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#bringingbacktheglosa, Elaine Stirling, Federico Garcia Lorca, glosa, medieval Spanish fixed verse, poetry
A tree of blood moistens the morning
where the new mother groans.
Her voice leaves crystals in the wound
and a diagram of bone in the window.
Meanwhile the coming light holds steady
and overtakes blank limits of fable that forget
the tumult of veins in its flight
toward the turbid cool of the apple.
–“Adam”, from Federico Garcia Lorca’s Primeras Canciones, 1922
~~~
The drop of ink that falls
absorbed between the fibers
of a parchment bed no pen
of yours or mine can resurrect
is spreading. Footprints of tar
pace a figure eight, delineating
nakedness that none of us can see
except in vaguely worded fantasies.
Debris across the mountain feels like warning;
a tree of blood moistens the morning
while I am still senseless
and too sensitive, I can refrain
from driving home some vagrant
point of fact no one has invited,
least of all that dead bore couple,
habit and experience. Phones
attached to hips are gathering
lone gods of randomness in droves.
Beggars with no credit offer loans
where the new mother groans
labouring to no avail, you’d think,
would set off some alarm—what child
is this? But no one’s claiming fatherhood,
and that fat bastard capital forgets
to keep his mouth closed when he chews.
What trickles from his chin is spooned
into tubes, shot straight into the veins
of pretenders to Cassandra, whose Trojan
never breaks and is still well tuned.
Her voice leaves crystals in the wound
that rub against synthetic outrage
waiting for its moment—that will never
come—of sweet approval. What tendency
is this to sprinkle vinegar upon a neighbour’s
olive grove that looks to be abandoned?
No succulent upon a fence can grow
when roots are parched of laissez-faire.
We subatomic dancers hate rehearsal,
swiftly leave behind our sold-out show
and a diagram of bone in the window.
So what did the rich man say
to the ferryman? I’ll be damned!
Only he wasn’t and still the river
foams in hopes that someone might
approach her self-creation
in a feathered cape with dignity.
Sir Walter and the puddle knew
Good Bess was on her way. All others
in the fractious crowd stayed petty.
Meanwhile the coming light holds steady
and the errant ink grows jittery
for having glimpsed the perfect
quill in V-formation flying over
Parry Sound. What if I dry
and flake apart before we two
can prove the world is wet?
The goose without a fleeting honk
flies on. She does not give her tail lightly.
Eggs of gold each day she brings to market
and overtakes blank limits of fable that forget.
Two things depreciate at the moment
of purchase: the second is worry.
Grinding mandibles on behalf of another
foretells a long decline toward mush
and not much else. No imagination
will fling you out of Eden. Paths of right
and wrong confuse the tenant farmer,
not the lord who views all he surveys
with potential, green and bright,
the tumult of veins in its flight.
Oh, sweet desire, now that you know
my name, let’s draw the canopy against
drunk beetles banging on their broken
schemes. Not all shells are suitable
for dyeing, though every word, I’m told,
will find its violin and grapple
for the pitch it hears in dreams
of paradise, giving way to the refugee,
nourished in his flight by sunlight’s dapple
toward the turbid cool of the apple.
~~~
This glosa borrows the first two stanzas of Garcia Lorca’s poem, “Adan”. The original Spanish can be found here. I’ve published a book of glosas, Dead to Rights, with an accompanying novella, Dead Edit Redo, which you can find here.
© Elaine Stirling, 2015
Translation by Elaine Stirling, © 2015
Image: pastel painting by Jill Wagner from http://www.jillwagnerart.com
talkingearth2014 said:
Even half a dozen readings are not enough to fully savor the richness of the juices that flow from biting into to this one Elaine. That second stanza might drive a lesser man to forsake any other orchards–your muses bless you well these days my friend perhaps those lake shores will prove to induce further inspiration. This is a master of a form returning to that form that you have practiced to perfection. This one contains exquisite application of it’s use, well vintaged, well marinated, well roasted slowly, succulent and inspiring, a beam of spring well sprung in looking toward which I will find inspiration. I hope you know I savor most of your poems syllable by syllable because of their beauty–“Meanwhile the coming light holds steady”.
