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.”
El conjunto plena...
trio tumbao
aguas buenas
sueños arbolitos
sueños de pino
siempre unidos
la fuerza de mi padre
el sabor gitano
de mi madre
gritos del cacique
tierra de mi gente
Sangre de poeta
Luz de mi sol
Siempre en mi corazón
Borinquen soy
hoy y en las
mañanas..
The Flamenco Dancer and The Bull
The acoustics of your snuffle
is an absolution
of a descending staccato
in an E chord.
Behold, my lancing third,
an urgency to trick you
with my jalapeño-colored capote,
to mask the stains of your blood
as it oozes, while I thrust
these Romani banderillas
in your neck.
Tease me with impulsive pretence
of your Berber-like invincibility,
while I magnify
your monotonous habits,
triggering the sequel
with the mutiny of these senses
in a most soulful manner.
Beware, my gitano-inspired estoque,
hidden and within a rhythmic beat cycle
in sync with a Moorish chant,
while my arms obliquely stretched
plunging to your bosom,
as I dare to move my hips
in a sultry fashion, to anchor it
in your Andalusian-unceasing being,
Oh! My Iberian-bred tragedy,
consummating my tableau
with your immortal inexistence.
Now one of Guy's children croaked.
A mucous filled his little lung,
that griped his chest until he choked,
from phlegm he could not expunge.
It choked the breath right out of him.
Well, guinea Guy had no dough,
he took him to a holy joe,
a slick white collored mick named Jim.
From the tower of his pulpit,
he said the father was unfit
and that his son went straight to hell
because he was an infidel.
But, if he had a little grass,
he'd bless his little guinea ass,
to save the child from hades door,
and this he said he would assure.
This Guy, he was a little slow
and English was his second tongue.
So when the thought began to glow,
its then that Gut became unstrung.
No one has seen the slick mick, Jim
since the guinea Guy met with him.
Then on that day, Guy dug a grave
to ten his little guinea waif.
Now one of Guy's children croaked.
A mucous filled his little lung,
that griped his chest until he choked,
from phlegm he could not expunge.
It choked the breath right out of him.
Well, guinea Guy had no dough,
he took him to a holy joe,
a slick white collored mick named Jim.
From the tower of his pulpit,
he said the father was unfit
and that his son went straight to hell
because he was an infidel.
But, if he had a little grass,
he'd bless his little guinea ass,
to save the child from hades door,
and this he said he would assure.
This Guy, he was a little slow
and English was his second tongue.
So when the thought began to glow,
its then that Gut became unstrung.
No one has seen the slick mick, Jim
since the guinea Guy met with him.
Then on that day, Guy dug a grave
to ten his little guinea waif.
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