Capriccio Espagnol

“Y entre puente y otro puente Zaragoza es my tierra.”

OF blood blown-dry brown velvet, baldaquins, Words guttural—then soft as dulcimers: Of rays of rapid light through fishes’ fins Prisoned in tanks profound where nothing stirs; Of nights that ooze weird sounds, and starry eyes On lattice fixed and bulging balconies:— Of these my brain built castles rapidly, And tolled metallic like a beaten bell Of hard green copper; straggling aimlessly Over ravine and granite citadel Were cities unpremeditated, dry, As draughts of space inhaled from scorching sky. Through these Cathedrals rose like cachalots Twisted of height and gloom and sudden glow. Their glossy floors reflect the crimson clots Of vestment swirling, swishing to and fro— And when the beadle taps his ponderous mace Faint echoes rustle from the Altar’s lace. Within the town: feeble electric light Among the dusty foliage of the trees, Like gentle cheeks against the steely night, With boughs of thick smooth silver; jubilees Of saints are frequent—in their thoughtfulness The citizens will give their saint a dress. They lift her from the gilded canopy, Studded in far Peru, on which she stands, Sumptuous, realistic, in each eye A gaping jewel; sprouting from her hands Are paper flowers—in their thoughtfulness They give their saint a new magenta dress. The ceremony done, and people doff Their piety: serrated streets resound With gossip, vacuous laughter, idle scoff. Like strips of tape the scattered crowds confound, Mantillas and a rout of dusky hair, Stray thoughts jerk off and clatter in the air.... Austere this land, and yet it utters flesh: The longing ache of contact, lids like song And lips like speech melodious: a mesh For Don Juans and sanguine passions; strong This earth of sprinkled blood, the seed of gold, Whose tainted glitters dazzle young and old! Jagged umber ridges freaked with lines of snow, Bitumen lakes, austere as faded fire, And vague waste lands where gypsies squatting low Croon winged abandoned musics that expire Like bruised sweet herbs, gushed madness, agonies Of lances hurled at pulseless arteries. Like vapours anchored to a mountain’s thigh Legioned, remote and abstract, yet withal Evocative of an infinity— Beauty becoming metaphysical— This Phœnix-land breeds new birds in the brain From ash, for I have never been to Spain.