POET IN NEW YORK
In memoriam, Federico García Lorca
The long June evenings hide secrets-- new life shadowed by green leaves, messy and wet, delicate and fragile. On my way to a concert in the falling dusk, I pass doormen standing one by one in the entrances along Seventy-Eighth Street singing love songs in Spanish and Italian. Like awnings that shelter the singers, the rain makes spaces for their melodies. I am thinking of Lorca on his birthday, spiritual descendent of gypsies and troubadours, and how he came to New York fleeing the wreckage of love and friends who called his art old-fashioned. The city was the remedy he let explode within him in all its mysterious force, its hurts were wounds to lead him to creation.