¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ the marvel
of your ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ eyes ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ rose of your ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ cheek ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
I ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ regret
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ no flower ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
for ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ my despair.
¦¦¦ you are my hidden treasure
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ my cross my ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ pain
if I am a dog ¦¦¦ you alone my master
¦¦¦¦¦ let me ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ Autumn.
(Blackout of Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint by Federico García Lorca)
Federico Garcia Lorca
was a would-be New Yorker:
his favourite ski event was the slalom,
and he wrote poems about Harlem.
“All art is autobiographical. The pearl is the oyster’s autobiography.” - Federico Fellini
Scars, reminders
What was once painful,
Has changed to a special flaw,
Sometimes only a hint,
Subtly secreted, the blame
Beneath a thought, a whisper
Singing to the spirit,
Colored in rose and gentle,
Comforting the heart
Who listens, the blemish,
Revealing the hidden
Heart, the music of a soul,
Who dances with the light,
Stirring grace, embracing the pearl,
Both significant and surreal,
Emphasizing what is sincere,
The beautiful buried between layers of grief,
Anguish leaking through in dewlike sweetness,
Amazing even the truth
With the beauty of its secret.
Touched by God's light Born in Granada.
Federico used to presume
to be born beside the Alhambra.
Bright mind, deep heart, a soul to be admired.
Between lines, he used to be lost,
a pen was his best friend.
Dalí was a mate, both near from chilhood.
His friends were many,
but his real ones never too close.
He was a shadow facing the light,
but a light in the shades.
Federico was born in Granada,
his beloved land.
He projected his art with a pen,
nobody could understand.
Artist he was born, playing the piano
he used to play music for ears,
but at writing he used to be the best.
Born at a wrong time,
Lorca was misunderstood.
Difficult to understand how life mistreated it him.
Born as a poet that will never be forgotten.
Writing line to line, he was killed,
young as he was,
he had no time to write the best line of his life.
Federico García Lorca,
the one I will always bow for.
I was in Trieste
It was in 1962, a revolution attempt that failed
roads had been churned; the American CIA tried to blend in
not successfully wearing Hawaii shirts to hide the guns.
I met her at the railway station, a small woman with a big suitcase
which I offered to carry at her lodging.
I was a polite young man, thanks to my communist mother.
It was a long road, a cobblestone road, was heavy going
I have come to think Federico Fellini was hiding in the case.
Arriving at her lodging, I was not invited to her room
she gave me a peck on the nose.
Later I learned she was a famous actress, but I wondered
why is she, in Trieste?
The morning came,
but no one received her...
mouths were not
opened,
bodies were closed...
so, so quickly
the morning went away..
Sans speak a word ,
sans un adieu.. !
The killing of a poet
There are many sorts of poets those who
extoll the sitting regime tell of order it has brought
their words are recited they win prizes but few, today remembers their names
Federico Lorca was not one of them.
He wrote the truth of the brutal fascistic nature of the state and what
it had become.
He was a man they had to kill.
He tried to flee but on a side road he was stopped by assassins, at the time
he was in the company of a one-armed priest a communist
They had to dig their own grave.
Since Lorca was gay, they shot him in the rear “you like this sort of things
they laughed, these cruel people were killing art.
They also shot him in the groin: squealed like a pig they later said.
This was a Spain of old but the ghost of fascism is still among us we have
To be vigilant.
F-ight the ailment every day,
E-liminate the contagion;
D-efeat the terrible threat,
E-radicate the infection.
R-epel and fight the ailment,
I-t takes wellness to win;
C-ontain the silent spread
O-f outbreak while in quarantine.
L-et not lifted lockdown
O-f town make man complacent;
R-ules of pandemic protocol
C-ontain and fight the
A-ilment.
Topic: Birthday of poet Federico Garcia Lorca (June 05)
F-ight
E-nemy
D-efending
E-very
R-egion
I-n
C-oronavirus
O-ccupation
&
A-pplying
M-agnificent
E-quipment's
L-ogical
I-mportance
A-s
D-octors
E-nhance
L-ungs
A-gainst
C-ough
R-ightfully
U-sing
Z-eal
Topic: Anniversary of Federico & Amelia Dela Cruz (April 04)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
F-inish
E-xcellent
D-uty's
E-xceptional
R-ole
I-n
C-hosen
O-nes'
D-ivine
E-lection
L-etting
A-ppropriate
T-ime
O-f
R-est
R-ule
E-veryone
Topic: In memory of Bro. Federico G. Dela Torre (August 2,1936-June 04,2019)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
F-antastic
E-xpression
D-elights
E-xcellent
R-eader
I-n
C-oolness
O-nce
L-ine
O-f
R-ighteousness
C-omplements
A-crostic
Topic: Birthday of Poet Federico Garcia Lorca (June 05)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Inspired by and an interpretation of: "El poeta pide a su amor que le escriba" (He begs his love to write)
by Federico García Lorca
***
Waiting in Agony - revised
Silence in time halts
turns people to phantoms
futureless without past
in twilight
Surprising how paper
comprises awareness
discredits
in bloodless ink
Your pen pierces surface
scratches dead stone
etches deep lines
in absence
Poison in my veins
I beg you release me
save me
kill me
***
June 4, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
A Love Poem for Federico Garcia Lorca
Last night, I dreamed of you,
my raven-haired gitano.
Dreamt of your succulent mouth,
Rich and full,
like the black grapes from the vineyards,
near the unmarked place where you lie.
“Te amo mi amor” you tenderly whisper in my ear.
Your kisses, sweeter than the wine of the valley,
Which I drank ages ago.
I could melt in your arms,
drift down to where you lie—
with your white bones,
buried beneath the thick, rich earth,
stained with your blood.
“Tu eres mi carino,” I whisper.
Federico, you have been dead for so long—
Your voice silenced by Franco’s fascist bullets.
And today, in my country,
Freedom is on tenuous ground.
Will bullets silence my voice too?
I don’t know the answer
to this question.
So, all I can do is write
live my life, think of you, and say,
“El gente unidas, jamas estan vincidas.”
All my favorite poets are dead
Pero sus poemas los leo en el atardecer
And they come alive again.
Soy sus Lazaros; los revivo, y viven en mi vida, en este presente.
I want to be like them,
O ser como el pajaro, como las nubes blancas. Pure. Whole. White.
I asked Federico if we could work together on a masterpiece, but he said
No se si pueda, me voy a Nueva York. Perhaps on your return we’ll conversate on ars poetica or post modern art.
Perhaps
Pero no se si pueda.
Regreso a mi cuaderno y bajo la Luna escribo. A Veces abro el libro de Federico.
He helps me create my personal masterpiece, just like he said one day he would.
When they murdered him,they went everywhere
To cemeteries,to caffees, to churches
But they didn`t find him! No! He wasn`t there!
They never found him!
The trees cried when he died
The trees from the garden of forbidden desires
The roses cried when he died
The roses of sad poet`s garden
Now he stands in Plaza de Santa Ana
And a secret voice of hidden love whispers-
It whispers to the tourists:Green! I love you greenly!
Only the wind, the sun, the moon,the stars,
The flowers, the gypsies and the poets
Hear his words of blood and gold
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