Joan Miró: "Colours Like Words That Shape Poems"

Fundació Joan Miró, Barcelona


I just spent a few days in Barcelona, the city beloved of artistic types, party animals and those in search of the Catalan soul. It was my first time in this city, and I enjoyed the spectacular Gaudí buildings, the seaside and lovely seafood, the winding streets of the Barri Gòtic, the relaxed atmosphere and catching up with friends and family who were there at the same time. I think it is time for me to re-read George Orwell's Homage to Catalonia: as in any European city, darker histories lie behind the pleasant touristy reality you see on a brief visit.

On the last day, my friend flew out earlier than I did so I had a few hours left to visit the Fundació Joan Miró on Montjuïc. I knew Miró's work, of course, but this art gallery visit was a revelation - I didn't realise previously how much I liked his art. I think there is a ubiquity to Miró which means it is easy to take him for granted. His bright colours and gently geometric human and animal figures have been incredibly influential. It was wonderful, though, how this gallery displayed the range of his work and its development, the influence of Surrealism, of the Spanish Civil War and World War II, and his fascination with public art. I found the works very psychological. They exerted a gentle pressure on the mind which was very emotionally cleansing. Miró's almost comical depictions of people seemed to me to show humans as they are, full of oddities, of over- or under-developed qualities, and curious leftovers from childhood (as in the sculpture which showed a baby's foot emerging from the back of a small human figure).

What was totally new to me was the extent to which Miró was influenced by and collaborated with poets and poetry. Early on, he read Apollinaire and Pierre Reverdy, and during World War II he was influenced by Spanish mystic poets. Miró said that the purpose of painting was to produce poetry, and some of his works are called 'Poem-Paintings'. He also wrote some poetry of his own, which mainly served as notes and ideas leading on to visual artworks. In Paris, he associated with Surrealist poets, and his paintings are a visual expression of this genre of writing. He was friends with the poets André Breton and Robert Desnos, among others. Miró's Constellations are a particularly beautiful series of paintings which represented the artist's desire to escape the nightmare of World War II. They strongly feature images of stars, birds and women, and while dreamy, their bright accents of colour occasionally seem like stabs of pain. Breton later wrote a series of poems which not only illustrate but carry on a dialogue with the Constellations. Miró also made plans to collaborate with Robert Desnos, but was only able to illustrate some of Desnos' work decades after the poet's tragic death in a Nazi concentration camp.

It could be that the sense of wonder which overtook me in this gallery was related to Miró's poetic approach. I don't generally consider myself a fan of Surrealist art or poetry, but sometimes I wonder if it's just that I haven't found the key yet. Maybe I have found it now. I did think of Paul Celan, which admittedly I often do. He wasn't precisely a Surrealist, except maybe in his earliest works (including some of his Romanian poems, as opposed to his more famous German poems) but he was influenced by their work and approach. I have also seen some of the work of Celan's artist wife, Gisèle Lestrange, which is well suited to accompany his poems. It's not very similar to Miró, but perhaps there is some emotional commonality, or at least in the way that the art and the words seem to work off, illustrate and engage in dialogue with each other. Another poet recently said to me in a discussion about Celan that it seems as though he used language to bypass language. Celan's work uses surreal images to go directly to a place of emotion and reaction which reminds me, disturbingly, of the electro-shock treatment he underwent in the last years of his life. Although I found Miró much gentler, even in his darker moments, similar metaphors come to mind to illustrate how I reacted to his work.

I'm not sure whether these two poems by Breton and Desnos (below) have any direct connection with Miró, but they seem to have certain things in common with the great painter's work and to illustrate the approach he had in common with the Surrealist poets. "I try to apply colours like words that shape poems, like notes that shape music," Miró said. He certainly succeeded. 

CHOOSE LIFE (André Breton)

IDENTITY OF IMAGES (Robert Desnos)

Spain and Poetry 4: Federico García Lorca: "Green, How I Want You Green..."

Bodega Sandeman, Jerez de la Frontera



In the bitter green
a hard playing-card light
carves out furious horses
and profiles of riders.

