 |
The Fountain Of Tears |
 |
At FG Lorca's Birthhouse Near Granada |
Green, I want you green...
This is a photographic remembrance of, and tribute to, the great Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca (Poet, writer and artist Paul Heidelberg believes he may be Spain's greatest poet ever).
The line, Green I want you green, is from a FGL poem; the one photograph was taken at The Fountain Of Tears near Granada, Spain, near where FG Lorca was killed by supporters of Francisco Franco at the beginning of the Spanish Civil in August, 1936. (The other photograph was taken at Lorca's Birthhouse near Granada.)
After some searching with the help of two Spanish friends, Heidelberg found The Fountain Of Tears in August, 2004, 68 years after Lorca's death (almost to the day).
(Heidelberg lived in a village in the highest mountains of Spain, the Sierra Nevadas, "Sud de Granada," from June, 2004 to August, 2006).
This spring-fountain was named by the Moors many centuries before Lorca's death; it was so named because the Moors thought the bubbles that rise to the water's surface resembled tears.
The fountain is still crying -- it now cries for Lorca: The Lion of the Alhambra, as flamenco singer Juanito Maravillas sings in his Nuevos Fandangos cancion, "La Muerta De Una Poeta."
(To read a poem to Lorca that mentions The Fountain Of Tears and the photograph with the strange image emanating from the mirror, go to
http://www.paulheidelberg.com/
and click on the link to
Selected Poetry 2004/2005
and then click
Por Federico, Agosto 2004)
Note: The poet in me has prompted me to paste that poem here as I update this post in 7/11.
Like all great artists, Lorca lives on through his art; so, Viva Lorca!:
POR FEDERICO, AGOSTO 2004
Hola Lorca:
I was there
at the Fountain of Tears
yesterday,
and today
I can imagine
your spirit
in the clear, cool waters
between
plants of
brilliant shades of green,
standing and swaying
alive in the water,
moving with the bubbles of tears;
it is a pretty place,
one could have
a worse place –
and,
you have your mountains
and olive trees,
moons,
when the nights are right.
You died
ten miles,
as the eagle flies,
from your birthplace,
where your younger spirit
erupted from the mirror
by the piano –
a huge arc
of light
shooting across
your photograph,
and,
a ghostly image
of a face,
forever frozen
on the wall.