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talkingearth2014 said:
I meant to mention as well the fine job of translation you did of the seed document. “a diagram of bone in the window.” is that a perfect turn of phrase or what! You have passed not only the meaning but the essence from language to another. Successfully completing a very complex task.
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elainestirling said:
Thank you, Russel. Your appreciation of the glosa means more than I can say. Lorca, whom I always admired biographically, was the kind of poet who felt 2-3 steps removed…meaning, I adored poets who adored him but could never quite approach him directly. It took Leonard Cohen’s acceptance speech at the Prince of Asturias to nudge me to buy a book of Lorca’s poems, and then the complete mental fatigue of moving that allowed me to do nothing more complex than stare at a line or two for hours.
While most glosas emerge in a whoosh, this one became a trail of bread crumbs over weeks. Feels good to have it written, feels good to know it has been read. Thanks again, dear friend!
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Bridge said:
I keep re-reading this one. And I’ve thought it with other pieces you’ve written, I am once again floored by your ability to create word-cinema. You seed enough visuals here to fill a museum I want to wander for hours.
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elainestirling said:
Thank you, Bridge. So much time has passed since my last glosa, I’d forgotten how powerfully they function as a door to new realms. And it was you who brought the key with the message, one can glosa an entire poem! Thank you for that.
Both Garcia Lorca and Miguel Hernandez are fabulous for making snow globes of our brain and shaking up visuals. (in case you should be feeling the urge…) 😉
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Bridge2Vision said:
You’ve started me reading about Miguel Hernandez, Elaine. Somewhere it talks about an early time when his mentor helped him focus on writing poetry with an eye to refining the allegory, semantics, and symbols. I had to go look up allegory and semantics. 🙂
There was a surprising-to-me “aha” around how those three words are a net around all the dream work I do individually and collaboratively. I can do dream work in my sleep, (literally and figuratively – as in its easy for me) or even take scenes from waking life and hydrate meaning by considering a waking life scene as a series of visual metaphors I could have seen in a dream. Both are very fluid processes for me because the image is already there and words are my playtime. I would not say the same is true of writing poetry.
Sometimes I find writing poetry is like speaking another language, and one I’m not very good at. The poetic forms are costumes for me to try words in – and mostly I like to “stand in the mirror” doing that for hours.
I’ve been thinking about this through the night and today. Now I’m wondering if perhaps I have entirely missed the connection of how my dreams are another side of what could be my poetry. Maybe there is something to be understood around HOW I salsa or slow dance with dream images to create articulate, awareness-raising-meaning – that could be mirrored into my process of writing poetry. Perhaps there is something in this aha that could open up the writing of poetic dreaminess in the way dreams have opened up reality for me.
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talkingearth2014 said:
Lori (excuse me please, Elaine) there is a fellow right here on wordpress that combines dreams and haiku on a regular basis. Might be worth a gander. https://bashoandjung.wordpress.com/
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Bridge2Vision said:
Interesting work there Russel, thanks for the link. I have the sense of Petruschke’s haikus searching for artwork, as if veins are wanted to channel his word-blood.
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elainestirling said:
Lori, I believe you have opened your own new pathway in the comments. Gently reword the negative connotations and state categorically the positive…for me, poetry is the Kodachrome of dreams. Same source, sometimes (though not always) the same content. You can–and I’m certain you will–tap into the direct line that dreams come from, thereby bringing it straight into poetry. My evidence of that is feeling, after writing a good poem, like I’ve had the most refreshing sleep, ever.
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Bridge2Vision said:
You’re right Elaine! I’m so grateful for this poem. Thank you especially this picture:
“and still the river
foams in hopes that someone might
approach her self-creation
in a feathered cape with dignity.”
Your rich and compelling imagery is is a river fostering this new branch of poetic exploration for me. I don’t know if you’ve seen the photograph taken from a drone high above of the Colorado Delta? Your poem composed the trunk for me on this particular thought-river-tree of evolution that found it’s path in the comments. (I’ll put the photo up on FB.)
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elainestirling said:
Thank you, Lori. Appropriately, the ever-dedicated river made me travel a few tributaries before I found the photo you posted and these comments. All the richer for it.
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