Generation 27

Goya in hell: the bloodbath that explains his most harrowing work | Art and  design | The Guardian

Lorca’s blood wedding
Bodies bleeding
Into lemon-tree-soil

Reminds me of nothing more than the toil, toil, toil
Of life in Al-Andalus.
Priests chanting the rosary
Like it was El Maleh Rachamim
Or the Mourner's Kaddish
(which it probably was, if the priest
Was a Converso, who  changed his religion
To save his life or, more likely, the lives of his children).

The Moriscos, Muslim 'converts', as usual, prayed louder,
Than did the Spanish Goths,
They never coughed,
Just touched the head-coverings they did not wear.
What they did on Fridays was only the business
Of the Inquisition.

Many Moriscos fled to Morocco, Lebanon.
To the centres of the Islamic world: Damascus, Baghdad.
Now nobody wants anything
To do with these 'terrorists'

Nearly 450 years after the surrender on January 2, 1492 
Of the Emirate of Granada to the Christian Castillian army
Franco’s Moroccan units commit numerous atrocitiesm
Their Spanish officers couldn't call them to order,
So, in many Spanish cities, including Toledo
These descendants of the Moriscoes
Murder men, women and children
Helping defeat the Spanish, Socialist Republic
Allying with Italian Fascists and German Nazis.

Well, I just like a drink
Wine, brandy, what you will
History is a mystery
As we drink our fill.



◄ The Resurrection of the dead



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keith jeffries

Wed 13th Oct 2021 22:42

Spain's chequered history is washed and hung out to dry in this excellent poem. How I love the flamenco dance. How I love Andalucia. I walked the streets of Spain for two and a half years during the dictatorship. I recall Franco on television arriving in some town or other to enthusiastic crowds shouting Franco, Franco, Franco. Much love then but now maligned. I also learned of the Socialists, Republicans, Communists and Anarchists who murdered priests, nuns and burnt churches and monasteries, fuelled and paid for by Stalin who then robbed Spain of all its gold reserves. I walked the streets of Spain and listened to conflicting stories. I still visit occasionally and pray for all those caught up in that dreadful civil war.

I shall now turn to my cup of Horlicks and turn in for the night. History is indeed a mystery.
John, thank you for this poem. It stirred my memories


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