ENHEDUANNA #1

And are you thinking of me while you pace the streets of a city whose sidewalks have memorized the atonal rhythm of my footsteps? Surely you walked through the spaces I have hollowed out from air and left behind in anticipation of you. Throughout the years I have lightened the forlorn dimness of many alleys by leaving behind single-stemmed red roses -- has your shoulder been tapped by their perfume? Has my scent threaded itself yet through the circles wind-drawn by the ink of your curly hair? Once, we stood unknowingly in the same room of this city with numerous rooms -- have you entered its space again without knowing (until now) why you always look at each face?

There, now. When you turn this corner and feel Baudelaire's "infinite expanse" at the sight of a sky thinned by two parallel skyscrapers, do you think of me latching a star on a gold chain so that its shimmer will lower your eyes to my breasts?

In this city replete with paintings who have witnessed us both fail repeatedly to see each other, are you thinking of me while you and I have yet to know you and I? And when we finally meet, will you see me as familiar? Of course you will. And not just for mirroring the color of each other's eyes. When we finally meet, why will you see me as familiar?


*****

from Menage A Trois With the 21st Century (xPress(ed), 2004)

GUEST BLOGGER: MAURICE

"Existence permeates sexuality and vice versa, so that it is impossible to determine, in a given decision or action, the proportion of sexual to other motivations, impossible to label a decision or act 'sexual' or 'non-sexual.' There is no outstripping of sexuality any more than there is sexuality enclosed within itself. No one is saved and no one is totally lost."
--Maurice Merleau-Ponty

LA LOCA

In the green
morning I
wanted

to be a
heart. A
heart.

And at evening’s
end, I
wanted

to be my
voice. A
nightingale.
—LO(R)CA

She fell in
love. Poor
Juana.

Fell in love
with the
most

handsome man in
the kingdom.
How

did the Prince
requite her
love?

By betraying her
with every
woman

who simpered across
his path.
By

lashing a florid
sky across
her

skin. By cutting
her beautiful
hair.

Poor Juana—always
looking behind
her

stooped shoulders. How
her Prince
mocked

her, chilling her
tears into
multiple

strands of pearls.
Still, when
he

died, Juana went
mad. She
clawed

her cheeks and
confused dogs
into

whimpers, then howls.
She rode
throughout

Granada keening over
her Prince’s
coffin

in a gloomy
carriage pulled
by

eight horses. She
rode and
rode

with his stench
becoming hers
until

they both stunk
up all
of

Espana. She refused
to bury
him,

begging faces she
concocted from
receding

knotholes of trees
passed by
their

carriage, begging faces
she drew
by

connecting the stars
pockmarking the
irritated

night sky, begging
faces she
surfaced

from bonfire smokes
and crumpled
balls

of sodden handkerchiefs.
Her plea?
She

pleaded for his
resurrection.
Bah.

She pleaded as
if he
would

return to her
if he
came

to breathe again.
Bah. As
if

he once was
there for
her.

As if he
ever wrote
Poetry

for her. Now,
do not
misunderstand:

We gitanas adore
Juana The
"Crazy".

To honor her,
we cross
ourselves

and touch our
hair. We
honor

her because Juana
never faltered
from

living her Truth
even as
lies

snuffed the votive
lights in
her

eyes. Dame la
verdad. Poor
Juana.

               Once, I stepped
               into a
               story…

I love Juana.
But I
loathe

her, too. Once,
I courted
madness

for Poetry. But
I punched
through

that blur—grew
back my
hair.

Does it matter
that its
harvest

now elicits snow?
I punched
through

that silver, shimmery
blur. Ole!
I

grew back my
hair! So
what

if Winter has
become my
veil?

               I thought the
               story was
               mine…

I grew back
my hair.
I

love my refuge.
It veils
me

into believing that
when I
write

of Juana The
Mad, I
am

still young with
glossy, blue-black
hair.

That when I
write my
poems

Juana is a
subject and
not

the one releasing
the wind
that

flares my skirts
high to
reveal

absolutely furious footwork
—en compas—
conjuring

up the ghosts
of those
who

laugh at my
red eyes—
dark

angels who taught:
there is
no

madness. There is
only a
woman

brutishly in love.
Hear me
read

me singing to
You the
A.

