Some Poems from Mojacar
by Norma Wilson
A man is picking
almonds in the cool
morning. I listen
to the thump of the
nuts. Then the
apparition of a large
gray rabbit scurrying
down the bank beneath
him. That couldn't have
been a rabbit, I think. But
later I ask what large gray
animal might live here, and
Rafael says a liebre, and they're
very good to eat. No wonder
Liebre was in such a hurry to scurry.
Like all of us liebre wants to be libre.
The singer closes his eyes.
His voice comes from inside
his tears. The singer's body
is poured into his song. He
cries his song into the night,
and the stars, the moon, the
nocturnal creatures listen.
The guitar offers sympathy
soothes his pain and plays a
variation on his song.
But it is the singer who
has the last word, who throws up
his hands at the effort to
change it or sing it.
You can climb the lacy white rock
and walk on top to look down on
the deep aqua pools. You can jump
in to swim the calm clear waters.
Fishermen on the other side
of the Alhambra of the Sea
cast their nets out toward Morocco.
You can imagine ancient Moors
living in this cove and later
their descendants moving north to
Granada. There the artists who
made the festooned ceilings must have
dreamed of the honeycombed art of
Los Arcos.
There is a stone island
near a land of a thousand deserts.
An old man riding a white mule
carries his star on Leila.
Where is he going? Why?
Wanting this Perejil claimed by Spain--
tug of war between two flags--
rock of Spain or Morocco?
His star.
*The Moroccans call the island they
occupied on July 11 Leila (which
means night); the Spanish name for
the island is Perejil (meaning parsley).