John Clare
My Spanish Friend
Hard sun
biting into the long dry road
that goes from one small nowhere to
another.
Hard sun
that bites into the rough brown skin
of bent backs in the hard dry
village fields.
Whose friend or foe are you?
Soft moon
dropping silver tear-drops
that trickle down the window panes
and vanish
Soft moon
that draws fingers across the strings
of so many bright guitars
that no-one hears
What secrets do you know?
I come walking
a white road under
a white sun
I come looking
for reflections
under a pale moon
The peasant in his ragged clothes
invites me in
feeds me
gives me presents
and a room to stay
I look at him and wonder
Who are you?
The white moon
shines
down on friends
who share a glass of wine
afraid to ask
who are you?
Are you the man who killed
his uncle
and dragged those girls
to a bend
in the hard white road
and kicked
their bullet-ridden bodies
down the hillside
The white sun
stares
down on
brown skin
and asks
who are you?
Are you the man who took me in
and shared your meagre bowl
and took me to the bar
and bought me drinks
with your last pennies.
The white moon
spins
like a silver coin
She would drop her bounty in your lap
if she knew
who are you.
Are you the son
of those sour crooks
who stripped America
made promises
to kings
then broke
both promises and kings
and stole
their gold and silver
The white sun
shines
down on poor America and
counts the cries
and dries
the tears and asks
who are you?
Are you that man
who sings
the cante jondo
that sharp cry that
reaches for your soul
to grasp
some small resemblance
that you seek in vain
The white moon
wont tell
the secrets of the night
until she’s sure
who are you?
Are you the man
who smashed
the windows of the convent
burnt
the churches
bombed
a cavalcade of bishops
and rejoiced in revolution
The white sun
shone brown
thru smoke
burnt blood dry
and cracked the city
like a crypt
but didn’t tell
who are you?
Perhaps you are the man
I saw
before me in the street
adoring
the white virgin
penitent
with votive candle
The white moon
blows kisses
to the windows
but
there are no stars
in eyes that ask
who are you?
They talk about the men
who ran away to Buenas Aires
when the guns were barking
and the knives were out
or are you lying in the ditch
face down
your blood
a dirty river flowing down the hill
The white sun
will bleach
your bones
and ask
the wailing wives and daughters
who are you
That shadow on the rock
under a frightened moon
hiding under a pale light
revealing your soul in the dark
who are you?
Shouting against the racket of the bar
the crash of pictures
the busy noise of the chaotic street
barreling down the road you own, but
who are you?
Silent behind a mask I cannot see
a song is trying to write you,
the guitar is soft at the end of day
then with a cry it interrupts the night
but tell me
if I listen behind the notes
will the spaces in between
tell me who you are?
The white sun
has found
your secret
and breaks it
on the hard dry ground.
The white moon
draws
silver fingers across the pieces
The fingers trace the words
Who Are You?