Saturday, August 30, 2014

The Long Slow Siesta of Lorca's Gypsy Ballads

“Fly, moon, moon, moon,
For if the gypsies come
They’ll make rings
And white necklaces
Out of your heart…
Child, let me dance!
When the gypsies come
They’ll find you on the anvil

With your little eyes closed.”  -Lorca, Ballad of the Moon, Moon

I emptied myself in Spain.
“Open to my ancient fingers

The blue rose of your belly.”  -Lorca, Preciosa and the Air

Felt luscious moss seep into my brain root.
“Green as I would have you green.
Green wind.  Green branches
The boat on the sea
And the horse in the mountains.
With a shadow around her waist
She dreams on her railing
Green flesh, green hair,

With eyes of cold silver.  –Lorca, Ballad of the Sleepwalker

Eyes softly closed in the fading sunlight and drifted on masts of grass.
“Beyond the brambles,
The bulrushes, and the hawthorns,
I made her mat of hair

Hollow the muddy bank.”  -Lorca, The Faithless Wife

No thoughts... in fact, I didn't think at all.  How nice that is to not think.
“The church growls in the distance
Like a bear on its back.
How well she embroiders!

With such grace!  -Lorca, the Gypsy Nun

Wandered streets at midnight, followed wafting music around corners, discovered the blue light of dawn... Old friends, those are for sure... so nice to know they haven't forgotten me.
“Handsome reed of a boy,
Wide shoulders, slender body
Skin like a midnight apple,
Sad mouth and large eyes,

Nerves of hot silver…”  -Lorca, San Gabriel

Sleep.  Sweet afternoon sleep.  What else are summers for.

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