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La Alpujarra 16-18
Hack away at matter till
You can hack no more and what do you find?
An irreducible grit or spark?
No; you find nothing. Nothing at all.
Which goes to prove what John of the Cross
And all those other smart Alecs said,
That everything I rap with my knuckles-
This wood, this metal, this thick, glass screen,
This bone of my head that’ll take so long
To fade in the earth- is just a dream.
But who’s the dreamer. Does she know
She’s doing it? Can she change things round
To suit her mood? Can she choose for instance
To colour a young girl’s genitals blue
And her forearms green- as Lorca did?
17. LORCA
They made a play of it
They made a ritual.
Invitations were issued to all of Spain.
The tiers were restless.
The green, green bones and the rusty shrouds,
Puppets in corduroy and leather,
The nightingales that fanned the air
Were restless.
They drove him up in a black car
Not to be buried.
He wore his pride like an overcoat,
He wore his love like a tilted fedora.
Minotaurs and majas applauded,
All were his creatures.
Cabbage roses of gored flesh,
This was the tribute.
They set him down at the cemetery gates
Not to be buried.
And if one asks where Lorca lies,
Show her the mist above the river,
Show her the road through the orchard dew,
Show her the crags of Andalucia.
They ruined him like a millionaire.
They scattered him to the crowd like silver.
18. FOUNTAIN
You, little streamlet of Mary,
Little twisting snake of the mountains,
You who have watered shepherd and flock
Since shepherds started, you lift our hearts
And speed our climb, there is no shrine
In all the mountains as bright as yours is
gracias, gracias,
gratia plena
no subject
Your poem "Dream" has echos of Pedro Calderón de la Barca whether you realize it or not.
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I don't know Calderon- except by distant report. The conscious echoes are of the English Jacobean dramatists.
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I'm glad you like it. I have a feeling that when I came to write it- at the very end of a sequence which had in many ways taken me out of my comfort zone- I was at full stretch.