This summer while I was at Fundacion Valparaiso in the 100 plus degree heat trying to stay sane, I read Lorca. I found his Collected Poems in the library the first day and kept them by my bedside for all of July. On days when I couldn't write (and there were many) I would open to a poem of Lorca's for inspiration. As a result, many of my poems have "borrowed" a phrase or an image from him. We became close. Or so I imagined. I visited his beloved city of Granada on my birthday and posed outside the convent ruins at Caba de Gato which inspired his play Blood Wedding.
Today's Telegraph announces that after a two month excavation, Lorca's remains have not been found. The article explains the background to Lorca's grave - how it's believed he was executed by the Franco Government for his leftist leanings and homosexuality. The journalist, Fiona Govan, explains that Lorca's relatives were at first reluctant to have his grave disturbed, but had then agreed to provide DNA samples to identify the poet's remains. I can't help but feel that Lorca would have appreciated the mystery. In fact, the news story seems more like an Andalusian Ballad than it does anything else.
Song of the Rider
Cordoba
Far away, and lonely.
Full moon, black pony,
olives against my saddle.
Though I know all the roadways
I’ll never get to Córdoba.
Through the breezes, through the valley,
red moon, black pony.
Death is looking at me
from the towers of Córdoba.
Ay, how long the road is!
Ay, my brave pony!
Ay, death is waiting for me,
before I get to Córdoba.
Córdoba.
Far away, and lonely.
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