Veritable Vintage

I was eager to seek out the city's vintage shops and after being within sniffing distance of fusting garments numerous times, I was eventually pointed in the right direction by a friend.  Vintage garb galore, I had found my destination brimming with yesteryear charm.  Calle Rierra Baixa is brimming door on door with second hand stores offering everything a vintage lover’s heart desires. 

The city's offer of high quality vintage togs reaches beyond this singular strip.  One of my favourites for bargain garments on an Au Pairs wage was Retro City (Calle Tallers just off Las Ramblas).  Also check out these fine establishments for some vintage spangle...

Wild

Wild, situated in the Raval, mainly sells retro sunglasses from the Forties to the Nineties, including models from designer brands like Cazal, Christian Dior, Yves Saint Laurent and Boll.

There are also a few accessories such as vintage handbags and purses in stock.

C/Joaquin Costa 3
08001
Barcelona
Phone: +34 93 443 8644

 

Exodus

Exodus is a nice little vintage and second-hand clothes shop in the

C/Carders 51
08003
Barcelona

Blow by Le Swing

Le Swing (or Blow as the shop is called) is one of the best vintage shops in the city. It offers carefully selected, high-quality vintage pieces, including the odd designer finds as well as accessories such as bags and sunglasses.

C/ Doctor Dou, 11
08001
Barcelona
+34933023698

Unpack, wander aimlessly and get caught in the haven...

After being met at the airport by a woman called Mette we then drove to the apartment where I would be staying with a lady called Blanca.  Mette commented that I was travelling light, most American students she had picked up had at least two cases for the month long stint.  I was in Barcelona to complete my TEFL certificate and soak up the espana way of life.  Having just finished my final year at University and always having a panging desire to see the world, the certification seemed like the perfect route to fuse career and travel opportunities.  Blanca greeted me warmly as she opened the door, I debuted some of my limited Spanish lingo and she showed me to my room.  As I unpacked my compact case and took in my surroundings I heard Blanca shout "I am going out for the afternoon, I will see you later".  Suddenly it dawned on me that I was actually here alone with no social crutch to depend on.  I decided to venture out to explore the barrio with the sun shining on the leaf shaded streets.  With each paved flag I invested hope that it would guide me the right way.  I had nothing to landmark as it was all new to me, in a daze I found myself at Rocafort Metro station and somehow managed to end up on the road heading towards Plaza Catalunya.  Unknowing to the fact that the city was in the throng of celebration for gay pride festival I wondered wether metal studded leather briefs was standard afternoon garb.  I took refuge in nearby Starbucks, clinging to familiar comforts.  As I gazed out of the window I met eyes with a girl smoking a cigar and then suddenly a man burst in asking for water.

I pressed on in my search for the main hub of action. I could sense that I was close as the energy lured me to the crowds of locals and tourists spattering the streets neighbouring the famous Las Ramblas.  I decided to hop on a tour bus to take in the cities sprawling attractions.  The tour guide Luis seemed very friendly and eager to highlight the main delights of the city, we chatted and he asked if I wanted to go and get some food together.  In the spirit of meeting new people and taking every opportunity to see the city from a local slant I joined Luis.  We sat on his roof terrace, shared red wine and bread.  The jutting skyline and patch worked rooftops framed by the setting sun.  I left and set off on the second half of the city tour, the evening chill began to set in as i shrouded my bare shoulders with a beach towel I had packed just in case. 

My intrigue had begun to fade like the blazing sun and I was ready to rest my head in my temporary bed.  I got off the bus where we had started yet nothing looked familiar.  I used my broken Spanish to ask for directions and was told to take the metro.  My pockets were empty of coins and notes and I continued on a path of intuition.  I finally made it to Calle Calabria yet I couldn't find the right apartment. I wandered up and down as car headlights flashed brightly only to quickly fade.  I tried my key in so many locks yet the key failed to turn.  Time passed and confusion lingered.  Eventually I found my to my new home and Blanca was glad to see I had returned.  "Just got a little bit lost on my way back", we laughed and joked and I felt happy to be so comfortable in an abode so new. 

