Lorca and Fascism.

Every once in a while I pick up my book of poetry by Federico Garcia-Lorca and enjoy a few verses by a great poet. Lorca has gradually gained fame outside of Spain and is now the most translated Spanish author with the exception of Cervantes. Lorca’s greatness lies in his strange combination of innocence and worldliness which emerges in almost every line of his poetry. He is magical as an author just as he was magical as a man and if I could sit down and have dinner with any poet he might be my first choice because whenever I need a shot of magic Lorca’s poetry goes directly to my heart.

But reading Lorca’s poetry is always an experience in mixed emotions. Every time I think of Lorca I am haunted by the fact that in the first days of the Spanish Civil War a group of Fascists, who were threatened not only by his politics but by his sexuality, came and took him in the middle of the night and he was never seen again. Lorca’s untimely death was not only a tragedy for the Lorca family but it was a tragedy for the Spanish nation and a terrible loss to all of us. And when I think of poor Lorca, who despite his incredible vulnerability was, in his own way, the very symbol of bravery, I am overcome with a wave of pessimism. Lorca’s death makes me realize how vulnerable we all are and how persistently the right-wing struggles to destroy the poetic essence of life. And then I look at my daughter Cairo, who is still so young and vulnerable, I weep at how much they have taken from her, and how much they continue to take from her.

Men in suits, capitalists who cling to a warped ideology and a twisted version of Christianity, continue to make every effort they can to kill poetry. Everyday Lorca is murdered again as men like Stephen Harper attack the vulnerable, and Dick Cheney stands up in defense of torture. And thus the human soul withers and dies in the face of the continual attacks both subtle and blatant from those who seek and wield power.

I will not see it!

Tell the moon to come,

For I don’t want to see the blood

Of Ignacio in the sand.

I will not see it!

The moon wide open.

Horse of still clouds,

And the grey bull ring of dreams

With willows in the barreras.

I will not see it!

Let my memory kindle!

Warm the jasmines

Of such minute whiteness.

 

Garcia-Lorca