A Poem from the Archives:
Vol. 19, No. 74, Pages 78–79 (December 1992)
I
The “Golondrina” is a sour hotel,
Redeemed, like Creole architecture,
By its ornate, wrought-iron balcony;
A floral asterisk to grace a lecture
On “Spanish Art in The Last Century”.
And though its rusty quaintness is no cure
Against the encroaching odours of the port,
Its fragile apertures inhale the sea.
Besides, a wraith haunts there whom I know well,
Having made her out of noon’s white despair.
Frail dona of another century,
A grace of muslin, vineleaf and guitars,
She comes at noon, guarded by black duennas,
To flute and bandol music from the bars,
Above the flies, molasses, donkey-carts,
Above the clash of voices from the pier
Of stevedores gambling over tepid beer,
She stands as mute as old embroidery
On an old-fashioned cushion of the heart.
II
Why should she hide against the dirty lace
Which stirs so still its drift is scarcely seen
From the hot street? Why is that haunted face,
Dim as an antique faun’s, fin-de-siecle style,
Imprisoned in the grillwork’s leafless green
Who can evoke Alhambras with a smile?
Assailed by memory, desire stirs;
Yet that white hand against a rose cheek sleeping
That to the idler makes a subtle sign
Becomes a pigeon from a dark coign sweeping
As the coarse odour from the street defers
Anticipation of dark-cellared wine.
Albums of lost Alhambras, swaying cypresses,
Brooding, daggered Moors, and fanfares from da Falla.
A sable papa munching his moustache,
The scented note, the fearful assignation;
“I must, I must go now...,” sighing, she sweeps
Her jewelled laces up as bells of dawn
Shatter the crystal park. The dark
Duennas weep,
They know the true necessity of that sleep
That withers centuries or the virgin rose.
Jesu Maria, what nonsense...I suppose....
III
I stir to smell the male, malodorous sea.
Another trace of mine is moving water
How would it end? A merchant claims the daughter,
A man who hawks and profits in this heat,
Jeering at poets with a goldtoothed curse.
Girl, you were wise, whoever lived by verse?
The future is in cheap, enamel wares.
Yet, Dona Maria, like a worn-out song
That keeps a phrase of wisdom in our ears,
Like the sad gaiety of a drunk guitar,
Like the bright gardens which blind vendors sell,
I watch your ancient, simple spirit where
Its letters flake across the balcony
From the facade of a third-rate hotel.