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	<title>the Buenos Aires Review &#187; Daniel Evans Pritchard</title>
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		<title>Antonio Machado: Covers by Daniel Evans Pritchard</title>
		<link>http://www.buenosairesreview.org/2013/10/covers-of-antonio-machado/</link>
		<comments>http://www.buenosairesreview.org/2013/10/covers-of-antonio-machado/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 08 Oct 2013 19:59:21 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Daniel Evans Pritchard]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Time Regained]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Boston]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.buenosairesreview.org/?p=3652</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[<p style="text-align: center;"></p>
<p style="text-align: right;"> </p>
<p>ALONG THE DUERO</p>
<p>A stork at the bell tower’s peak
circled around its height and around the home below
as the little swallows squealed. Dry winds have crossed
a long, long winter of snow, escaping the inferno.</p>
<p>_________Tomorrow, it might be nice.
Today, the sun bakes the poor earth of Soriana.</p>
<p>The pines are so green they’re
nearly blue and spring
electrifies the poplar blooms
along the highway
and the river, the Duero running gently, terse and mute.</p>
<p>The landscape isn’t innocent; it is down-soft, ripe and cleft.
In the weeds a solitary, shy flower unfolds,
blue—or white… Beauty, beauty tremendous: the meadow unflowered yet,
the mystic spring—</p>
<p>albas flanking the white streets and riverbanks poplar-flush,
and the frothing apex of the mountain
is outlined in remotest blue,
the daysun rising, clearest day—
enchanted, this vision of Spain!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">*</p>
<p>THE GOLDEN APRIL MORNING SMILED&#8230;</p>
<p>The golden April morning smiled
_____and the pearl moon
slid
_____into the cleave
_________of the curved horizon,
with ... <a href="http://www.buenosairesreview.org/2013/10/covers-of-antonio-machado/">Read More &#187;</a>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.buenosairesreview.org/wp-content/uploads/antonio-machado-1-copy.jpg"><img class="aligncenter  wp-image-3654" alt="Machado" src="http://www.buenosairesreview.org/wp-content/uploads/antonio-machado-1-copy.jpg" width="918" height="696" /></a></p>
<p style="text-align: right;"><em> </em></p>
<p>ALONG THE DUERO</p>
<p>A stork at the bell tower’s peak<br />
circled around its height and around the home below<br />
as the little swallows squealed. Dry winds have crossed<br />
a long, long winter of snow, escaping the inferno.</p>
<p><span style="color: #ffffff;">_________</span>Tomorrow, it might be nice.<br />
Today, the sun bakes the poor earth of Soriana.</p>
<p>The pines are so green they’re<br />
nearly blue and spring<br />
electrifies the poplar blooms<br />
along the highway<br />
and the river, the Duero running gently, terse and mute.</p>
<p>The landscape isn’t innocent; it is down-soft, ripe and cleft.<br />
In the weeds a solitary, shy flower unfolds,<br />
blue—or white… Beauty, beauty tremendous: the meadow unflowered yet,<br />
the mystic spring—</p>
<p>albas flanking the white streets and riverbanks poplar-flush,<br />
and the frothing apex of the mountain<br />
is outlined in remotest blue,<br />
the daysun rising, clearest day—<br />
enchanted, this vision of Spain!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">*</p>
<p>THE GOLDEN APRIL MORNING SMILED&#8230;</p>
<p>The golden April morning smiled<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>and the pearl moon<br />
slid<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>into the cleave<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_________</span>of the curved horizon,<br />
with viscous<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>clouds<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_________</span>running her down—<br />
translucent ghosts<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>obscuring<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>the last stars.<br />
I cracked my window<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>to a dawn<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>of pink<br />
petals<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>and the bright Oriental sun,<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>inhaled the eastern glow<br />
the skylark’s trill song,<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>the fountain’s<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>laughter<br />
the gentle perfume<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>of early flowers.<br />
Ponderous, the afternoon<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>stretched out<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>and out<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>but April<br />
still smiled so I threw<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>the windows open<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>wide to a wind full of rosewater<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">______</span>and church bells<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>panging.<br />
The distant echoing bells<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>cried out the soft smell<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>of the blooms.<br />
How far<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>away<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>are the fields,<br />
petal bursting?<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>Do church bells<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>confess<br />
into the rose-scented wind?<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>Will happiness<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>dawn,<br />
in this little hovel—<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>or has it come<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">________</span>already<br />
breathless,<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>sent away by silence<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_______</span>the confessor<br />
of the tolling wind—<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>and now<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_______</span>will it ever return?</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">*</p>
<p>SEXT</p>
<p>While the fire-scaled courser passes zenith<br />
under fathomless indigo, just over the cypress,<br />
while a blind boy dissolves into white stone<br />
and cicadas in the elm sing ivory incantations,<br />
I praise the hand that, with its slightest gesture,<br />
its raised finger, hushes all this clamor.</p>
<p>God is distant, my mind absent—an anchor’s<br />
depth of calm under the frothing, brim-full sea.<br />
Entranced by green pastures, I translate the din<br />
of <i>ṣalāt aẓ-ẓuhr</i> into passagways that open within…</p>
<p>This vale of shadow and my heart’s hunger<br />
praise the breathless void, the rough stone,<br />
bodiless before the chisel, unburdened of form,<br />
of reason, left in its obsidian dream, faith.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">*</p>
<p>SCAFFOLD</p>
<p>distant the dawn rose<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>bleeding tragedies<br />
on the canvas of the east<br />
grotesque of clouds<br />
in the village plaza<br />
<span style="color: #ffffff;">_____</span>a skeletal horror<br />
crude pine ribs<br />
of a gallows rose<br />
distant<span style="color: #ffffff;">______</span>the dawn rose<br />
the sinister<span style="color: #ffffff;">_______</span>dawn</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* *</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>Image <a href="http://www.ieturolenses.org/" target="_blank">via</a></em></p>
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