Here in the small golden apartment, which
I have previously imagined; with your
Small animals winking from the Spanish dresser,
A ripening glow on the walls; it is obvious
Not to go back. Treading on my watch
Fortuitously as we open the balcony door,
We could fly, you opening at last every feather,
South to Seville, Granada; oblivious.
In my dream the marriage rituals have come,
Parading themselves, almost gaudily, as though
I need reminding. If I could only untangle
My legs. It isn't memory or fear
That retard, or the scarlet-edged storm
Over Black Diamond Bay. But below
I can hear the nerves' crippled jangle
Running to earth along a solitary tear.
'South' by David Punter, from 'China & Glass', Bran's head press. ISBN 0-905220-58-7 &diams top ^
The setting
a house, garden, an orange tree, a sombrero, distant fields and mountains.
The story
From a balcony of flowers I watched a bird,
A gay little bird who liked the smell of oranges.
"Make it rain," I called and clapped my hands.
This Spanish Sparrow, 'el gorrión' looked at me-
An orange blossom in his beak and flew away as Spring.
6 years and no rain!
Until el gorrión returned as drops of rain,
Falling upon the orange tree.
The leaves, pretty with the sheen, of brittle veins,
Danced as the droplet's weight startled them.
The oranges glowed and swelled.
I clapped some more-the rain just came. It just came.
The orange tree perfumed the air,
An odour that would have delighted el gorrión.
I crossed the garden, espying the sombrero,
Abandoned for years and tranquil, hooked upon the main branch.
I put it on, absorbing the moment and the Time-
Keeping of the pitapatting upon the sombrero's rim.
The enchantment unfolded.
The transformation from a garden to a battle field
The mountains loomed lugubriously.
Looking South, to the left was the sun, to the right the moon.
The sun was the stronger, the younger and rising fearlessly.
This dawn I saw el gorrión fly from the tree to the clouds.
With the morning had come the rain.
In the mountains,
Once dry riverbeds now rumbled, hammering dry slopes.
The sun had turned and weakened upon its pivot.
Get back indoors! Cross the garden! Get back indoors!
The moon, advancing, appeared momentarily from above the clouds.
The wind cut the land, lightening ripped the sky,
Thunder sent the oranges plummeting to the ground.
Darkness set in and the battle raged on.
With the shutters closed I thought about the girl-You.
No, you will not come tonight.
Arrival
The next day dawned.
I dressed to the flute of the Spanish Sparrow.
El gorrión had returned - and with him the sun,
Seen piercing the craftsman's imperfections in the wooden shutters.
I stood upon the balcony,
The orange tree was bare, violently robbed of all fruit-
Except three oranges and my singing friend.
To the mountains I gazed and saw a tiny figure rolling on a bicycle,
The bicycle bell heard ringing in-between the ancient church bell towers.
I ran to the orange tree, grabbed two oranges and waited for her there.
Finally, the gate swung open-
She faced me, as sweet as ever an orange was.
I raised the sombrero's rim and said:
"The other is to share later."
El gorrión sang on.
&diams top ^
Written in the Ronda region of Andalucia. From the 10th century up until the death of Franco this whole area was a safe territory for bandits. The wild mountainous terrain is alive with well-worn paths that demanded knowledge of the geography. Even just a couple of decades ago during the 1970's, Franco's military found it hard to impose the laws, hence many Spaniards lived here as the feeling of wildness equated a feeling of freedom. Several Spaghetti Westerns were filmed here.
Under the blanket of night,
mountains cradle the houses,
where folk sit tight,
candles burn bright,
the work is left till dawn.
Yet such obscurity is a necessity,
to those who have never known democracy.
Secret paths light up-
like eyes of polished leather,
brushed by the wild weather.
This isn't the scene from a Spaghetti Western,
where silhouettes draped outcrops of rocks,
and midday suns burnt the once
Arab held territory.
It's a rough land, a tough land.
But they are better off here,
than there- like most,
who hope that the wind will change,
and that such implicit activity
will be left to legends in history.
These paths do meander some,
yet there is a destination, heard as -
the invitation to indiscretion.
Here the candlelight spills onto the streets,
the pueblo appears, forever, half asleep.
&diams top ^
At any one place -
many Suns are slowly dying,
reddening landscapes whose Youthfulness is bashful green,
moving across and away along the backs,
that bridge this working ground:
discretion becomes an obsession.
We owe all we have to those ties,
anchored in Earth and Skies:
whose are the greens and blues of foraging Dreams -
That's precisely it - the knowledge,
of having gained from the journeying.
Who's movements are grander than my own?
Timorously aware of many,
I stare into each dying revolution,
with weary eyes, I trace the imaginary arc toward Lands,
so distant and different, reddening all the same,
having died at any one place, only to be seen
Again
&diams top ^
Taken from the album 'One Colour Just Reflects Another', released in April '96. This poem / song was written in an Andalucían café in a small village whilst sheltering from the rain. Sweet wine was drunk with ease, but the atmosphere changed to a heavy calm when the radio announced a terrorist bomb blast in Madrid.