-Federico García Lorca, from 'The Quarrel', translated by Jane Duran and Gloria García Lorca


The day in Granada when I visited Huerta de San Vicente - one of Federico García Lorca's homes , now a museum - it rained pretty hard for much of the day. It was a nuisance, as it is anywhere, and I found out that it made the sidewalks desperately slippery. After my tour of the house, I bought a bilingual edition of Romancero gitano (Gypsy Ballads), and also a postcard with one of Lorca's own pieces of art - a spidery drawing of the Alhambra - and a letter. I'm not sure who the letter was addressed to but it must have been a friend or a family member. When I later tried to read the writing, I saw that the opening lines said: "All day it has rained... Autumn has come." I didn't mind the rain any more, suddenly. It was as though Lorca was waving at me across 80 years or more.

Lorca is an enormous topic and I am really just starting out on that journey, so these are more or less initial thoughts. It does seem as though he has been converging on my life lately, gradually - as these things often happen. A reader of The Stone and the Star in New York, who works at the New York Public Library, very kindly sent me a copy of the wonderful program for the recent Poet In New York exhibition held at the NYPL. I've also been reading various poems more or less inspired by him (more about that to come, I think). Meanwhile, as I prepared to go to Spain, the section on Andalucia in my Lonely Planet guide noted: "It is debatable whether you can truly understand modern Andalucia without at least an inkling of Spain's greatest poet and playwright, Federico García Lorca. Lorca epitomised many of Andalucia's potent hallmarks - passion, ambiguity, exuberance and innovation."

Then I went and saw for myself. I had been to this part of Spain before, of course, but I went with more of an eye to Lorca and poetry this time, and was rewarded. (Although I know the titles of his famous plays, I have not yet engaged with those at all.) Lorca's poetry seems to embody the dichotomies and tensions of Andalucia - beauty and violence, concrete details and fairytale-like images. He moves between the real and the fantastic worlds with ease, evoking the blinding light and extreme darkness of Moorish Spain, Gypsy Spain, pre-Civil War Spain. In the midst of a poem with edges as sharp as stained glass or the blue-stained ceramic tiles of the region, I would find moments of description so true to the spirit of what I had observed or experienced that it took my breath away.


Carriages the Guadalquivir
lays down on its ancient glass
between sheets of flowers
and resonances of dark clouds.
[...] But Córdoba does not tremble
under the confused mystery,
for even if the shadow raises
its architecture of smoke,
a marble foot affirms
its chaste, gaunt radiance.

(from 'San Rafael', translated by Jane Duran and Gloria García Lorca)


If I could write like Lorca and I had that intensity of vision, I would describe Cordoba something very much like that; that's how true to life his words feel to the spirit of the place, despite (or perhaps because of) the fantastic and grotesque lurking in the background of the poems.

On a tour of Huerta de San Vicente, I was part of a group of twelve or fifteen, all of whom were Spanish except me, I think. I found some of it hard to follow, but did my best. Huerta de San Vicente was the García Lorca family's summer home from 1926 to 1936. In those days it was in the countryside outside Granada, although now it feels very close to the centre of the city, and is surrounded by a lovely park dedicated to the poet.

The house had been maintained almost just as it always had been. I was struck by the photograph of Lorca's sister Concha, whose beautiful laughing face was incredibly vivid. There were some of his drawings, and the piano on which Lorca played and composed. It was possible to imagine that he and his family members would soon return, which I found a little hard to take. As well as writing some of his important works in Huerta de San Vicente, Lorca also stayed there shortly before his arrest and murder.

If I were Spanish, I would probably understand a little better what Lorca means to them. Some of the tour group was made up of an enthusiastic collection of ladies in their fifties or thereabouts, who ignored the guide's request not to touch anything, and exclaimed over everything (in the kitchen, when the guide explained a few of the details of the facilities: "How useful! Look at that! My sister has one almost like it! Oh my, was I not supposed to touch that?" etc.) Later, one of the ladies asked: "Do they know which house Federico lived in, in Granada?" (The exact location is lost, if I understood right.) I thought it was telling that he was "Federico", not "Lorca" or "García Lorca" - perhaps this was to differentiate him from his family, but I would have thought it was clear enough. To these visitors, he was Federico.

I will be making my way through the spotlit, bloody and gorgeous landscapes of his poems for some time, I think, especially comparing the originals and the translations, with my so-so Spanish. Meanwhile, I will point you in the direction of the following poems which seem to me especially amazing, or representative, or just so worth reading.