The E. The
I. The
O.

The U. The
You. The
U.

And the Y.
Hear me
and

Juana dance! The
seduction of
flowers

blossoming into vowels.
Hear me
y

Juana sing the
machinegun blast
of

The A, The
I, The
E,

The O, The
U. Hear
us

die from the
Song of
Y,

the Dance of
Why? Listen
all

you nightingales! Why?
I curse
all

you nightingales! Why?
En compas/s!
I

thought it was
only a
story.

I thought the
story was
mine:

a bird caws
from my
mirror.

My mirror spits
out bloodied
feathers.

I love you
nightingales! All
of

you! Why, dear
nightingales? Why?
Y

WHY? Y WHY?

GUEST BLOGGER: FEDERICO

CANCIONCILLA DEL Primer Deseo

En la manana verde,
queria ser corazon.
Corazon.

Y en la tarde madura
Queria ser ruisenor.
Ruisenor.

(Alma,
ponte color de naranja.
Alma,
ponte color de amor.)

En la manana viva
yo queria ser yo.
Corazon.

Y en la tarde caida
queria ser mi voz.
Ruisenor.

!Alma,
ponte color de naranja!
!Alma,
ponte color de amor!


*****


Ditty of First Desire

In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.

And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.

(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)

In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.

And at evening’s end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.

Soul,
turn orange-colored!
Soul,
Turn the color of love!


--from Selected Verse: Revised Bilingual Edition by Federico Garcia Lorca, Trans. by Catherine Brown, Cola Franzen, Angela Jaffray, Galway Kinnell, Will Kirkland, Christopher Maurer, Jerome Rothenberg, Greg Simon, Alan S. Trueblood, and Steven F. White (FSG, 1994)

DUENDE

So despairing no
need for
translators.

Cancelled stars bubble
sorrow in
You

for reading me—
The One
who

is as happy
as a
cop

with a donut.
My dangling
nightstick

as black as
the Waterman
I

never write with
but use
in

una poema which
believes nothing
more

Holy than Joy.
Amen. Ole!
Joy—

to whose holiness
the blood
on

my nightstick attests.
An obscenely
fat

baton from the
French who
observed

seeing is suffering.

THE OLIVE TREE

His cante was
an ancient
tree.

An olive tree
that stood
since

Romans ruled Spain.
Since Moors
invaded.

Since ships laden
with gold
from

the New World
sailed upon
River

Ebro. This gnarled
tree‘s roots
penetrated

farther into Earth
than any
other

tree, penetrating as
far as
Hell

to draw up
the demons’
boiling

water. When my
father sang,
no

one pretended to
be angels
because

his songs compelled
demon blood
to

boil in all
of our
veins.

Why must I
be drawn
to

“dark beauty” instead
of being
like

those who hail
the dumb
moon

as if nothing
can cancel
it—

like sun or,
worse, eclipse
which

does not pretend
the opposite
is

now reality but
shows instead
how

darkness is zero.

AS IF THE POET LOVES EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE

Dame la verdad.
And perfect
timing.

Those are the
first two
of

Flamenco’s ten commandments.
To speak
Truth

en compas -- is
that not
how

Poetry also works?
Flamenco's third
commandment

is never to
reveal the
rest

to outsiders. This
is the
point

of divergence between
Flamenco and
Poetry.

In Poetry, you
give all
even

if you must
show the
stained

ripped swathe of
false silk
fluttering

beneath your lace-trimmed
scarlet skirt
fashioned

from the curtain
that once
dressed

a window in
Senora La-Di-Da’s
bedroom.

And the outside
exists in
Poetry

only for its
borders to
offer

a shimmering blur
of silver
hurting

the eyes into
recognizing it
into

a false Beauty.
But, still
Beauty,

Hence, the Truth—
thus, I
contradict

myself. Does Truth
exist if
one

must question, “Whose
Truth?” So
dance

me a poem.
Twine your
hands

around the stolen
pen to
release

your interior darkness
in other
people’s

lives. And don’t
forget to
behave

as if the
poet truthfully
loves

everything and everyone.
Do this
to

begin what you
don’t know
yet

as the Truth.
Don’t worry
about

capitalizing Words because
You don’t
know

what they mean.
Just dance
out

the poem. Y
escribe en
compas.