Chapter 1: Barcelona

My first leap into foreign waters alone.  I don't really know what I expected of Barcelona but by the time for leaving had arrived I wasn't sure whether I wanted to let it go.  The city sweeps you into a flurry with its energy, diversity and magnetism.  To be able to share the city's vibrant allure with new faces which soon became firm friends filled me with a sense of liberation and zest for life.  Walking along a path which you have never before, not knowing where it will lead, triggers an adrenaline which you constantly want to feed...

Hidden Treasures

Lifting the lid on a legacy.

This worn Black Magic box

Stores the memories of exile and return.

The crumpled parching papers

Inked with the fountain nib

I struggle to decode the scribings.

RAF service and release book,

'Catapillar Club' loyalty card,

Sown crests and military badges.

I root to the bottom of the box

Finding a purple and white ribbon

Frayed at each end.

A patch from your warfare past

The threads loosen,

Eased by the release of time.

"An act of valour, courage or devotion

to duty whilst flying

in active operations against the enemy."

The Red Cross ribbon

No longer tied to the bar of pride

As its purple stripe shimmers.

Though from it the metal no longer hangs,

In my mind your bravery shines

Like golden treasure.

Great Britain

9th May 1945

"Today I left Luneberg by plane and arrived in beautiful England.  What a reception we had on landing!  -have never been so close to tears since I was a lad.  Expect to be home in 48 hours".

My plane touched down at the break of dawn.

The English soil beneath my feet, 

The relief as strong as the rising sun.

My eyes were moist as I filled my lungs 

with the cool, light air of a blighty morn.

And as the Nightingale

welcomed me home, 

I whispered a prayer-

"Thank you Lord, I survived my war".



Birthday party

29th March 1945

"All things considered we are very fortunate here at Tarmstadt.  Two days ago I celebrated my 28th birthday!"

Another day another year                        

28 years since my birth

Our cook baked a large cake

complete with almond paste

iced "happy birthday" on the top.

I had so much food that day

I was almost sick.

Though there were no candles lit

I could make one wish

That we could make it back in one piece.       

Homeward bound

29th January 1945

"It snowed all day and many had to fall out by the road, overcome by weakness.  Most of these men were picked up by carts and brought tot his place, but it is said that several who fell asleep died from exposure"

Frost bitten fingers

nipped like the flea-ridden bunks

Your blinkered face

chiseled by the cutting hail

which pelts upon your woollen uniform

damp with the tears of war.

Your exposed fingers clutch tight

the handle of your red cross box.

The clenched fist, white and numb

takes me back to the propaganda from yesteryear.

The once jubilant punch of patriotism

deflated like a popped balloon.

Steps of the hunched figures

expose the foreign ground.

Through the blanket of snow may try to conceal

the heartache shed on distant fields,

the disguise cannot fool these soldiers minds

who seek their freedom at the end of this line. 

Suspended from duty

We are the men that no longer fly

Britain's flag in warfare combat.

Forced to stand back and hope

our comrades fill in the gaps.

The RAF badge stripped from our breast

Like a throbbing heart

Pulsating with the vigour of patriotism.

Each beat pounds like the distant bullet

That plagues our daily thoughts.

The repeated cud, the indigestible reality.

Each drop of blood re-marks the trail

Of World War One faded stains.

Back home

1st January 1945

"I'm afraid I'm not adapting myself to this life, instead of trying to live here I'm just existing in dreams of the past"

I struggle to sketch the lines

that take me back home

to revert my memory back to old times

To friends and faces I have known

The crumbling led in my pencil

mirrors my state of mind

I wish I had a map from which I could stencil

Or a dot to dot to be my guide.

I rack my brain, trying to piece the puzzle together

My house number 7 Sycamore Avenue

My room with the light on but is anybody home?

Rusted gate, blue front door.  I struggle to recall any more.

Alder Avenue, Peelhouse Lane,

Kingsway, the bridge

All links in the chain

Which help me to feel like I'm home again.

The Wings of Life

Like migrating birds they soared aloft
Making geometric patterns in their flight
And though their flesh was warm and soft
The eyes that search the sky were hard and bright.

But hate with hellish speed and guns that wreck
Can fool the quickest eye and turning steel
Soften the quickest heart and make it weak
Warm flesh alone can know the pain to feel.

The eager youth, curling behind the lash
Of hailing lead, borne on the breath of hell.
Watched life's bright dream become a blinding flash
And lifted up his head to say farewell.

