Spanish Poems

My Spanish Friend

Hard sun
biting into the long dry road
that goes from one small nowhere to
another.

   Hard sun
   that bites into the rough brown skin
   of bent backs in the hard dry
   village fields.
           Whose friend or foe are you?

Soft moon
dropping silver tear-drops
that trickle down the window panes
and vanish

   Soft moon
   that draws fingers across the strings
   of so many bright guitars
   that no-one hears
   What secrets do you know?

               I come walking
               a white road under
               a white sun

               I come looking
               for reflections
               under a pale moon

           The peasant in his ragged clothes
           invites me in
           feeds me
           gives me presents
           and a room to stay
           I look at him and wonder
   Who are you?

   The white moon
   shines
   down on friends
   who share a glass of wine
   afraid to ask
       who are you?

            Are you the man who killed
            his uncle
            and dragged those girls
            to a bend
            in the hard white road
            and kicked
            their bullet-ridden bodies
            down the hillside

   The white sun
   stares
   down on
   brown skin
   and asks
   who are you?

             Are you the man who took me in
             and shared your meagre bowl
             and took me to the bar
             and bought me drinks
             with your last pennies?

   The white moon
   spins
   like a silver coin
   She would drop her bounty in your lap
   if she knew
   who are you.

             Are you the son
             of those sour crooks
             who stripped America
             made promises
             to kings
             then broke
             both promises and kings
             and stole
             their gold and silver

   The white sun
   shines
   down on poor America and
   counts the cries
   and dries
   the tears and asks
   who are you?

             Are you that man
             who sings
             the cante jondo
             that sharp cry that
             reaches for your soul
             to grasp
             some small resemblance
             that you seek in vain

   The white moon
   wont tell
   the secrets of the night
   until she's sure
   who are you?

             Are you the man
             who smashed
             the windows of the convent
             burnt
             the churches
             bombed
             a cavalcade of bishops
             and rejoiced in revolution?

   The white sun
   shone brown
   thru smoke
   burnt blood dry
   and cracked the city
   like a crypt
   but didn't tell
   who are you?

             Perhaps you are the man
             I saw
             before me in the street
             adoring
             the white virgin
             penitent
             with votive candle

   The white moon
   blows kisses
   to the windows
   but
   there are no stars
   in eyes that ask
   who are you?

            They talk about the men
            who ran away to Buenas Aires
            when the guns were barking
            and the knives were out;
            or are you lying in the ditch
            face down
            your blood
            a dirty river flowing down the hill

   The white sun
   will bleach
   your bones
   and ask
   the wailing wives and daughters
   who are you

That shadow on the rock
under a frightened moon
hiding under a pale light
revealing your soul in the dark
    who are you?

Shouting against the racket of the bar
the crash of pictures
the busy noise of the chaotic street
barreling down the road you own, but
    who are you?

Silent behind a mask I cannot see
a song is trying to write you,
the guitar is soft at the end of day
then with a cry it interrupts the night
    but tell me
if I listen behind the notes
will the spaces in between
tell me who you are?

   The white sun
   has found
   your secret
   and breaks it
   on the hard dry ground.

   The white moon
   draws
   silver fingers across the pieces
   The fingers trace the words
       Who Are You?

The Long Silence

(I mean, of course, the silence since the civil war.)

I walk thru fields

where low stone walls hide in the grass

ashamed to raise their rubble

ashamed to tell their story

A cold wind blows from Madrid

over the lonely walls

to blow away the sound of voices

to blow away the memories

At dawn
the sunlight glares on the city walls
but does anyone go to greet it?

It falls straight thru where once were halls

filled with the chatter of children

but wakes no-one

At noon
the sun beats down on the tops of trees
as you sit beneath in the cool and dream

It beats on the walls amongst the weeds

where no-one sweats to earn their meat

for there is no-one

At night
there's the noise of the chattering box
as it scrambles your brain and subdues the soul

Where walls are down and doors have no locks

there is silence to accompany the evening paseo

for there is no-one to walk

Little ghost

on whose back do you ride

with your cold white bones?

Oh shadows

haunting the corner of a field

who do you belong to?

Come into the light

so we can see the scars on your back

turn to look at us

so we may see the holes in your head

Let the fierce wind

blow thru your bones

and carry your words

to those with the hoods of their coats turned up

Brave little bull

your field has no fence

and there is no road

to your moment of destiny

No-one will watch

as you wander alone

No-one will know

where your epiphany glows

Brave little bull

you will shrivel and starve

as the wind blows you down

and into the dust

Bull so black

bones so white

what has become

of your glorious might?

Bundle of bones

with nothing to say

But the cold wind comes

and will blow you away

If somebody soon

doesn't start telling the day

those with the words

will have all blown away

Hey little rider

on your black horse

ride back to your village

where once you were born

sit by the stove

and tell us some tales

and if they are grim

we wont flinch in the hail

The moon

is a dagger in the sky

that shines a curse

The moon

is an eagle's talon

shining on a frightened mouse

The moon

will escape to the west

along a shining road

I wish the moon would whisk
me far away

The moon is buried in the mountains

and it is dark

no-one can see me

as I try to hide

from the wide sky

no-one can hear me

as the wind screams

abuse across the fields

no-one will know

how much I wash away

in the river bed

I wish the dark would come

and protect me

No-one buries the wind

and it bites

as it stalks the fields in green

coat and metal hat

The wind

roars like a motorbike

down the lonely highways

The wind

tears at my clothes

and leaves me naked

The wind

who never sleeps

blows fear into the dusty corners

I wish the wind would blow

the fear away

The rain

drills into the hard dry earth

but nothing grows

The rain

falls like a hail of stones

onto the bent backs

The rain

comes to mingle with the tears

and wash the streets with blood

I wish the rain would wash

the tears away

As I back away to hide

someone creeps up behind

As I walk into the shadows

I stumble on a knife

As I wash away my sins

I rub myself away.

The wind has blown a long cold silence
    across the back of Spain
The guns have long since choked the sounds
    of simple folk to silence
The red flare from the barrel of a gun
    ignites the red blood that tumbles from the fallen souls

Who now can hear their voices

as each one cries a simple story

Once the blood was hot
    before the cold wind chilled it
Once the bones were clothed
    before the cold earth leached them white
Once there was a family
    that rose to great the dawn
Now a tourist idly kicks a tumbled wall
    and only hears the wind

Maybe some day

a curious Spanish tourist

will peer around a crumpled doorway

into an empty room

to see if

scribbled somewhere on a wall

is a message from the past

a tiny cry for recognition

of a lonely pain.