Escorial

Written by Mary Angela Douglas

last night I dreamed of the Escorial
of the paintings of saints with angular faces
Toledo in grey and the storms gathering
la vida es sueño or it may have been and the siglo de oro 
the siglo de oro, the infanta with roses
in a square of light
that indicts the Civil Guards
and skies glisten dark plum overnight
and I am singing a vagrant's tune
Garcia Lorca, kaleidoscope moon
moon of the verdant green
moon of the everlastingly verdant green
over the sobbing of balconies
has become this branch of black cherries.
I'm in the book of the small blue flowers;
how shall I play my pavane for you. for the hour is late. 
the inquisitional hour
the pavane for you and the piano locked.
the bell tower weathering of storms grows pale
too hard to believe. or to contemplate
a children's lullaby etched in silver.
a paper bird before the war.
a paper bird singing with brilliant plumage
a bird that cannot sing anymore.
the stage sets adored in miniature; threshed.
the sky as pink as the Alhambra at last
and all of my soul has turned to glass.
all of Andalusia gleams the rust
and decay of autumn.
and life as a dream of a dream in a dream
is past: my Calderón.
tiene que ser de esta moda
a caged music flying into the gold
into the gold of the siglo de oro
Cervantes fugitive at the windowpane
ironical at the thought of fame.
Quixote charges on
missing Dulcinea or the unfledged Song 
flamenco barters by the hour
while I am in a high, high tower
with clouds and angels beckoning.
I want to go back to the Escorial.
to the way that I felt then
from only the pictures in books.
Iberia! to the oranges composed
in a bowl of blue
the oranges composed in a bowl of blue
and that was the whole summer I learned Spanish
the way that I wanted to.
the pear bright core of it, the subtle shadings. 
as if the kings were looking for you.
all the hidden Magi, for legendary Spain... 
were looking for you, for costly,
for lost, lost time..
in the preterit of dreams.

mary angela douglas 2 november 2023