One evening in Spain

[just mercedes]

Madrid in darkness
lit only by flashes from
Luftwaffe bombs.

On a downtown rooftop
refugees, poets, and painters
in fancy-dress
drink champagne, dance and sing
while around them
death rains.

What madness they share!
Pablo Neruda, César Vallejo,
Octavio Paz, even Siqueiros
the Mexican, in his shiny
cavalry boots.

What joy.


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
‘What madness they share. What joy.’ - from 'The Years of Laura Diaz' - Carlos Fuentes

[tectak]

The most difficult pieces to crit are the one's the crit likes. I like this. Although in Intensive, merc,  we both know that when a poem has something to say, the "formal" variables like structure, grammar, form, flow (whatever that is), meter  etc. diminish in import. I will see what I can do but I cannot do much...nor, I do believe, do you want me to



Madrid in darkness
lit only by flashes from
Luftwaffe bombs.OK. yes. Right. Got it. I might, with temerity, suggest a ponder-pause after "...darkness,"

On a downtown rooftop...definitely a comma here or we get "On a downtown rooftop refugees,....)
refugees, poets, and painters
in fancy-dress
drink champagne, dance and sing
while around them
death rains.Hmmmm. Do I hear the distant call of a cliche through all this sing and thunder?

What madness they share!
Pablo Neruda, César Vallejo,
Octavio Paz, even Siqueiros
the Mexican, in his shiny
cavalry boots.

What joy.....bloody wonderful...what a moment to savour. Yes to this...yes and yes again...though I could never really get the depth in Cesar Vallejo's stuff.


  Say no more,
 best, 
 tectak
 
 
 
 
 
 
‘What madness they share. What joy.’ - from 'The Years of Laura Diaz' - Carlos Fuentes

[nibbed]

Hi just mercedes-


Madrid in darkness                              -I want a comma here
lit only by flashes from
Luftwaffe bombs.

On a downtown rooftop
refugees, poets, and painters            -three is well balanced, but why it seems someone might be
in fancy-dress                                         missing, I don't know...
drink champagne, dance and sing
while around them                              -awkward, but I tried to reword it and came up
death rains.                                            empty-handed, perhaps a change of words?

What madness they share!               -here's a clever change of judgement to reason
Pablo Neruda, César Vallejo,
Octavio Paz, even Siqueiros
the Mexican, in his shiny
cavalry boots.                                        -really amazing word because it looks like another word
                                                                                                           and switches the mind in thought
What joy.                                               -the switch: was this meant to take me to two places?
                                                                         because it did. Psalm 146 and the song
                                                    His Grace is Sufficient.



As always, brilliant poetry with a lesson.
I like how it is worked that I don't necessarily
have to be learned in the subjects to enjoy the poem.
Sorry I couldn't be much more help...
and I apologize for my wonky script.
Thank you for the privilege to read and critique
your always-amazing poetry.


-nibbed

[just mercedes]

Thanks tectak, nibbed. Much appreciated.

[RiverNotch]

One evening in Spain - capital "e"?


Madrid in darkness
lit only by flashes from
Luftwaffe bombs.

On a downtown rooftop - comma at the end?
refugees, poets, and painters
in fancy-dress - remove dash? or even remove the line entirely...
drink champagne, dance and sing - comma at the end?
while around them
death rains. - although one would think the first stanza makes these last two lines a little too redundant.

What madness they share!
Pablo Neruda, Cesar Vallejo,
Octavio Paz, even Siqueiros
the Mexican, in his shiny
cavalry boots.

What joy.

---

I don't think I could do this piece much justice, for three lacks: knowledge on the Spanish Civil War, knowledge on the four artists referred to, and knowledge on 'The Years of Laura Diaz', which a brief internet search has told me is set at around the same time as the poem.

Still, I try. I don't see much of a lesson in this, especially since I don't know what sort of judgment the speaker is applying to the four artists. Both "madness" and "joy" may be positive or negative, referring to either an optimist's joy or a decadent's madness. I took, for my initial read, the second meaning first, but looking into the artists further -- the only artist of the four with whose work I was already somewhat familiar with is Neruda -- complicates things.

