You are somewhere between
my unhurried steps and
the unhurried stars that
break free and easy from
the branch of rain that
hides half the world.

You are something between
the wild words of Yeats and
the wild words of your own,
handed to me across
the four hour sea,
full of firsts.

You are somewhere between
my awaiting gaze and
the awaiting days that
sit on the tongue's edge
of history, under sun's
streak that hems our world.

You are something between
the wise words of Hikmet and
the wise words of your own,
flown to me from
the Bosphorus,
full of wishes.

You are somewhere between
my coffee eye and
the toffee thighs of
the earth, bunching
into mountains,
scaffold to rivers.

You are something between
the wide words of Andric and
the wide words of your own,
a caravel in
the high tide
of my chest.

You are somewhere between
your yoga mat's page
& the sun-stuttered stage,
balancing geometries,
days rich like honey,
always near to a kiss.

You write poems, and
they stick in the teeth
like sugar and salt.
Your drawings, heavy
with black hatches,
turn the eye over
and over. This,
it's your city now.

You are somewhere between
the track of my gaze and
Dublin's last days,
long with summer
& brittle breeze,
& fickle cloud
that denies a sun.

You are something between
a Daydream Delusion
& the poems I write that
speak your name with
every vocabulary.
"Limousine eyelash."
You are still here, and
you always will be.

You are somewhere between
Istanbul's drum-lined streets
& the streaks of stars,
soft as poached yolk
from the window seat
of the plane that carries
you across half the world.

You are something between
the dreaming green women
of Yeats and the painted
women in long galleries
who patiently wait with me
for your intelligent eye.

Green rapture of human life,
crazy hope, golden frenzy,
intricate unsleeping dream,
like dreams of vain treasure.

Soul of the world, demented lushness,
decrepit imaginary greenery,
the today of joyful expectations
and the unfortunate tomorrows.

Follow your shadow in search of your day,
those who with green glasses for cravings
see everything painted to their desire.

More cautious of my fortune,
I have both eyes, both hands,
and only see what I can touch.

A chance meeting at a bar,
   chatting under pouring pine
& knotted wooden star:
   To new friends and a shared shrine;
   to love aging well, like old port wine.

Once, I thought
I had an empire,
full of ecstasies of grass,
temples to an obese sun,
words signed away
into the last corners
of the brickish night.

I had such grand plans,
to put death to death,
but soon all the heavens
of love coagulated.
Ghosts without eyelids
or lips followed me,
registering each sin.
An owl scratched at the moon.

This was the state you found me in -
I staggered around, alone,
scratching out my brutish art.
For you, though, I combed my soul
& yielded to the burning mercies
you offered among the knees of trees.
You cured me with sugar and patience;
I lived in your eyes.

I am your own poet, now,
lacing you into my middle age,
howling at this strange gamble
that closed a distance,
& falling into your arms
as often as possible.

I'll translate
for you:

"Spring drifts
into me again
tonight, the lush
blossoms skate
up my spine by
the dance hall,
I'm on my
second beer
& I'm all nerves."

means

I am a wreck,
again. Half of me
stumbled
& fell for her
weeks ago,
& half of me
is a ticker tape
repeating
what she told me:
This is right now
This is only now
This is nothing else
This can never be
anything else.

Out at the bar
I meet Sarah
the bartender -
born the day
before me,
small tattoos
across her arms
& going
to Paris soon -
when those
two halves
collide,
thoughts get
messy,
& I am
churning
to pieces
here in the
warm air.

I am available
to anyone
who claims me.
Until then,
I am something else -
something less
than enough
& this eats at me
like an acid.

and

"Even the air
is asleep.
It's one a.m.,
I threaten
the quiet walls
with little music
that I send
towards Ireland.
My heart
is too shy
for night
games."

means

I get home late.
My thoughts
divide
immediately -
between
the faraway girl
across the sea
who speaks
like a shy dream -
and something
else, something
desperate.
I am too
sensitive
for the rough
*******
madness
of love,
but I can't
stand
solitude,
either.
The faraway girl
is right
about me.

Now,
maybe you
understand.

Tree, tree,
dry and green.

The girl with the beautiful face
is picking olives.
The wind, rake of towers,
holds her by the waist.