Granted one glance before a flaming death
He traced the brilliance outline of the cloud
And knew then as he vainly fought for breath
The darkling fall of night would be his shroud.

God never meant that we should desecrate
The quiet beauty of the sky with flame
Or urge our gallant youth to dedicate
Destruction to glory of a name
And those he spared see justice in their plight
The pain of a caged bird observing flight.

Plucked

The pressed uniform.  The tilted hat.

The shiny weapons.  The newspaper headlines.

The adoring look from the girl next door.

The glory creased by the shock of war.

"This man is your friend!" "Be part of the victory!"

The military badge stitched onto the skin,
The bud has flowered as he waves goodbye.
He vibrance fades, hardened by the front line.

The marching lines leave their trail
The poppy roots wrap around our hearts.
The plucked petals shall never wither
Their crimson veins map the memory of plight.

Bale Out

There came the cry, as we huddled behind
"Bale out" yelled the skipper, but this was no drill.

We'd practised many times before

My mind went blank, my limbs were stiff.

Paralysed by trepidation,

I must rise above it for the boys in my station.

Suddenly on the edge, my legs dipped
Liberated from the chaos.
Hands gripping either side of the opening,

Just as a baby clutches its mother's finger.

"No time for hesitation, others waiting",
A quick look at the strained faces

An unspoken goodbye.

"Oh Christ" like a bird let me fly.

Freefall

Suspended, hanging by a solitary thread
Paused in motion, time stood still.
No give int his cord of descent
A vacuum he's not willing to fill.

Adrenaline compressed to a dull ache
The wings of life come together,
Praying hands plead for mercy.

He felt nothing but almost immediately saw a miracle
A flutter of white, a sharp flap

A terrific jerk and stab of the harness straps

Cut him from oblivion.

He look in awe at this flag of liberation
He has reached an unknown destination.

Pendulum

Singed nerves soothed by the patchwork below
Fields haphazardly seamed together

White threads weave through the vast landscape.

Like a paperweight tied to a sack of silk
Swinging like a pendulum on a ticking clock
Waiting for the freefall to stop.

Runway

Nature's landing pad, an earthy quilt
A plucked flower ready to wilt.
Restored by mother nature's healing hand,
A wounded nightingale ready to land.

Two aging Black Magic chocolate boxes store the memories of a true hero; I am amazed by the newspaper clippings, medals and novel drafts of which I am so lucky to be in possession.  The most amazing discovery I have made is Grandad's Prisoner of War diary, which has been my main source of inspiration.  He joined the RAF in 1942 and was awarded with a Distinguished Flying Cross Medal after bailing out over France and eventually escaping through Spain to Gibraltar and back to England.  In 1943 he re-commenced his flying duties with the Halifax bombers but was shot down on his way to Dussledorf.  This time he had to bale out directly over the bombing target and was sent to a Prisoner of War Camp, Stalag Luft III.

I have chosen to begin the collection with a sequence of four poems outlining the transition from his bail-out to his landing.  I chose to present 'Bale Out' as a reverse sonnet and 'Freefall' as a conventional sonnet, to demonstrate the mirroring of what must have seemed like two eternities.  I chose to reduce 'Pendulum' to two stanzas and 'Runaway' to one which becomes reflective of Grandad's gradual decent, and becomes almost like a countdown to landing. 

"Let it Rock"

430 Kings Road, the birth of SEX

Leather punctured by a train track of pins

slogan-sloshed t-shirts, uniform.

Two fingers up to British conformity.

"Too fast to live, too young to die"

70's free-thinkers join the fashion picket line

straight jackets and bondage bursting with spirit.

A rebellious attitude Angolmania fans inherit.

Tartan and tweed, tuliped and tailored

History stitched into the red and gold label.
From corsets and crinolines to stripes and pirate boots                                                                           
The stamp of the orb is the biggest clue.   

The high priestess of punk, the queen of seams
sits regally swamped by material reams.
Chalky white skin, orange hair asserting caution,
strapping up her platforms its Ms Che Guevara.                  

In the distance

The jolting skyline, jutted shapes
Reach for the slated skies.
A horizon, a sunset of concrete chaos.
Which path to choose from the "streets in the sky?"

