"cordoba" poems
Dry land,
quiet land
of night's
immensity.
(Wind in the olive groves,
wind in the Sierra.)
Ancient
land
of oil lamps
and grief.
Land
of deep cisterns.
Land of death without eyes
and arrows.
(Wind on the roads.
Breeze in the poplar groves.)
Village
Upon a barren hill,
a Calvary.
Clear water
and century-old olive trees.
In the narrow streets,
men hidden under cloaks,
and on the towers
the spinning vanes.
Forever
spinning.
Oh, village lost
in the Andalucia of tears!
Dagger
The dagger
enters the haert
the way plowshares turn over
the wasteland.
No.
Do not cut into me.
No.
Like a ray of sun,
the dagger
ignites terrible
hollows.
No.
Do not cut into me.
No.
Crossroads
East wind,
a street lamp
and a dagger
in the heart.
The street
quivers like
tightly pulled
string,
like a huge, buzzing
horsefly.
Everywhere,
I see a dagger
in the heart.
Ay!
The cry leaves shadows of cypress
upon the wind.
(Leave me here, in this field,
weeping.)
The whole world's broken.
Only silence remains.
(Leave me here, in this field,
weeping).
The darkened horizon's
bitten by bonfires.
(I've told you already to leave me
here, in this field,
weeping.)
Surprise
He lay dead in the street
wit ha dagger in his chest.
Nobody knew who he was.
How the streep lamp flickered!
Mother of god,
how the street lamp
faintly flickered!
It was dawn. Nobody
could look up, wide-eyed,
into the glare.
And he lay dead in the street
with a dagger in his chest,
and nobody knew who he was.
Soleá
Wearing black mantillas,
she thinks the world is tiny
and the heart immense.
Wearing black mantillas.
She thinks that tender sighs
and cries disappear
into currents of wind.
Wearing black mantillas.
The door was left open,
and at dawn the entire sky
emptied onto her balcony.
Ay, yayayayay,
wearing black mantillas.
Cave
From the cave
come endless sobbings.
(Purple
over red.)
The gypsy
calls forth the distance.
(Tall towers
and mysterious men.)
In an unsteady voice
his eyes wander.
(Black
over red.)
And the white-washed cave
trembled in gold.
(White
over red.)
Encounter
For you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.
You... as you well know.
I loved her so much!
Follow the narrowest path.
I have
holes
in my hands
from the nails.
Can't you see how
I'm bleeding to death?
Don't look back,
go slowly,
and pray as I do
to San Cayetano
for you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.
Dawn
Bells of Cordoba
in the early morning.
Bells of Granada
at dawn.
You are felt by all the girls
who weep to the tender,
weeping Solea.
The girls
of upper Andalucia,
and of lower.
You girls of Spain,
with tiny feet
and trembling skirts,
who've filled the crossroads
with crosses.
Oh, bells of Cordoba
in the early morning,
and, oh, the bells of Granada
at dawn!
5.9k
Tree, tree
dry and green.
The girl with the pretty face
is out picking olives.
The wind, ******* of towers,
grabs her around the waist.
Four riders passed by
on Andalusian ponies,
with blue and green jackets
and big, dark capes.
'Come to Cordoba, muchacha.'
The girl won't listen to them.
Three young bullfighters passed,
slender in the waist,
with jackets the color of oranges
and swords of ancient silver.
'Come to Sevilla, muchacha.'
The girl won't listen to them.
When the afternoon had turned
dark brown, with scattered light,
a young man passed by, wearing
roses and myrtle of the moon.
'Come to Granada, inuchacha.'
And the girl won't listen to him.
The girl with the pretty face
keeps on picking olives
with the grey arm of the wind
wrapped around her waist.
Tree, tree
dry and green.
2.5k
yodelaugh bluebells
bugle the frenchorn debate;
youngheld punchropes
in freezing cordoba rain when the
silt hits the sand we’re all
****** into oblivion like
so much candyswirl
into the labial plains of
galaxyfrost are you in sentia where
the sun don’t rain and the sky don’t
glow grey beneath the hooded lambswool grain
there ain’t no gumption like
compunction like
eating sand to feed your ****** daughters overripe
mangoes hit the cement and explode in saffronochre gutspill
when else
does the world end
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
The heart-warming sound of an acoustic guitar provides sincere resolution amidst the anguish of uncertainty, in the same manner as the classical Spanish guitar projects her intensities in Sierra Nevada assertions.
Consider the beauty of the finca, as she is a throbbing source of sustenance where romantic pastels merge into an array of Moorish delight.
Let us never forget that such instruments of eternal communication cannot find affiliation in the arenas of Roman legacy.
I give thanks to the order of being for the tuning of the symmetrical aphrodisiac.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
For Alonso, the day was sinking into dusk
But for Dulcinea, her knight was rising.
Long his lance’s shadow stretched
And thus his stories, picaresque.
He flaunts his tale of espionage,
Purring silent and clandestine
“there I sprung from camouflage
and smote these vile leviathans!”
“Oh, please don’t stop,” the gypsy cries
draining doubt from starlit eyes
From behind her fan of elegant slips
She retracts the rivets to her lips.
