That’s how poetry is written in Portokalia
Soledad pulled out of her pocket a painting and laid it in front of Marianna and Isabella.
“It is a picture of me and Maria Louisa with our babies. We were sitting underneath the oak tree that is swayed by the air, in between the most fragrant flowers”, she turned to Isabella “so you could learn from a young age beautiful scents”.
“You were talking and singing…”
“And you fell in love with Fernando and we found you two hidden behind the bitter oranges, kissing on the mouth! ”
Isabella blushed and pulled on Marianna’s hand. Marianna didn’t have time to say goodbye and before she knew it they were flying up again. “I have had it with hearing about Fernando! ” said Isabella angrily and Marianna thought for a second that she saw smoke coming out of her ears, as they were flying with speed over a vast field with giant orange pumpkins.
“Mr. Fernando wanted to see the world-alone. Portokalia was too plain for him. He wanted to see how other people lived in other colors. He has been away for months. And he has the nerve to send me postcards from Eggplant (he talked our ear off about its wonderful capital, Lemovidio). Letters from Greenistan and Trefoil. Carpets from White Isle, delights from Sugaria…But I never reply! When he returns I shall give everything back. Mr. Fernando never wanted us with him, you see...”
Marianna could not get enough of the gorgeous orange landscape and listening about all those strange countries she has never seen on any map.
Isabella slowly calms down and stays silent. And then a voice stretches out along the plain. A voice that bring memories of crystal little bells, running water that glistens in the sun, the sound of snow as it hits the ground softly, the fragrance of a tangerine as it is peeled open, a tender but swift smile on a cloudy day…
Mom’s favorite song: “Underneath the orange tree, she washes the cotton…” How strange! The song started forming into notes in the air as they were flying over a forest with carrot trees and orange trees…
…and underneath the trees, a beautiful girl was actually washing her cotton and singing…Hidden behind a carrot tree, a young man was flying around, collecting the notes with a net.
“He’s our National Poet, Diego Solomon”, said Isabella with pride. “He wanders everywhere, collecting music and words and turning them into lyrics”.
Then, Diego Solomon turns to them smiling and starts reciting:
You washed the sheets down by the river
Dressed in orange, you were singing a song
About a thousand and two stars that dry on a string
While your slender fingers spread out the sheet
“What do you think?”
“Hmm…it needs a little more work, but you are off to a good start!” said Isabella.
She had a serious and erudite look on her face as if she was herself was a big book critic. Marianna could not believe that Isabella dared to speak to the National Poet of Portokalia like that.
Diego Solomon took off, muttering to himself:
“They spread or they held the sheet? Sheet or handkerchief, yes I shall write it like this: while your slender fingers held the handkerchief. Better! ”
He turned and waved “Thank you, Isabella!’’
Marianna was stunned. Is that how they write poetry here?
