with compliments to Spencer Reece

30th May 2025 

Lorca, i have forgotten how the unending 
sun and sprawling hills make soft
an ivory-hard head and heart, 
the sweltering embrace of summer 
in full, unrelenting brightness.
palm trees line the road to the 
beach, vacationers in floating 
hotels on the sea beyond the castle. 
the fields and farmlands roll by,
vast acreage and the neatness,
the nearness of symmetric olive groves.
the tracks and the trains shake,
snaking across the mountainside. 
the filter of sun is captured 
in the expanding aperture of film. 
Lorca, in this delicious, enveloping heat 
i remembered the eternal summer 
of a spotted mind. 

‍

31st May 2025

Lorca, i awoke with a tightness
in my calves and tremor in my spine.
i have been thinking of how visitation 
follows a miracle. the sensuous clime
makes light of the shame of loose 
bodies and limbs. sweat is perfectly
adequate and natural to the days 
of protracted sunset. cobblestones
make for wobbling steps and curved
knees. i know not where the heat
recedes in the shade. orange trees
stand as the city winds around them.
today, vaqueros sat mounted 
on the backs of their horses, lining
the roads drinking coffee in grey 
and white suits. dancers sashayed
down the streets in flamenco dresses
of black, red, and blue. the light sapped
the vapours from our breath over plates
of jamón, berenjenas, and camarones.
the afternoon stretched into the evening.
tomorrow, Lorca, we celebrate a sacred 
mystery, how languorous, Lorca, 
these hours. 

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1st June 2025 

for Crystal y Karim 

Lorca, how the particles dance 
in the morning light! the clamour of bells
interrupts a momentary slip of devotion.
i lather my body with lotions and oils. 
my throat is parched. the fountains
and rivers have been flowing all summer. 
the plaza is once again bathed 
in light. each of us desires our elusive 
architecture of happiness. at the foot
of the fortress, joy expressed itself
in rhythms and in vows. Lorca, how 
regal the groom and bride! 
how happy we all were from 
across the world, toasting and 
cheering and sharing stories of 
train rides and flight times, theory and 
research, activism and withdrawal, 
movement and arrival. i felt again 
a pang for New York. we danced 
into the pulsating sweetness 
of the evening. oh, how the 
taps kept flowing. Lorca, she 
spoke of how they have made 
from your poetry 
a song.

‍

2nd June 2025

Lorca, my head is spinning. 
up the incline, past the burning
building, the long light brings 
a smooth tan. see the people revelling 
in splendour, ornate gardens, 
grand archways, the etchings and carvings 
that speak the hundred unknowable 
names of god. the grandeur of divinity 
impressed in the towers, walls, 
and fixtures. beyond the monuments 
are the neighbourhoods and their
narrow roads, the medieval 
chapels and cathedrals, the 
mountains capped with snow,
and the burning building, dark
smoke slowly thinning into
white. the winds stir clouds
of dust on the roads. the
sultans were vanquished 
and their followers converted
and expelled. preserving 
this edifice is a cruel,
beautiful, and triumphal 
act. Lorca, it seems more
and more desire only 
to forget.  

‍

3rd June 2025

Lorca, how the pace and pulse have 
quickened! in Madrid, the roads are
wide and the pavements are full. i met
this city in Spencer’s poems. i meet it
again in spirit and in breath. 
the voices and cars rumble 
through the night. the people spill 
into the boulevards and plazas. 
Valle-Inclán stands in the mural
of the churro store. how he railed
against tyrants and dictators 
in coffeehouses. the flamenco 
dancers stomp with grace and 
power, the sweep of shawls 
and dresses under the spotlight. 
the band of six sits behind, voices
rising like a call to prayer. it is late,
Lorca, and we are tired, 
yet the city continues to vibrate.

‍

4th June 2025 

Lorca, i remembered today 
how art activates a memory|
of suffering. bombardment
gives way to the indiscipline
of surrealism. the shapes
warp, bend, and melt into
the ambient air. the inner
reality transmuted from text
to image. the image poetic.
Dali learns the eschatology
of the sea urchin. Buñuel 
encodes behaviours of 
illogic. Breton layers
montage and collage and 
manipulation. see how the 
children watch Guernica 
like television, legs crossed
on the museum’s marble 
floor. Picasso dreamt
only of a monstrous pain. 
the weeping mother and her
contortions. the child-corpse
stained in tears. the image
is disorientation, is dislocation
is discombobulation. the tongue
of the horse is like a spear. 
the marrow of the forearm
is visible on the soil. the sword
is shattered. the spectre of a
woman wails. the bulb is the
bomb. the bull runs amok. 
the flesh shall wither to 
rocks and to bones. these 
captors and conquerors.
these courtesans and 
revellers. these spies and
counterrevolutionaries. they 
took the best spoils of
the centuries to rend their
towns and cities. the heirs to
El Greco, Velázquez, y
Goya. oh master, oh
propagandist. oh portrait,
oh buffoon. oh court oddity,
oh white divinity. oh anatomy, 
oh mystery. oh monastic, 
oh brilliant delivery. oh
artist, oh royal child. 
oh ravaged liver, oh
strained body. i see 
the horrors that have 
resided within. i see 
how the new world 
returns to the old. 
i see Saturn’s bite 
of each child, bloody,
in this palace, this
panopticon of portraits, 
the heraldry of sword 
and pen, the hands 
bearing silver goblets, 
the images remade in
punished climes.
the imaginary bell is tolling. 
Madrid has yet been kind. 
Lorca, it is time. 
Lorca, i am leaving late. 
Lorca, how i must return 
to wait.

you must go to the edge of all desire,
of your desire, to the moment when it has begun
to thin, to the place where yearning has already
been filtered through poetry, where the ache
and the idyll have been compacted,
layered through the sedimentation of your living.
it is the place to which you always return,
holding and releasing the grip of attention,
of reception, as the lone nights invite you again
into the hospitality of silence. showers
have broken through the skies of summer.
prints and paintings line the walls of booths.
inks, oils, thread, the monitors crackling.
there finds the healing that comes through
distance. the flowers have been arranged
in a display. their petals are yellow and
orange. looser, emptier days are beckoning.
joy comes at its appointed times.