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Tony Grist

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La Alpujarra 16-18 [Nov. 3rd, 2007|11:14 am]
Tony Grist
 16. DREAM


Hack away at matter till

You can hack no more and what do you find?

An irreducible grit or spark?

No;  you find nothing. Nothing at all.


Which goes to prove what John of the Cross

And all those other smart Alecs said,

That everything I rap with my knuckles-

This wood, this metal, this thick, glass screen,

This bone of my head that’ll  take so long

To fade in the earth- is just a dream.


But who’s the dreamer. Does she know

She’s doing it? Can she change things round

To suit her mood? Can she choose for instance

To colour a young girl’s genitals blue

And her forearms green- as Lorca did?




They made a play of it

They made a ritual.

Invitations were issued to all of Spain.

The tiers were restless.

The green, green bones and the rusty shrouds,

Puppets in corduroy and leather,

The nightingales that fanned the air

Were restless.


They drove him up in a black car

Not to be buried.

He wore his pride like an overcoat,

He wore his love like a tilted fedora.

Minotaurs and majas applauded,

All were his creatures.

Cabbage roses of gored flesh,

This was the tribute.


They set him down at the cemetery gates

Not to be buried.

And if one asks where Lorca lies,

Show her the mist above the river,

Show her the road through the orchard dew,

Show her the crags of Andalucia.

They ruined him like a millionaire.

They scattered him to the crowd like silver.





You, little streamlet of Mary,

Little twisting snake of the mountains,

You who have watered shepherd and flock

Since shepherds started, you lift our hearts

And speed our climb, there is no shrine

In all the mountains as bright as yours is


gracias, gracias,

gratia plena


[User Picture]From: pondhopper
2007-11-03 03:07 pm (UTC)
You should visit Andalusia in person and see and feel things en vivo y en directo.

Your poem "Dream" has echos of Pedro Calderón de la Barca whether you realize it or not.
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[User Picture]From: poliphilo
2007-11-03 03:34 pm (UTC)
One of these days we will visit- when there's money in the bank....

I don't know Calderon- except by distant report. The conscious echoes are of the English Jacobean dramatists.

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From: algabal
2007-11-03 05:51 pm (UTC)
Fountain is very beautiful.
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[User Picture]From: poliphilo
2007-11-03 08:08 pm (UTC)
Thank you.

I'm glad you like it. I have a feeling that when I came to write it- at the very end of a sequence which had in many ways taken me out of my comfort zone- I was at full stretch.
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