
a man in a kilt walks by
holding his boyfriend’s hand
both have shaved heads
as monks do
while traffic continues
flowing on 16th
almost like the sound of surf . . .
Virginia Barrett’s work has most recently appeared in The Writer’s Chronicle, Narrative, and Weaving the Terrain (Dos Gatos Press). She received a 2017 writer’s residency grant from the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation of Taos, NM. Her chapbook, Stars By Any Other Name, was a semi-finalist for the Frost Place Chapbook Competition sponsored by Bull City Press, 2017. Barrett is the editor of two anthologies of contemporary San Francisco poets including OCCUPY SF—poems from the movement. She holds an MFA in Writing and a MAT in Art.