ROMANCE SONAMBULO (Federico García Lorca)

THE GUITAR (Federico García Lorca)

RIDER'S SONG (Federico García Lorca)



All photos © Clarissa Aykroyd, 2013

Spain and Poetry 3: Cosmopoética: Almost Attending Cordoba's International Poetry Festival

This post is something of an addendum to the previous post.

While the poets of past decades and centuries make for wonderful encounters while travelling, it's good to know that contemporary poetry is also alive and dynamic. This happened to me quite unexpectedly in Cordoba.

M and I were crossing the Roman Bridge in Cordoba, and looking back at the wonderful views of the Mezquita and city, when we came across this:

Imagine my delight when it turned out that this lovely man with an umbrella was advertising Cosmopoética - "Poets of the World in Cordoba". The next day, we found this at what I think may have been one of the festival's venues:

Our time in Cordoba was quite short (and we were distracted by things like unexpected horse shows and The Street of the Handsome Waiters), and sadly I didn't have time to actually check out the festival. It started in 2004 and has not only featured outstanding Spanish poets, but also the likes of Dario Fo and Seamus Heaney. The festival focuses on poetry, but also features a great deal of music, theatre, flamenco, and other artistic disciplines. It sounds great, and I'm both happy that I stumbled across the man with the umbrella, and sad that I couldn't take part.

When I returned to England and checked out Cosmopoética's Facebook page, the festival was in its last few days. Right at the end, I noted that at least one event had been held in the Hall of the Mosaics, in the city's Alcazar, which we had visited. Seeing poetry enthusiasts in a room where we'd marvelled at ancient Roman mosaics a short time previously gave me the feeling of belonging to an international poetry community.

All photos © Clarissa Aykroyd, 2013

Spain and Poetry 2: "My Thought Goes Back to the Land..."

  My thought goes back to the land,
- the olive groves at sunrise -
outlined sharply in the white
or golden or yellow moonlight,
that look forward to the coming back
of those humans who are neither its slaves nor its masters,
but who love it anyway...

-Juan Ramón Jiménez, from 'Night Piece'


Having now spent a few weeks in total in Andalucia, and keeping my eyes and ears open for poetry, my impression is that a good number of the greatest Spanish poets have been Andalucian; certainly a number of those who make up the famed Generation of '27. These authors came together in 1927 to celebrate Luis de Góngora (1561-1627). He was an extremely influential Spanish Baroque poet, and the Generation of '27 celebrated the three hundred years since his death. In Cordoba, his city of origin, I crossed paths with this poet.

This is one of his poems to Cordoba, on a plaque erected in 1927, near the Roman Bridge in Cordoba:

In the Mezquita, the great mosque of Cordoba which was converted into a cathedral, I found his tomb:

The Generation of '27 seem to have been a somewhat disparate lot, but amongst a variety of subjects, emotional and intellectual approaches, they strove for excellence. Juan Ramón Jiménez, who I came across at the Alhambra, is thought of more as a teacher or mentor for the Generation of '27 than a member of the group. Here is the full text of his wonderful (and very Andalucian) poem 'Night Piece', and another which particularly struck me, 'Road' (this poem made me wonder if Paul Celan was influenced by Jiménez).

In Cadiz, I came across more traces. Cadiz is wonderful itself, a city which is not just "seaside" but almost surrounded by the sea. Columbus left on some of his voyages from here, and it may be the oldest settlement in Europe. I found this plaque dedicated to and quoting another Generation of '27 poet, Rafael Alberti. While I'm not sure any translation I can provide would be accurate, the quote expresses a love for Cadiz:

Here you can read a translation of Alberti's 'If my voice should die on land...'.

In Cadiz I also found this monument to the great Nicaraguan poet Rubén Darío. You can read some of his poems here. This monument appears to have been donated by the Nicaraguan government - I'm not sure if he had specific ties to Cadiz, but his connections to Spain were close and influential.

My next post, or one soon, will be about the great and oh-so-Andalucian Lorca, the most famous member of the Generation of '27.



