Lorca on Morar
Lorca: ‘Areesaig’, ‘Morrarr…’ the beach stands up in little whirlwinds of ash in my Hispanic mouth, the dunes become chintz statues of white sand, poodles with griffon beaks. Mannerism of stranded sea-horses! Salute a small poet murdered for being red and gay. All the spaces of Scotland disclose me without warning, beam me down from whatever limbo buries in the olive prose of death. Now: this my purgatory, ghost country whose name never crossed my lips. Morar, morire, muerte: my very element from which I hail Atlantic breakers and you ‘beautiful old Walt Whitman’.