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sábado, 30 de abril de 2011

Abstract Photo 1388 Zorongo




 Letter Z: Title:  Zorongo
Tribute to Federico García Lorca




On my island, faces formed on the warm glass
of the small kitchen window, as sweet steam
from my heirloom Spanish china cup
swirled up from Carmencita black tea,
teasing the hard driving rain into fat droplets
as squads of rain men passed in wet parade
on a dull dun day just like many that Raymond Carver
would have stared into out across the white-capped
Strait of Juan de Fuca, sipping whiskey, smoking
and patiently waiting for his words to stir, releasing
poetics, letting it blossom out of the dampness--

but Carver was not there at my special window,
no, as I sipped hot castanet gulps and listened
to the flamenco falsettas, feeling those strong
classical rhythms burst out bullanguero,
thrusting untouched deep into the downpour,

and my thoughts returned to Spain,
to August 1936 near the great fountain
at Alfacar where a thin smartly attired
Garcia Lorca stood with three other men
being called communist faggots by their
Nationalist firing squad, and I wondered
if Lorca was thinking about his love affair
with Dali, or the burly sculptor Adadren
as the bastardo bullets hit his flesh,

did he boldly meet the brass in a passionate
arranque, or did the indifferent fussilade
just thud dully, like a cruel a golpe,
as the beautiful poet slipped away
from his tormenters;

making me ponder as to where his killers
had actually put his riddled husk, for
it is well known that after the death of Franco,
when they dug up Lorca’s shallow grave,
they could not find any human remains;
God, he had even escaped excavation.
So where was Lorca?

I smiled broadly then, for on that day
Lorca had appeared just for me
as a quicksilver bust in motion,
straight down the heated glass
of my many paned window,
to the fervent sad strains
of a zorongo, a liquid lullaby
in 2/4 time, as his gypsy verses
echoed in the warm corners
of my kitchen, and in the rare
Spanish corridors of my heart.