Dawn, by Frederico Garcia Lorca was originally written in
1929 and starts off in New York; it contains wonderful and beautiful imagery,
especially in the opening stanza:
Dawn in New York has
Four columns of mire
And a hurricane of
black pigeons
Splashing in the
putrid waters.
A hurricane of black pigeons really sets the imagination
alight, springing up a flock of pigeons littering the sky as they fly
landwards, towards the water and then causing waves in the dirty river.
The four columns of mire remind us of the four columns of democracy:
justice, equality, freedom and representation, and how those pillars are sated
with grime as democracy within the United States always seems to fall, in the
country that is supposedly the most democratic in the world. Just look at what
is happening in the political world there now, with the Presidential elections,
to see how democracy is apparently failing.
Dawn in New York
groans
On enormous fire
escapes
Searching between the
angles
For spikenards of
drafted anguish.
A Spikenard is a Himalayan plant that has a certain perfume
which is used as an essential oil. This conjures up images of smoky streets and
large metallic fire ladders moaning as they move; the smells and aromas of the
city waking up and drifting into the morning air.
The second stanza comes out with more surreal imagery:
Dawn arrives and no
one receives it in his mouth
Because morning and
hope are impossible there:
Sometimes the furious
swarming coins
Penetrate like drills
and devour abandoned children.
This was written at a time of severe poverty, and like most
cities in the Western world this is a dirty place littered with orphans, much
like London in Dickens time. The coins of commerce swarm the children, eating
them up as nothing as important as money.
The poem continues in this solemn vein:
Those who go out
early know in their bones
There will be no
paradise or loves that bloom and die:
They know they will
be mired in numbers and laws,
In mindless games, in
fruitless labors.
This is an attack on capitalism and how it affects the
poorer of society. Interesting that
Lorca paints such a vividly bleak picture on what he is seeing, in
contrast to the dawn light, which is beautiful. It almost pains him to see such
poverty on this scale and the inability of the higher classes to do anything
but put people on an eternal treadmill for their lives, only to burn out and
die and make way for the next one.
The poem concludes with:
The light is buried
under chains and noises
In the impudent
challenge of rootless science.
And crowds stagger
sleeplessly through the boroughs
As if they had just escaped
a shipwreck of blood.
Poverty, capitalism and the four pillars of democracy are
all labours that we do in vain. There is no freedom in the free world; just
chains that wrap around us and threaten our existence. Money is indeed the root
of all evil, and this is clearly depicted in the words of Lorca.
I love this poem and how it speaks to us, like Dickens, it
paints a picture of the poor in a city that stood as one of the pillars of a successful
society. It does not hold back, and has wonderful imagery to it that really
makes you feel as if you are there.
From Poet in New York 1929-1930 translated by Greg Simon and
Steven F. White
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