Four riders passed
on Anadalusian ponies,
with blue and green suits,
and long dark coats.

"Come to Cordoba, girl."
The little girl doesn't listen.

Three bullfighters passed,
thin-waisted,
with orange suits
and swords of ancient silver.

"Come to Seville, girl."
The little girl doesn't listen.

When the afternoon wore
dark purple, and was fading,
a young man passed, who was wearing
roses and moonlight myrtles.

"Come to Grenada, girl."
And the little girl doesn't listen.

The girl with the beautiful face
keeps picking olives,
with the gray arm of the wind
tight around her waist.

Tree, tree,
dry and green.

**

Arbolé, arbolé,
seco y verdí.

La niña del bello rostro
está cogiendo aceituna.
El viento, galán de torres,
la prende por la cintura.
Pasaron cuatro jinetes
sobre jacas andaluzas,
con trajes de azul y verde,
con largas capas oscuras.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Pasaron tres torerillos
delgaditos de cintura,
con trajes color naranja
y espadas de plata antigua.
"Vente a Sevilla, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Cuando la tarde se puso
morada, con lux difusa,
pasó un joven que llevaba
rosas y mirtos de luna.
"Vente a Granada, muchacha."
Y la niña no lo escucha.
La niña del bello rostro
sigue cogiendo aceituna,
con el brazo gris del viento
ceñido por la cintura.
Arbolé, arbolé.
Seco y verdé.

-by Federico Garcia Lorca
translated by Evan Stephens

To Liz Arnold

Her slicing eye carved all
through me as she spoke

stories of marriage, cancer,
poems never to be written,

of garden stones and cocktails,
of **** coffee house parties.

What did she think of me,
more boy than man, sitting

in her worn maroon chair,
telling her of country miles,

of listless marriage, of nights
wide and deep and strange,

of the river bed of the heart,
& poems never to be written?

Liz stared intently, her eyes
dissecting; I never did know.

She walks the city
as it wakes.
Under cloud committee
she walks the city.
The river's pretty
as morning breaks.
She walks the city
as it wakes.

You travel today
to Belgrade:
nightclub-on-quay.
You travel today
on an hour's ray
over green brocade.
You travel today
to Belgrade.

Eight years
is long enough
to let yourself have fears.
Eight years
is long enough for tears,
too. It's tough.
Eight years
is long enough.

Thoughts like fire,
all about you.
Wilding desire,
thoughts like fire
devouring a pyre
to love unsubdued -
thoughts like fire,
all about you.

Fly home, my dear,
and love your life.
Until you're near
fly home, my dear,
don't veer,
but straight as a knife
fly home, my dear,
and love your life.

My darling one,
here is your breeze.
I also send the sun,
my darling one,
and I'm not done:
here, have the Hyades.
My darling one,
here is your breeze.

O grand cru -
full-bodied red.
Here's what I'll do,
O grand cru -
I'll drink you
down, then to bed.
O grand cru -
full-bodied red.

Hold my hand,
and don't let go.
Heart's demand,
hold my hand,
something grand,
sweet hello.
Hold my hand,
and don't let go.

I miss you, dear sweet,
deep in my bones.
In the high city heat
I miss you, dear sweet.
May the hours retreat
when the wild wind moans -
I miss you, dear sweet,
deep in my bones.

Go, visit home -
but come back to me.
To Europe's end you roam:
go, visit home,
my little honeycomb,
and be free.
Go, visit home -
but come back to me.

You love him,
but he doesn't know.
All the stars go dim,
you love him,
with every breath a hymn,
but it doesn't show -
you love him,
but he doesn't know.

On lover's lane
we cancel the rain
with champagne.
On lover's lane
kisses entertain
& endlessly sustain.
On lover's lane
we cancel the rain.

When I'm feeling down,
you speak to me -
I almost drown
when I'm feeling down,
but black and brown
give way to jubilee,
for when I'm feeling down
you speak to me.

The future is ours,
and life is sweet.
Through all the hours
the future is ours,
and all our powers
grow great in May heat...
the future is ours,
and life is sweet.

I love you,
my dear.
I tell it true:
I love you
every day anew.
Let them all hear:
I love you,
my dear.

