I lorca you a latke

by heytherewildflower

The title of this post is quite possibly the dumbest and not funniest pun ever. it doesn’t even make sense. but if you say it out loud you’ll see why it is necessary up there. ALso I really like latkes and any sort of food item that necessitates ketchup but also goes great with apple sauce. Not very many foods satisfy both of these sick and unquenchable food loves. Plus, sour cream. i MEAN seriously. ain’t nothin like fried potato.

I love that there is a new Federico Garcia Lorca buzz revival in the poetry world lately. The first thing people say about Philip Levine is that, as poet laureate, he will bring HIMSELF, his revolutionary anger/fervor, his darkness, his uncensored bad self…and his TASTES to the position. So far, this seems to ring true. I can think of no better poet to be the official American voice of the craft right now, what with all the anger and protesting and poor people and people wishing they were were poor and all that stuff. and lindsay lohan escaped the slammer again! the world is rife with injustice!  and Philip Levine lived it. does not romanticize it, nope, he is FUCKING ANGRY in the most sensuous sense.His poetry is Romantic without Romanticizing the perspective he champions. absolutely gorgeous. ALSO, Philip Levine’s poetic tastes are STUNNA and I am experiencing whole new worlds of poetry through him. Its not like Lorca disappeared off the map at any time…but right now he is DOWN RIGHT SEXY in the hippest and stuffiest poetry scenes alike. This is one trend I am happy to ride.

See, I could post a Lorca poem but the point is LEVINE LEVINE LEVINE. I am in love.

No One Remembers

A soft wind
off the stones of the dead.
I pass by, stop the car,
and walk among none
of my own, to say
something useless
for them, something
that will calm me under
the same old beaten sky,
something to let me
go on with this day
that began so badly
alone in a motel 10 miles
from where I was born.

I say Goodbye finally
because nothing else is here,
because it is Goodbye,
Uncle Joe, big cigar, fist
on the ear, nodding sure
bitch and coming at me.
You can’t touch me now,
and she’s a thousand miles
from here, hell, she may be
dancing long past dawn
across the river
from Philly. It’s morning
there too, even in Philly,
it’s morning on Lake St. Clair
where we never went fishing,
along the Ohio River, the Detroit,
morning breaking on
the New York Central Express
crashing through the tunnel
and the last gasp of steam
before the entrance into hell
or Baltimore, but it’s not
morning where you are, Joe,
unless you come with me.

I’m going to see her today.
She’ll cry like always
when you raised your voice
or your fist, she’ll
be robed near the window
of the ward when I come in.
No, she won’t be dancing.
It’s my hand she’ll take
in hers and spread on her lap,
it’s me she’ll feed
slowly finger by finger
like so many threads back
to where the blood died
and our lives met
and went wrong, back
to all she said she’d be,
woman, promise, sigh,
dark hair in the mirror
of a car window all night
on the way back from Georgia.

You think because I
was a boy, I didn’t hear,
you think because you had
a pocketful of loose change,
your feet on the desk,
your own phone, a yellow car
on credit, I didn’t see
you open your hands
like a prayer and die
into them the way a child
dies into a razor, black hair,
into a tire iron, a chain.
You think I didn’t smell
the sweat that rose
from your bed, didn’t
know you on the stairs
in the dark, grunting
into a frightened girl.
Because you could push me
aside like a kitchen chair
and hit where you wanted,
you think I was a wren,
a mourning dove
surrendering the nest.

The earth is asleep, Joe,
it’s rock, steel, ice,
the earth doesn’t care
or forgive. No one remembers
your eyes before they tired,
the way you fought weeping.
No one remembers how much
it cost to drive all night
to Chicago, how much
to sleep all night in a car,
to have it all except
the money. No one remembers
your hand, opened, warm
and sweating on the back
of my neck when you first
picked me up and said
my name, Philip, and held
the winter sun up
for me to see outside
the French windows of
the old house on Pingree,
no one remembers.

—Philip Levine