diario verano | chronicle
by Jonathan Chanwith compliments to Spencer Reece
30th May 2025
Lorca, i have forgotten how the unending
sun and sprawling hills make soft
an ivory-hard head and heart,
the sweltering embrace of summer
in full, unrelenting brightness.
palm trees line the road to the
beach, vacationers in floating
hotels on the sea beyond the castle.
the fields and farmlands roll by,
vast acreage and the neatness,
the nearness of symmetric olive groves.
the tracks and the trains shake,
snaking across the mountainside.
the filter of sun is captured
in the expanding aperture of film.
Lorca, in this delicious, enveloping heat
i remembered the eternal summer
of a spotted mind.
31st May 2025
Lorca, i awoke with a tightness
in my calves and tremor in my spine.
i have been thinking of how visitation
follows a miracle. the sensuous clime
makes light of the shame of loose
bodies and limbs. sweat is perfectly
adequate and natural to the days
of protracted sunset. cobblestones
make for wobbling steps and curved
knees. i know not where the heat
recedes in the shade. orange trees
stand as the city winds around them.
today, vaqueros sat mounted
on the backs of their horses, lining
the roads drinking coffee in grey
and white suits. dancers sashayed
down the streets in flamenco dresses
of black, red, and blue. the light sapped
the vapours from our breath over plates
of jamón, berenjenas, and camarones.
the afternoon stretched into the evening.
tomorrow, Lorca, we celebrate a sacred
mystery, how languorous, Lorca,
these hours.
1st June 2025
for Crystal y Karim
Lorca, how the particles dance
in the morning light! the clamour of bells
interrupts a momentary slip of devotion.
i lather my body with lotions and oils.
my throat is parched. the fountains
and rivers have been flowing all summer.
the plaza is once again bathed
in light. each of us desires our elusive
architecture of happiness. at the foot
of the fortress, joy expressed itself
in rhythms and in vows. Lorca, how
regal the groom and bride!
how happy we all were from
across the world, toasting and
cheering and sharing stories of
train rides and flight times, theory and
research, activism and withdrawal,
movement and arrival. i felt again
a pang for New York. we danced
into the pulsating sweetness
of the evening. oh, how the
taps kept flowing. Lorca, she
spoke of how they have made
from your poetry
a song.
2nd June 2025
Lorca, my head is spinning.
up the incline, past the burning
building, the long light brings
a smooth tan. see the people revelling
in splendour, ornate gardens,
grand archways, the etchings and carvings
that speak the hundred unknowable
names of god. the grandeur of divinity
impressed in the towers, walls,
and fixtures. beyond the monuments
are the neighbourhoods and their
narrow roads, the medieval
chapels and cathedrals, the
mountains capped with snow,
and the burning building, dark
smoke slowly thinning into
white. the winds stir clouds
of dust on the roads. the
sultans were vanquished
and their followers converted
and expelled. preserving
this edifice is a cruel,
beautiful, and triumphal
act. Lorca, it seems more
and more desire only
to forget.
3rd June 2025
Lorca, how the pace and pulse have
quickened! in Madrid, the roads are
wide and the pavements are full. i met
this city in Spencer’s poems. i meet it
again in spirit and in breath.
the voices and cars rumble
through the night. the people spill
into the boulevards and plazas.
Valle-Inclán stands in the mural
of the churro store. how he railed
against tyrants and dictators
in coffeehouses. the flamenco
dancers stomp with grace and
power, the sweep of shawls
and dresses under the spotlight.
the band of six sits behind, voices
rising like a call to prayer. it is late,
Lorca, and we are tired,
yet the city continues to vibrate.
4th June 2025
Lorca, i remembered today
how art activates a memory|
of suffering. bombardment
gives way to the indiscipline
of surrealism. the shapes
warp, bend, and melt into
the ambient air. the inner
reality transmuted from text
to image. the image poetic.
Dali learns the eschatology
of the sea urchin. Buñuel
encodes behaviours of
illogic. Breton layers
montage and collage and
manipulation. see how the
children watch Guernica
like television, legs crossed
on the museum’s marble
floor. Picasso dreamt
only of a monstrous pain.
the weeping mother and her
contortions. the child-corpse
stained in tears. the image
is disorientation, is dislocation
is discombobulation. the tongue
of the horse is like a spear.
the marrow of the forearm
is visible on the soil. the sword
is shattered. the spectre of a
woman wails. the bulb is the
bomb. the bull runs amok.
the flesh shall wither to
rocks and to bones. these
captors and conquerors.
these courtesans and
revellers. these spies and
counterrevolutionaries. they
took the best spoils of
the centuries to rend their
towns and cities. the heirs to
El Greco, Velázquez, y
Goya. oh master, oh
propagandist. oh portrait,
oh buffoon. oh court oddity,
oh white divinity. oh anatomy,
oh mystery. oh monastic,
oh brilliant delivery. oh
artist, oh royal child.
oh ravaged liver, oh
strained body. i see
the horrors that have
resided within. i see
how the new world
returns to the old.
i see Saturn’s bite
of each child, bloody,
in this palace, this
panopticon of portraits,
the heraldry of sword
and pen, the hands
bearing silver goblets,
the images remade in
punished climes.
the imaginary bell is tolling.
Madrid has yet been kind.
Lorca, it is time.
Lorca, i am leaving late.
Lorca, how i must return
to wait.
