POEM BY JIM WATSON GOVE

Duende: after Lorca


Who wears the lion's head tossed

from the Jucar to the Guadalete?

from the Sil to the Pisuerga?

Colored ribbons still fly from

silver pikes in Granada



Who wears the bull's head? Flags

wave toward the Andelusian shore

They exemplify the ancient blood

cult & death at 5 in the afternoon

is nothing to laugh about



Who wears Hemingway's head?

Barnaby Conrad's ghost wanders

Pamplona's streets waiting for the

bulls to run The roots run true

through dusty Andelusian streets



Who wears Lorca's duende like a

philosopher's mask speaking deep

in the throat? A construct? A concept?

A gob spat out onto the cobble stone

street



The blue guitar player knows about

duende He sits hunched over his

guitar his fingers slowly picking out

one more stale flamenco melody



It's mystery It's power It's Pamplona

all over again mastering frantically the

running of the bulls



Descartes is a rotten orange floating

in Venice's canals Lorca's angels

argue with Descartes' muse while

Saint Raphael fences with Saints

Michael and Gabriel



Lorca says Cervantes' mountebanks

palpitate in the shadows of Socrates'

stone statues He climbs the staircase

like the nude descending and finally

discovers who it is who wears the

bull's head who it is who wears the

lion's head He realizes that it is

Hemingway who wears Lorca's duende

like a spent cube


© Jim Watson Gove