Never Fear, love, never fear,
although you only know me here.
If the distance feels austere,
never fear, love, never fear.
For when I am at long last near,
touch to touch at our premiere,
you'll never fear, love, never fear,
although you only know me here.

I walk at night
just to walk.
By dim streetlight
I walk at night.
From city's height
to the river dock -
I walk at night
just to walk.

My fingers in yours,
walking so stately.
Cut cloud pours?
My fingers in yours.
Thunderhead roars?
I smile sedately,
my fingers in yours,
walking so stately.

Let's spend Fall
in Paris and Rome
while all the stars loll.
Let us spend Fall
in old marble halls
below painted domes.
Let us spend Fall
in Paris and Rome.

Prepare well,
honey bird,
but don't dwell -
prepare well
for a spell
answering words.
Prepare well,
honey bird.

Tipsy on their Labor Day,
in rakia you're swimming.
Through hill's rooms you play,
tipsy on their Labor Day,
a heady plum bouquet,
glass waving, brimming,
tipsy on their Labor Day -
in rakia you're swimming.

Be with me, love,
tomorrow's our day.
Like hand in glove
be with me, love.
My little dove,
my lily bouquet -
be with me, love,
tomorrow's our day

The battlements stand
but half-built.
Made of wet sand,
the battlements stand
noble and grand.
With sea's salted silt
the battlements stand
but half-built.

You draw the world
in front of you.
Hand's careful curl,
you draw the world
with eyes unfurled,
coffee like morning dew,
you draw the world
in front of you.

You're sleeping in,
little dove.
Let the day begin
with sleeping in -
It's no sin,
my love.
You're sleeping in,
little dove.

Watch the wild swans
that glide the pool.
In the blooming dawn
watch the wild swans
spread wing until gone -
A white thread unspools.
Watch the wild swans
that glide the pool.

O sweet friend:
I'm glad for you.
May days never end,
O sweet friend,
but always extend
with verse's glue.
O sweet friend:
I'm glad for you.

Turn the cup
& read the grounds...
Finish up,
turn the cup -
is it the black pup,
that I've found?
Turn the cup
& read the grounds...

Think of me,
at your wedding.
With honey and brie,
think of me.
With coffee and tea,
& gifts of silk bedding,
think of me
at your wedding.

Our thoughts float with gin,
and a little beer.
O darling, let's begin -
our thoughts float with gin,
and soon we're grin to grin
& the night floods with cheer.
Our thoughts float with gin,
and a little beer.

Don't feel blue,
Melis dear -
there's so much to do.
Don't feel blue,
you'll see it through.
Sorrow will clear!
Don't feel blue,
Melis dear.

We're only two weeks away,
I can almost taste it.
The curtain rising on our play,
we're only two weeks away,
we'll hardly know what to say,
but we won't waste it -
we're only two weeks away,
I can almost taste it.

Don't pull away,
my lovely dear.
It's Valentine's today,
so don't pull away,
but come and stay, say
you won't disappear.
Don't pull away,
my lovely dear.

A valiant cloud
defers a shouting sun.
My puffball proud,
a valiant cloud
has been our shroud
against this fire spun.
A valiant cloud
defers a shouting sun.

Welcome home,
little darling,
to the starry comb.
Welcome home
to dine on tomes.
Hear the starlings?
Welcome home,
little darling.

Please, love, worry not,
it'll go your way.
If it feels for naught,
please, love, worry not,
for all will be as it ought,
and by your side I'll stay.
Please, love, worry not,
it'll go your way.

You're the one
who fills my days with pleasure.
Under endless sun,
you're the one
whose joys run
without measure.
You're the one  
who fills my days with pleasure.

The rain stops time tonight -
it halts in icy webs on glass.

All my friends have ditched;
I sit alone in a ***** tower,

the others look with pity
as I sip this cloudy beer.

I think about poetry:
a hundred years ago

I might have survived,
carried by some fortune,

but now I stare at the moon
hungrily, gently starving,

slavering for metaphor, but
nothing comes, nothing comes.

Rain freezes on the step.
The moon devours us;

my mind is a dead machine,
full of ice and grief and rust.