First, "the Mexican" is nothing special, as Octavio Paz was also a Mexican. In fact, all of these artists were Latin American, with Neruda a Chilean and Vallejo from Peru. Paz and Neruda both became diplomats for their native countries -- only Vallejo stayed on in Europe, eventually dying in Paris. This consideration gives it a bit of a postcolonial edge: the four artists, aside from being strangers, are also laughing at the face of their former oppressor's suffering.

The edge is dulled when one considers their politics. As far as I know, all four of them, when they were in Spain at the time of the Civil War, were helping the Republicans out, and three of them would die committed communists: Paz, after hearing about one of his friends getting murdered by the Republicans, became disillusioned, eventually criticizing the various totalitarian regimes of his day (including, of course, Stalin and Castro). Essentially, though, all four were humanists, and thus would have suffered, in their own way, as the people around them suffered.

Perhaps I don't consider their works enough, which at this point in time is a task for someone more well read. Perhaps I lean too much in their having come from nations colonized by Spain, rather than from nations that share the Spanish language, which would tilt my thoughts on their nationalities further in favor of considering their "madness" as valor. But still, from my end, there's a very subtle contradiction in the details highlighted by the piece that somehow confuse my judgment as a reader -- maybe elaborate further on what the speaker sees, or cull one of the culprits.

Anyway, I hope this helps. Funny thing: I've recently been reading Harold Bloom's 'The Western Canon', and right when you posted this, I'd reached the chapter on Borges, Neruda, and Pessoa. That tempered my reading more than colored it, I would say, especially since Bloom seems to be kinda against political readings.

[Knot]

Hi mercedes,
similar reservations about commenting as rivernotch
(though lacking even more knowledge), but here goes...

Madrid in darkness
lit only by flashes from
Luftwaffe bombs.
No real sense of time or place, no 'there-ness'.
Even adding a date (to narrow it down from
two-and-a-half years) would help, I think.
Is 'flashes' right? Initial 'flash' would be
followed by fire, no? And what about the
moon, wouldn't it have been full?

On a downtown rooftop
refugees, poets, and painters
in fancy-dress
drink champagne, dance and sing
while around them
death rains.
'Downtown' seems rather out of place
(American not European phrasing).
'dance...rains' - rather flat and clichéd?
To what did they dance, what did they sing?
Where's the sound?
(Repetition of /I/ in drink/sing causes a slight
stumble, for me at least).
Agree with nibbed about a missing element
in L2.

What madness they share!
Pablo Neruda, César Vallejo,
Octavio Paz, even Siqueiros
the Mexican, in his shiny
cavalry boots.

What joy.
I think I like the ending, though as
all my readings of the line were 'negative',
perhaps I was more impressed by how much
was contained in just two words.


Best, Knot.

[RC James]

mercedes - You reveal a great deal of the situation in few words - impressive.
(Lorca was there too) from Neruda's "I'll Explain Some Things" :

Then one morning flames
Came out of the ground
Devouring human beings.
From then on fire,
Gunpowder from then on,
From then on blood.
Bandits with airplanes and Moorish troops
Bandits with gold rings and duchesses
Bandits with black monks giving their blessing
Came across the sky to kill children
And through the streets, the blood of children
Ran simply, like children’s blood does.

Compassion has few competitors in the battle for peace - RC

[just mercedes]

Thank you all for your reads and comments. Much to think about.

[bogpan]

Madrid in darkness
lit only by flashes from
Luftwaffe bombs.

On a downtown rooftop
refugees, poets, and painters
in fancy-dress
drink champagne, dance and sing
while around them
death rains.

What madness they share!
Pablo Neruda, César Vallejo,
Octavio Paz, even Siqueiros
the Mexican, in his shiny
cavalry boots.

What joy.

Really absolute joy! Perhaps it is too much of a narrative in this poem for my taste, but the final is brilliant. I hear in this poem the Spanish "Siguiriyas"!

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
‘What madness they share. What joy.’ - from 'The Years of Laura Diaz' - Carlos Fuentes

Really absolute joy! Perhaps it is too much of a narrative in this poem for my taste, but the final is brilliant. I hear in this poem the Spanish "Siguiriyas"! > ><