The Importance of Where; A Bi-Weekly Glance at Grayson Russell (#9)

 Installment nine of Grayson Russell’s work: “La Flecha”

Grayson stumbled upon the poem below while rummaging through his writings. He wrote “La Flecha” during his sangria nights in Spain. You can feel the awakening he experienced while lying in the sand and watching the sun sink into the Mediterranean. Relive a moment in time in Spain with Grayson.

La Flecha


                                       —   Por mi Hermano Federico Garcia Lorca

      Root of all Love 
      that passes through the flame of memory 
      which divides us, now
      divides me from you
      and folds within the night 
      like a soft flower
      within scarce winds. 

      Bejewled with the words 
      Of Whoever said of Hell 
      and then wrote of Heaven, 
      and spoke. 

      “My heart, my synagogue.” 
      and whispered the strange but 
      sacred secrets

     “It is not only that that is broken, 
     but I have lost all enthusiasm.”

     How strange the soul flowers,

     and the rivulets of snow that turn to the wind,
     for bitterness, for understanding, for nothing.
     How fair it is, the petals of Carnations as they unfold. 

     How my brother dreamt! 

     On certain nights the mirrors grow blind,
     and the words of Forgiveness wander, drunkenly, 
     through the streets like an old man bearing a cane,                
     and beaten much like our friend Vallejo in the fields of 


     beneath the Spanish sun, 
     beneath all things from the rat houses of Mexico, 
     the fletchings hold fast, 
     fast and deep, 
     and the feathers that fill with blood. 

     Is there no honour in Love?
     Is there nothing,

     The arrow becomes companion.
     When and however our eyes may have met, 
     in this life or the next, may have never met, to meet
     The flame of memory that passes and divides. 

     By the chords of a sorrowful silence, we are bound.

     I forgive
     I forgive you
     I forgive all
     I forgive the tone and beauty,
     the melody,
     I forgive the high heavens
     I forgive the archers, 
     and the reigns of sorrow
     I forgive the desert, the old man who is not myself, 
     and neither you,
     the man who never was, suspect
     but found the Spanish sunset, alive and sudden.

     I have forgiven all, at least once. 
     “God has given me the wings and then removed the air”, she said.
     “Our souls…” , she said, 
     and then entered my dreams, and something terrible happened. 
     I found myself lying beside her in a meadow of thorns, near a broken rainbow. 
     I awoke, lit a cigarette, and I watched the light in the hours of insomnia. 
     The revival of rain, I forgave.

     “My heart, my sanctuary, 
     and whispered this is strange, the flames.”

     And the wind raids 
     on all that we do,    Brother

     as we labour for the word, the curse 
     we have named sincere. 

     Remind me never to wake a rose as a rose, a rose is. 
     For I cannot take her as she, and cannot take me, 
     where once we were moored in the small craft of 

     Is it really the root of all?
     How I dreamt!
     There were parts of her I never wanted to see, 
     parts that now I will never forgive, and those
     that I no longer know. 
     This arrow that moves in her sleep, flies. 
     Forgoes as she dreams. 

     The archers rise. 

     It is quiet.
     The trees sleep and the water wells beside me. 
     I have come to the balconies of water, to the sky 
     and found Love in all its candour. 
     I know now the years before I met her eyes. 

    She wakes,   
    And the archers raise from the bastions, 
    And for the last kiss I have trespassed and betrayed 
    she draws all of her pain into my eternity. 

    Dear Brother, 
    Sing to me of the angels of Spain
    For I cannot lift my eyes to meet this marvelous thing.
    Her heart I burned alive, and her soul I destroyed.  
    I am weary, Brother. 
    The feathers fill with a colour not their own, 
    and the black stone I hold now with all my roads
    driven into my breast, 
    As heartfelt as it was, 

    folds within the night,
    is nothing new to me. 

    My Brother, My Blood, My Heart. 
    We have touched the earth. 

Don’t forget to check out more of Grayson’s work:

Of the Remembrence of Dreams | Installment Eight
A Writer’s Resume | Installment Seven
Walking Out of My
First and Last Orgy, Through Virginity, To a Blow Job where I cut my Hands on the Barnacles of Pier Piling, To losing my Virginity Again, and exiting a Bachelor Party Gang Bang | Installment Six
To Be Chained or Unchained: A short Chronicle of MDMA | Installment Five
A Sad Evilly Run Cafe | Installment Four
Father’s Day | Installment Three
Faulkner’s Room | Installment Two
The Art of Self Reflection | Installment One