Alonso mounts the moment of his concupiscence
to rescue the fair Dulcinea from her diffidence.
But the windmills turn for our quixotic man
Whose delusions are rescued by a chaste heroine.
Years later a man was overheard in Cordoba…
el estaba hablando con unas senoras
“Oye musas, puedo decirte,
he visto algunas cosas.”
“…mi vida se salvo una noche estrellada
por una mujer de gran belleza
que volvio a las tablas de la fortuna
aqui, en mi reino de Iberica…”
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
I see the emerald hills of Toledo draped in a golden sunrise,
A cold morning breeze is blowing past the trees on the outskirts of Cordoba.
I walk down the white marble entombing the streets of Old Madrid,
The fluorescent lights of nocturnal Paris still dance around me,
As I pour myself a cold beer under a clear Berlin sky.
I fly over and find you walking under a Pennsylvania fall,
Getting ready to play in the Jersey snow.
We go down south, almost to the border,
To have a prime rib eye Texas steak for lunch;
And for dessert we share a kiss that tastes like New York.
You hold my hand as we walk through the Peruvian border,
And take my picture as I pose next to Machu Picchu.
I smile as you play with the llamas we found on the edge of the Titicaca Lake,
And together we look down on the ruins found on the Sun Island,
Before we end up gasping for air on the roof of the world 5,000 meters above the sea.
Climbing down we take a walk under the fading Bolivian sky,
We see luxurious office buildings on the right and brick and mud huts on the left.
The narrow streets of La Paz beaming with life as the sun creeps over the hills,
We walk to our favorite taco stand across from the Cathedral,
And on the last night we have in the land of my birth,
We share a kiss that tastes just like New York.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
Granada is a town that holds quite well its very own,
With an unique culture blend that is difficult to disown,
There is the confluence of diverse religions,
Which frankly, is nothing short of legion
Christianity and Islam pervade all aspects of daily life,
In shops, monuments and restaurants with hardly any strife,
It always feels good to see such diversity,
All the more so when there is unmistakable unity
The up and down alleys are a countless maze,
That can leave visitors in a state of daze,
There is little possibility however of losing track,
Since there is rarely ever a cul-de-sac
Restaurants and street cafes are just about everywhere,
All one needs to know is how to get there,
The variety of cuisine is as diverse as it can be,
That one just needs to ask "what will it be"?
Flamenco performers strut their talent at the wayside,
With enthusiastic onlookers egging them on side by side,
The foot tapping rhythm is pure joy to listen,
Through hours of practice, drawn from inspiration within
Crowds gather at the square for a glimpse of the sunset view,
Grabbing vantage spots for the breathtaking view,
The endless clicking of photos is inevitable as it would seem,
For those who skip it, it would probably remain in their dreams
Ice creams and sorbets come in a multitude of flavors,
Making a choice is never without a waiver,
People of all ages love savoring the cool taste,
From morning till late night, there is rarely any haste
Driving through 15 feet narrow alleys would appear to require special skills,
Not so to the locals who probably deem it a routine daily drill,
Peugeots, Renaults, Skodas and Benz can all be seen at play,
Hey, this is Europe - hence there is little surprise at the wide array!
From Granada to Cordoba is the next lap of our travel,
Wonder what mystique it is likely to unravel,
Thus far it has been totally exhilarating,
So look forward to some more poetic commentating
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
Cordoba is home to the largest mosque in the world,
The Mezquita's architectural splendour is a stunning monument to behold,
It is a confluence of Jewish, Islamic and Christian trinity,
Whose influence through the ages will stretch to eternity
Swarming with tourists be it individuals or groups,
Who throng the roads through which they incessantly troop,
The multi-cultural mix is what makes the sight so appealing,
One cannot but experience the inescapable joyful feeling
As one saunters through the must- visit touristic Jewish Quarter,
The innumerable winding lanes and by-lanes really do not matter,
Rows and rows of shops have a wide range of offerings,
All that one needs to do is spend without bothering
It's a gourmet's delight at restaurants when it comes to variety,
One needs to go through the menu card in it's entirety,
The trick is to experiment with different types of food,
Hopping in and out of eateries makes you feel so good
The sweltering heat does little to dampen the enthusiasm,
People go about their work with no less dynamism,
The famed Spanish siesta can still be seen at play,
With shuttering of shops and offices just past mid-day
With tourism a major factor contributing to the economy,
It is important to underscore the need to live in harmony,
This trait among people is so blatantly on display,
An ingrained culture preserved till this very day
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
Play me in an acoustic guitar
Plucking my strings, while sitting on top of your car
Resonating sweet sounds in the air
Singing about life's love affair
I don't need to be in a Yamaha or a Cordoba
Just a simple cheap guitar will do
Where I can vibrate all the melody
So the world can have some remedy
Play me in a harp instrument
Sharpening and flattening my strings with a little enjoyment
But I'd rather be your acoustic guitar in the moment
So people can sing in harmony
About life's symphony
And just like in an acoustic guitar
Be sure to tune me if my strings are flat
Because I don't wanna sound like a grumpy cat
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC