Orange que te quiero verde, that's Poeticah
The Visual Poetry of Poeticah explores the boundaries between poetry, languages, and traditional with computer visual art.
This is a poem from my chapbook Axtlanadu.
When the Moon Bled Purple
To Federico García Lorca
Before the moon bled purple, sweat filled lakes ago,
one bay stallion from Fascain,
charged at cold stone walls,
tempting others to knock them down.
But trembling stallions stomped him dead.
Not till mountains of horse-bones crumbled later
did equine in his land openly honor him.
He once visited Liberica
where frigid barbed wire fences punctured him.
Canyons of blizzards later,
Libericans felt hardly any stinging wires.
Their Land of Cannot See had many strong horses,
with orange florescent eyes, called Midasites,
whose thick skin guarded them
from piercing boundaries.
Orange eyed broncos often got away with crimes.
Their glare made others look away.
Steeds, who lacked neon magic,
often lost capable teachers of the gallop to it.
This made gallopers stare metallic tangerine.
Fear of getting branded kept most slates
from rubbing shoulders with bays.
Every bay was trapped in barbed ice nets
that seldom thawed. Bays fought to love each other
and could hardly be themselves. Slates were terrified
when sunrises revealed bay marks on them.
Stockades confined Ebonies,
burning under oceans of summers,
into fields where they tilled soil. Chestnuts,
freezing inside centuries of winters,
were barricaded into ever smaller ranges.
Thorny hedges, rock walls, iron palisades
trickled blood over acres of all horse colors. Even ivory.
Even Midasites, absorbed with green leaves falling
through golden mist, struggled. They rarely felt
traps meant for others. But the attempt
to share their orange richness with others
was like catching mysteries
that always slipped one stride away.
The President of Liberica was always an ivory stud,
often a Midasite, who always chose an ivory mare
as his mate. Afraid of color vision, he couldn't even
choose palominos for sport. Liberican mares
often abandoned their mates. Yet, no matter what he did,
his First Lady would never leave him.
Wouldn't they love to know
if she could make fresh hues
if she dabbled in pintos?
One night lunar fever drove them crazy
for broader ranges, made them kick every obstacle.
Some died or were wounded.
But most vast walls remained.
When the moon bled purple,
they all grew wings and soared into space.
That's when they met the Fascaniard
with others like him:
The ones who yearn for bleeding purple moons.