Some may call it grim.
To many this is home
A place invested with dreams.
A dormant eyesore of rabbit holes
or breeding ground for Yorkshire pride?

Bard street, Claywood, Hyde Park and Embassy Court flats
Push chairs rattle on the layered decks above.
Salt of the earth or plagued with scallies?
Dubbed "San Quentin" by its residents within
Security fencing keeps them hemmed in.

A crumbling heritage? Or hindrance to the city?
Level it to the ground or let it stand tall?
Kicked to the curb like a punctured football.

Game Over

The fixture was drawn
A day that would haunt
the history of sport.

April 15, 1989.
The queues of lines
Create question marks,
Stamping into the nations hearts.

The time had come
chanting their rhymes
they snuck through the turnstiles.

Took those steps
with a queue they were met.
3 minutes to 3, nobody could see
The pitch for the multitudes of heads.

2 minutes to 3 and the gates had collapsed
Leaving many to breathe their last.
Plunged into chaos, gasping for the surface
Their Love of the game leading to murderl

3.09 and by this time
Dawned the panic of the crowd behind
Tearing down signs to act as stretchers,
spilling out onto the grass.

Those that entered the tunnel of death
Were united by love for their team,
Heroes past and present take the lead.


Don't be bitter, don't condone
Just remember those fans will never walk alone.

No smoke without fire

"Mate got a
Light"

Drag
after
drag.

Slumped in
a euphoric
rush.

A flick
of ash

and the
light
was
gone.

Castle Calibre

If you want to be called a "duck"
And get your bargains by the lot,
The head to the darker side of town.
Where they're "rate" willing to do you a deal
On meat, cigs or even steel.

"12 for a fiver, 2 for a pound"
A working class breeding ground
Out looking to earn a crust.
There's your Northern Dell boys
but keep an eye out for Fulton's Fagin.

They;ll have you when you're not watching
So grip your bag and hold on tight,
for the rocky road of Castle Markets delights.
Get yourself a dodgy charger,
For half the price if you're willing to barter.

Watch out for the oncoming traffic
The convoy of buggies will ram you down.
Their sovereign clad drivers
will take no prisoners,
championing the pavements for mothers and kids.

Chavs perch on the security fencing
Like twitching pigeons they survey their lot.
Their peaked caps like open beaks
dominating the streets
ready to take on their next feat.

Its a no frills job
down the darker end of town
where eccentrics and townies find common ground.
So shed some light on your dull assumptions
and get to grips with Castle Markets customs.

The Great Inundation

Bradfield's borders seeped
A city flooded village by village.
A geography of colour
Scribbled over in black.

The sky and land merging into darkness
11.30 pm, "the world' at an end".
Children sleep, their dream washed away
Damflask, Kelham Island, Hillsborough, The Wicker,
Awoken by pangs of danger.

Nature vs. humanity in a tug of war
Flickering lights simultaneously washed out.
The pigs screamed.
Destruction 8 miles long.
Mother nature rejecting her brood.

Steel city drenched in darkness
Deprived of light.
Drowned in the black well of obscurity.

Wrath of the Mill

"Sheffield, I suppose, could justly claim to be the ugliest town in the old world" (George Orwell)

Patch-worked horizons, stitched with black smoke.
Dull, depressed clouds.  Strangled, intoxicated.

Roaring furnaces attack the fragile skies
Fused with the dim pounding of hammers.

The clanging of pipes and steel.
Blistered, crucible, melted and welded.

Sooty faces and rining ears
expressions plagued with fatigue.

A weed-filled grave of rusting remains
broken chains, free from industrial bain.

City of Steel

For three years I lived in Sheffield whilst at University, the city is one of raw charm and uniqueness.  A breeding ground for poetic inspiration through personal experience, research or observation.  I found it easy to write about an environment which I was in contact with everyday, and became inspired by everything about the city from both the past and present.