All photos © Clarissa Aykroyd, 2013

Spain and Poetry 1: Poetry of the Alhambra

I just spent almost ten days back in Andalucia, where I sojourned (seems like the right word) with a friend almost two years ago. No real change; it's still one of my favourite places in the entire world. This time I travelled with my friend M (I'll call her that for privacy, and it sounds James Bond-ish.) It was one of her lifelong dreams to travel in this part of Spain and see dancing horses and flamenco, among other delights, so our first few days in Jerez de la Frontera were particularly wonderful. We also took a day trip to Cadiz, where I swam in the warm Atlantic, and then travelled on to Cordoba, and finally to Granada, mainly to visit the Alhambra.

The Alhambra is a dream. I'm not sure I've ever visited a place which so deserves the title. It really is all that the hype says it's going to be, and considerably more. M and I went there in the morning expecting to spend about three, maybe four hours...we were there for five and a half, and only left because we really had seen just about everything and were getting tired. When we left and descended the hill on which it stands, back down into Granada, it was like waking up. The gardens and palaces instantly felt dreamlike. Pictures can't really do it justice, though they provide a clue, and I don't have words poetic enough for it (though I may try...) At one and the same time, it felt like a fairytale but you could also imagine real people living there, moving through its hallways and gorgeous rooms, breathing in the impossibly fragrant air of the Generalife. As well as its extreme beauty, the Alhambra has incredible historic significance. The "Reyes Católicos", Ferdinand and Isabella, completed the Reconquista of the Muslim kingdoms here, and flags were raised from one of the fortified towers to signal the victory. Many writers have stayed and walked there, including Washington Irving, who wrote his Tales of the Alhambra and revived interest in the place.

Al-Andalus - Islamic Spain - was a society where poetry was pre-eminent, and poetry has always been incredibly significant in the Muslim and Arabic worlds. It is now known that many of the walls of the Alhambra are covered with poetry. This link to an Alhambra website, and this article on The Alhambra: Poetry, Calligraphy and Arabesque are particularly useful, with many translations and examples of the lush, beautiful poetry on its walls. I don't read Arabic and I don't speak more than a few words, so in the place itself, most of it was lost on me. It certainly feeds into my love of poetry in public places and poetry as public art, though. Arabic script is extremely beautiful and can be admired even if you don't know its meaning.

These photos are from the Hall of the Two Sisters in the Nasrid Palaces:

Some of the script is a poem celebrating the victory of Muhammad V at Algeciras in 1369.

In the Courtyard of the Lions, poetry appears on the edge of the lion basin:

In part, this poem reads:


For, are there not in this garden wonders
that God has made incomparable in their beauty,
and a sculpture of pearls with a transparent light,
the borders of which are trimmed with seed pearl?
Melted silver flows through the pearls,
which it resembles in its pure dawn beauty.
Apparently, water and marble seem to be one,
without letting us know which of them is flowing.


As well as the Islamic poetry, there were other traces. This plaque quotes the great Andalucian poet Juan Ramón Jiménez, writing in tribute to the Spanish composer Manuel de Falla, who lived for a few years on one of the streets of the Alhambra. I hope I am correctly translating this as "He went to Granada for silence and time,/and Granada gave him even more, harmony and eternity."

In the Generalife gardens, I came across this plaque, quoting a letter written by a poet - I haven't quite puzzled this one out yet.

Whether you're there for the architecture, the gardens, the history, the poetry, or all of these, I can't recommend the Alhambra too highly. I hope to go back some day.

There was more poetry for me to encounter in Spain, of course, and a blog post or two to come will deal with the great Spanish poet Federico García Lorca, and other moments where I crossed paths with poetry and poets.



All photos ©  Clarissa Aykroyd 2013

In Which Your Humble Author Has Two Poems Published

I've just had two poems published by Shot Glass Journal, which can be found on this link: http://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/issue7/clarissa_aykroyd1.html.

Shot Glass Journal is dedicated to short poetry of sixteen lines or less, which fits well with the form of many of my poems. It is published by Muse Pie Press.

These are both poems of place, written under rather different circumstances. 'Andalucia' was written about six months ago on a holiday to the south of Spain, where I spent two weeks based in Jerez de la Frontera and also visited Seville, Cadiz, Arcos de la Frontera, and other towns. It's a simple poem, a film-reel of images made up of heat and light and music.