&diams top ^
A hero of historic revolution speaks:
'The Matador's eyes focused coldly in his artful pose-
where whispered the silver of the sword's blade
towards the looming, fractured presence of Africa-
who came speechless to our shores.
'Exposed rows of whitish teeth - froze.
The moment to prey had arrived.
Black confronted Black - Matador and Bull - eye to eye
Twisting - one with the sweat of glory - molten
argent running in a bead down his temple - the other
sunk shamefully upon his knees where flowed a river-
a River of Blood, whose source is arcane.
'Between the Mediterranean landscapes,
tragically separated billions of years ago,
the blue sea comforts crimson alluvia, glinting
along the echoes that cried and died in a silver-
splintering, sparking public applause:
'Olé!' they shouted - '¡Muerte!'
'They threw the symbolic roses in:
deep red roses that drifted out to sea along this River of Blood.
'I witnessed the looming shadow
of a continent retreat-then repeat,
there stepped into the arena a Child -
a Wild impoverished Child.
She wore only one black shoe and a label:
Sent by Russia to beg for bread
'Silence- she stirred daintily until judgement was passed,
'Gracias, good and gracious God for Russia,
She's our New Africa - ¡Olé!
'New Africa, New Africa' beats the refrain.
'It's a strange breeze that blows through these parts:
Poetry of this order is a murderous act.'
&diams top ^
I'm far from the route I set off to take, far from the poetry and romance of Cervantes, far from the streets once lined with cafés where Gypsies entertained their tricks. Adventures in these modern days no longer thrive tenfold, and don't reveal themselves in narrow streets to those not versed in such affairs.
But if it's by way of illusion and fantasy that one can see out the day into the next, then so be it I say.
Now the old road, a horseman's road, winds up past my window and yonder unto the City of Granada. May I dwell in thought over a glass of wine knowing that tomorrow I shall be gone.
Upon this road I wish to see; white casas bonitas; curious folk sitting doing all that curiosity entails;
Mountains rising, bathing in the sun. Eagles will accompany me past fields, some wild with delight and others sewn to the horizons.
One hundred and twenty kilometres is the measured distance from Málaga. Should I hear the wooden sound of a Flamenco guitar for every kilometre defeated, then the enchantment will be revived.
&diams top ^
Part 1 - A relation of solitude, passion and environment for the lady and her windmill.
IIn the wind she sings,
Humming life as cycles of stability,
despite the loss of kin.
When the wind cuts,
she's below, toiling,
speaking little in a place
where little can be heard, but
the familiarity of an overdriven
Windmill.
Snow rarely falls upon her land -
mild breezes ruffle her linen shirts,
and pleated dresses whisper amid
prairie grasses of a golden spring.
This woman is ardent in revolutionary thought,
having fought for
Land.
Once fields of flowers were stained in
deep blood. Daisy chains,
adorning her innocence,
broke in warfare.
Now her female charm
of translating abuse into
warmth is forced.
In a storm she knows Gypsy passion,
Faithfully,
Repeating
a
guitar
chord.
The neck of the guitar gives
under the strength of her fingers.
The windmill's arms strain
under the storm's command.
Seated by the window,
often shedding a tear -
pelting rain resembles
crossfire. Remember,
this woman is ardent in revolutionary thought -
she could not and would not love a man:
Her heart only beats for her land.
Thus...the plain is her beauty,
the movement upon her face;
best lived during mellow summer months.
It was from this window she espied,
through the windmill's spinning
arms,
a man of
arms,
menacing her environment.
end of part 1. &diams top ^
Part 2 - An account of how the Revolutionary Woman defended what was rightfully hers after espying a man of arms.
IIn the wind she sings,
Having sighted such a character,
she took leave.
From half a league,
crouched behind a rock,
she judged his arrival,
and desired hasty departure.
Defiant
was he, slipping from the saddle with sure rhythm
in his stride to announce:
"I'm a man of the road,
no more, no less,
seeking lodging from
the earth's foul temper."
He spoke it twice - maybe thrice,
before the locks gave, invading her domain.
He took his gaze across the plain.
The chill of dusk greyed her vision.
How can a night, so remote, carry such a threat?
To her heart she drew a cross,
and went and stood before her
windmill's door.
He -
having seen as much -
made instant his intention,
addressing her as:
'The Woman Of The Windmill',
finger toying upon the trigger.
Tightening inside,
she knew her fate was
cast to the winds.
Mauled to the ground,
she recalled her mother,
beaten
into the soil by much the same order.
Her cries,
like a flute,
bore her affliction.
On her knees, skirt hitched,
she sought
the fire, the desire,
that won her family from the clutches
of the landed gentry.
Through his leathery hands she scrambled,
out the door unto the shadow of her
windmill.
He slithered after -
hell bent on her moral destruction.
Pressed to the wall,
her virtue
and
pursuer,
(He too befriended the shadow that was leading him to 'The Revolutionary Woman')
Stepping through the windmill's arms,
she turned to face him there.
Neither left nor right looked he,
just directly into the whites of her eyes:
Intense is the moment when isolating prey!