There is a great deal of history embedded in Sheffield and I enjoyed researching the famous steel industry for my poem "Wrath of the Mill".  I came to understand that though this industry has brought the city glorification it has also caused pollution and devastation.  In 1937 George Orwell quoted Sheffield to be "the ugliest town in the old world", a statement the reader can reassess at the end of the collection.  Whereas some of the more light-hearted poems into he collection rhyme playfully, e.g. "Castle Calibre", I wanted to adopt a less obvious rhyme scheme, concentrating more so on assonance.  The second history based poem is entitled "The Great Inundation", in reference to the original Sheffield flood in 1864.  This devastating flood is surprisingly unknown of and I thought it would be an interesting topic to tackle, with the possibility of a follow up poem discussing Sheffield's second flood in the summer of 2007.  This poem has no rhyme scheme, a conscious decision I made due to the nature of an unexpected disaster.  I wanted to place emphasis on the imagery of the piece without the reader being distracted by a structural pattern. 

A subtle merging of past and present can be noted within my poem "In the distance", about Park Hill Flats.  When I first visited Sheffield it was those flats which intrigued me the most.  Their dominance of Sheffield's skyline makes them almost intimidating, set back within unknown territory.  "In the distance was the first poem I wrote in this collection, simply because I was inspired by their notoriety and legacy.  I wanted to explore the history of the flats and though there is a negative stigma attached to Park Hill, much is mis-conception.  My original version of the poem was a little judgemental and was directed from an outsider's point of view.  To tackle this I chose to integrate two opposing ideas, presenting both a positive and negative view.  The final line of the poem "kicked to the curb like a punctured football", is representative of Park Hill residents whose right appear to have expired.  As I have done with many of the other poems I used specific street and block names to avoid vagueness and misunderstanding.  As Park Hill flats are such an iconic feature of Sheffield's skyline I thought it would be fitting to dedicate a poem to them, especially as they are soon to be demolished.

I was eager to show as much breadth and variation of styles of writing in my collection.  I wanted to include a list poem which I found difficult to approach with confidence as it was a totally new style for me.  Though it is a short poem it took a re-shuffling of single words to make it flow and work as an effective piece.  I feel most comfortable writing in a relaxed, playful style which is demonstrated. most clearly in "Castle Calibre".  

Castle Square is a part of town which I walked through everyday and I would observe the daily goings on.  I wanted to create an impression for the reader, and to play with the idea of stereotypes to which they can relate.  It portrays a modern vision of Sheffield and a working class culture which is often looked down upon.  I had to re-structure this poem to keep up the 5 line stanza and feel that this has ensured fluidity within the piece.  I have chosen to conclude my collection with a poem about fashion veteran Vivienne Westwood who hails from the nearby market town of Glossop, Derbyshire.  The poem was inspired by her exhibition which took place at the Millennium Galleries in Sheffield.  Choosing to hold such an event in Sheffield marks its acceptance as a modern and artistically inclined city, a far cry from Orwell's damning quote.  I hope my collection shows Sheffield in many different light, but most prominently to be a progressive and enriched gem of the North.

What time is it?

Time passing slow or fast
When you wish the moment would hold
When you think the end is in sight
And you want a moment behind you.
That left finger on the dial
Seems to know just when to stop.

The swaying pendulum, an instant hangs in the balance
Seconds not minutes tick by
The haunting sound of the beating time keeper
Dividing every day into hours, minutes and seconds.
Each Carriage, Sundial and Bracket
Turning the moment you dread into one to forget.

The chime, the bell, the alarm, the tick
The tock that lets you know
That time has arrived.

Barren

A ripe picking straight from the apple tree
This stolen fruit from the forbidden source
Has the potential to set hunger free
Is it so wrong that I feel no remorse?

Deserted farmland where live stock once grazed
Is now a desolate grave of memories
Soil slips through my fingers like dream unsaved
Crumbles to the ground, someone help me please.
Is this a test that I have not passed?
Lost santity, no loved ones around me
The test of abandonment leaves me trashed
Lost without a trace, no security.

But now my saving grace leads to my fall
Bite the fruit and left with nothing at all.

The Waiting game...

A sea of heads we joing the back
Wishing we wern't the last
Halted, stopped dead in our tracks
And soon an hour had passed

I lean against the postured wall
Bass vibrates down my spine
The night is nearly over now
Oh God, how much more time?

Townies with hands in their pockets
Out looking for a fight
Girls scantily clad in high heels
Not a jacket in sight

Nearly there, the bouncers ahead
"Right, pretend we're talking"
"You're joking, really he said that?"
Pout out and keep walking

"Ey you got any ID love?"
"I'm here every week mate,
Second of the third eighty eight"
As I guessed, took the bait.