'Temple' is a more complex poem, and as I wrote it close to five years ago I'm no longer entirely sure about its genesis. At least, it is about the Temple area in the City of London, a historic enclave of barristers and other legal practicioners. During a brief stint working nearby, I went there frequently and always felt as though I was stepping back in time. It was a true haven for me and is still one of my favourite locations in London, if not my favourite. I think, though, that I was uncertain about my place in London at the time, perhaps even wondering if I should consider moving away. The poem carries at least a hint of the feelings I tend to have at these moments of uncertainty. Several years on I would say at least that I feel like a part of London - not just watching.

The Dark Poetry of Spain

In December, I spent two weeks in Andalucia, Spain with a friend. In terms of sheer well-rounded pleasure it was among the best holidays I've had. Years of living on chilly northern islands have definitely convinced me that there are advantages to chasing the winter sun. Here, it wasn't exactly hot (except for some particularly pleasant hours in the sun), but it was mild to warm and there were blue skies for at least part and often all of every day.

We stayed in Jerez de la Frontera, a little over an hour by train from Seville. It proved to be a perfect base - a lovely, friendly town well placed for day trips elsewhere; not too big and not too small; and home to the Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art, where I spent several happy hours both at a show and on a training day, watching exquisite dancing horses and handsome caballeros. It really does not get much better. Elsewhere, we wandered Seville's ornate shopping streets; sat by the vast blue reaches of water on Cadiz's shores; had one of the best meals I've ever had on holiday, a stunningly artistic selection of tapas, in Puerto de Santa Maria; admired the vistas from Arcos de la Frontera, a medieval dream of a town; and drank a lot of delicious coffee.

I hadn't previously spent a lot of time in Spain, although I speak the language up to a point (I was pleased at how much I was able to use it on holiday, and how well I was generally able to get by) and have had some excellent friendships with Spanish people. I had already spent a week in Mallorca, but although there are flashes of Spanish culture, it is pretty touristy and you don't always know where you are. In 2010 I spent a few days in Madrid and a day trip to Toledo, and loved both. Madrid's Prado is hands down one of the finest art galleries I have ever visited, and I finally caught a tantalizing glimpse of the mystery of Velazquez's Las Meninas. Madrid is monumental but beguiling, dark but fun-loving - definitely a city I could revisit any time. And Toledo, a gemlike town, is truly the stuff of fantasy.

It may have been mere holiday-fuelled musings, but I concluded that Spain was probably where I'd chose to live if I had to go somewhere in southern Europe. I love the south of France but it is somehow a bit too Mediterranean for my taste. Italy is enchanting and rich and beautiful but I don't feel at all at home there or with the people. Spain has something in common with both but perhaps there is a little more darkness and solemnity, which has a certain appeal. Ted Hughes wrote of Sylvia Plath's reaction to the country:


Spain frightened you. Spain
Where I felt at home. The blood-raw light,
The oiled anchovy faces, the African
Black edges to everything, frightened you.
Your schooling had somehow neglected Spain.
The wrought-iron grille, death and the Arab drum.

(from 'You Hated Spain', Birthday Letters)


I know that my experience of Spain is still fairly limited, but this seems pretty accurate: especially "Black edges to everything." The Spanish friend who took me to Madrid refused to go to the Prado with me; with a shudder, she said "Oh, I hate Spanish art...it's so dark." It's hard to argue with her "dark" assessment.

I knew that Spain had a rich literature, most of it not very familiar to me. But I was really delighted to find that they love and honour their poets. In Seville especially, and in other towns too, I came across many plaques dedicated specifically to poets. This one is dedicated to José María Blanco White - "a life dedicated to fighting intolerance." He moved to England and wrote a sonnet, 'Night and Death' (in English), which was dedicated to Samuel Taylor Coleridge and has achieved some fame.

I certainly realised that I don't know very much about Spanish poetry. I bought a book of Antonio Machado's poems, which seems beautiful, but reading poetry in Spanish is bound to be a slow project for me.

Federico García Lorca is one of the greats, and an Andalucian as well. From dipping into his poems a little, they immediately seem profoundly Spanish with their imagery of death, horses, idealised women, winding roads through dry landscapes, and music - this is a deeply and passionately musical nation. This poem, 'Romance Sonambulo', chilled me to the bone with its morbid imagery and references to the Civil War - a tragic event which ultimately caused his death, as with so many others. You can find it on this link both in English translation and in the original Spanish:

ROMANCE SONAMBULO (Federico Garcia Lorca)

I'm glad that Spain loves its poets. Another good reason to return and try to uncover a little more of the mystery.