Hungrily coaxed by ill thoughts,
he stepped covetously,
from the wall into the storm's wake,
where drove the windmill's
blades,
into his limbs -
thus concluding this tale.
Sealed within her windmill's walls,
during a storm,
she knows Gypsy passion,
Faithfully,
Repeating
a
guitar
chord.
end of part 2. llustrations by Frances Vesma. &diams top ^
Presented more as a rhythmical song. It's depth, feel and roots lie solely in Andalucían literature and folk music. Singer-writer 'Camerón de la Isla' is the influential voice of inspiration weaving through this work. So many of his poems, and later recorded songs, used traditional culture in nature as the theme. I saw whole families whilst on mountainous roads working in the fields and sheltering under the shade of olive and orange trees, singing and sleeping through the siesta hours.
When you sing,
When you sing,
consider this...
There will be others in your life,
Upon this land where you have worked,
skirt hitched high, knees in soil and grass.
The dust that lines your throat,
is shaken by the wind of the sung words,
by the tap of your heels.
I'll take a stool,
clap to the song and encourage
another..
'..brother, like this
I sung my first romance,
with weary soles I
danced to delight,
stealing my first chance'.
In song and verse we belong.
You were never composed as one,
to be just one,
to see just one or
to sing for one.
Listen to my words,
seasoned as the rivers-
there will be others,
as I found you, murmuring
rhythms by
day and night,
weaving to delight.
The sun goes to your head,
rivers run to your feet,
trees carry a shadow-
a space to retreat.
Like you,
I was never composed as one,
to be just one,
to see just one...
For this I ask,
'sing for the one who wants to hear,
teach the one who wants to learn'.
It's here to feel,
our tradition,
simple and real...
'...sister, like this
I sung my first romance,
with weary soles I danced to delight,
stealing my first chance'.
&diams top ^
With eyes shut, thoughts open
You acknowledge the closeness of the night
by bowing down under it:
You feel sacred at this scared hour-
a prayer of sorts is said.
You lie down, as if draped over a mountainside
Naked, petite and tingling
The Moon has dropped tiny parachutes of silvery light
through which an eagle has set his course.
He caresses the contours of your land -
By who's hand is he ruffled,
shaken proud and perilously guided-?
Under the wings of inquisitive flight
he views the amazing sight of his shadow
sweeping over a soft shade of Mediterranean grey
&diams top ^
I lived in Andalucía, Spain in an impoverished Gypsy district.
This song was later recorded and released with a Flamenco guitarist.
The words and images are rooted in the ancient folkloric art of Flamenco.
He'll raise his head, face in shadow,
Sealing the chapter behind,
Greeting the one unfolding.
Whistling along this route -
Of stone and earth,
Dusty eyes explain the pain,
Cart and body absorb the strain.
Follow the gypsy, follow the gypsy,
Swaying to the rhythm of the wheel,
Looking forwards, eyes sharp like steel,
Young and old follow the gypsy.
Along the banks of a murmuring river,
They're lost in whispered poetry.
Here he'll stop, crouching, feeling the water,
In his hands, upon his dusty face,
Running his fingers through the grass,
And striking the camp alas.
Follow the gypsy, follow the gypsy,
Who's lost in whispered poetry,
In the murmur of the river's history,
Follow the gypsy, follow the gypsy.
Chasing green, green grass,
Wind, running in the laughter of the children,
Swishing in the horse's mane.
But what of the mother, the woman?
She's by the river preparing a casserole,
As the fire flirts in a dying sun.
Follow the gypsy, follow the gypsy,
Smoking, downing wine.
Watch her grace, hear her sing,
As the fire flirts in a dying sun.
Sitting straight, positioned proud,
Father and daughter side by side,
Beads of sweat upon his brow,
Flames of youth raw in her soul.
To the night climb three shadows -
One strumming strings,
One clapping hands,
One chancing the beat to the
Dance of Caravan Summer.
Come dance with the gypsy,
Come sing with the gypsy,
Dancing against a backdrop of obscurity,
Singing from hearts mulled by history.
Soft is the night,
Steady the humming of the cricket.
It's just a solitary rose, who sings now,
By trembling in the humidity of dawn.
This is border country -
Tomorrow is Andalucía,
Tomorrow Andalucía.
Awake with the gypsy, with the gypsy,
As the white butterfly kisses the rose,
Then takes to the air, to the mountains.
It's homeward bound, it's homeward bound.
Caravan timbers,
Creak, crack and crease.
The woman sits pensive,
The children run in play,
The man treads each step of this golden earth:
This is the last, the hardest day.
Passing through a white-washed Pueblo,
They disturb not a lazy soul,
That's indifferent to the heat -
Submissive in defeat.
Follow the gypsy, follow the gypsy,
Who passes through a Pueblo,
Beads of sweat upon their foreheads,
Indifferent to the heat, submissive in defeat.
The last push -
One mountain pass draws into an evening sun,
Descending to the Guadalquivir river,
To the sounds, smells and sight of home -
Hands locked singing the refrain:
'Todo es de color,
Todo es de color....'
'Everything is colour,
Everything is colour....'
&diams top ^
