As I recently travelled through Spain (especially Andalusia) I kept wondering if we'd passed the unknown grave of the great poet who'd been assassinated for any one of a number of 'crimes' against the state: homosexuality, support of the Popular Front, a privileged upbringing. I also wondered if clues could be whispered even to the tourist.
If Lorca despised the tourist, it didn't seem obvious to me.
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"As Lorca lay dying"
Write 'storm' on the towers, and don't choose
clear pools over rain ah camioneros,
never, never!
Mine's a ruined casa low in the highway,
a yard's wild overgrowth;
tiles after the heat spill over me at times like ivy.
Language betrays
If you sequester groves under the netting
(Sant Déu!), make space deep for Moroccan suns,
at least
Palms look rusty this side of white-graped mountains
where I'm led, & the farmers mean
of course, to make lusty parcelas feel the jagged teeth, too. Again,
gardens on the coast—all a mirage
Sultan
of god recedes from where I lean
Between steppes and mounds, steadying to the passes or
white-washed tombs
I can be found
Storm! storm! Olivo of desire or
piscinas: take paradise as it comes, real or not
Or if not, bust the dams and shoot at the devil yourself—
Sierras thru the heat is
nearer to me!, with clouds the odd relief. Three
shades, greenest of the date, one ficus green, & that
of dry villages, and then the hills, again—again, all illusion!
But take each as it comes
One churchtower, two separate at the bridge to find me
but learn to doubt them, too
enlarge their hate beyond words
I know the mists will enclose, & the white coast
in a dream Look,
African winds make an olympus of almost nothing,
and springs between boulders
trickling to my feet
