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.
— 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,
“My heart, my synagogue.”
and whispered the strange but
“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 you
I forgive all
I forgive the tone and beauty,
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.
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.
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.