Andalusia
At the train station in Córdoba, we rented an aging
Gray Renault and drove to the mountains, the car’s
Maintenance light flashing red the whole time.
From both sides of the road, rows of olive trees
Extended their camouflaged limbs, saluting
The afternoon sun, while small rivers carried
Dust and run-off to the south.
On the hill above Almodóvar del Río, the towers
Of a castle, mirage-like, stood without blinking.
The highway pointed north, and the engine strained
Until I shifted to a lower gear. Then—again,
On both sides of the road—there were orange groves,
White flowers and early fruit, the scent
Of oranges all around us and inside
Our rented car.
In Puebla de los Infantes, lunch was almost over
When we found a parking space on a street
Cut into the side of a hill, a row of cars perched
At 45 degrees, brakes firmly engaged.
One restaurant was still open. We ate
Quickly—Ximena’s reading was in less than
An hour. ¿Dónde está la biblioteca, por favor?
“Drive down the hill and ask someone else,” two
Andalusian ladies replied. By chance, we saw
The sign, and a man exercising a brown
Stallion by the parking lot. Ximena read well,
Poems about her country, her parents, our life
In Miami. The crowd was happy to hear her.
She’d come all the way from Colombia, where
There are also mountains, but instead of olive
Trees and oranges, there are mangoes and bananas,
Guerrillas and paramilitaries.
Another poet gave her a copy of his book, and
We drove back to Córdoba in the dark.
I stopped at a gas station to buy bananas
And oranges.
Reading the Classics
There was a used bookstore just above
86th Street—I don’t remember
The name—where I overheard someone
Say the Greeks had no word for “success.”
It was at a time in my life when
I didn’t feel particularly
Successful. My marriage had become
(Don’t lie—it always had been) a string
Of ugly fights. Each time, we wondered
If the words we’d said meant there was no
Going back, no forgetting this was
What we both really felt. The people
Who lived above us would comment through
The ventilation shafts, imitate
Our insults and laugh. They also liked
To play songs from Camelot and sing
Along. The woman next door received
Visitors, men who strangely brought bags
Of groceries. She’d put on music
With a loud bass, and I’d see them leave
Later when I went to walk the dog.
Her boyfriend waited outside, either
Sitting on the steps or in his car.
Eventually, they moved, and a
Korean family who’d bought the
Bodega on Columbus moved in.
I started taking Greek classes at
The New School. I remember the sun
Setting on Fifth Avenue in the
Summer, neon lights of restaurants
And bars, moments when the streets emptied,
When it felt good to walk to the class
Where we’d translate some lines of Plato,
Heraclitus, or Sophocles, and
Nobody mentioned the word “success.”
A Doppelgänger
Ere Babylon was dust
The magus Zoroaster, my dead child,
Met his own image walking in the garden.
Shelly, Prometheus Unbound
Borges met his younger self on a park bench
In Geneva. Or, it might have been his older self;
These things are hard to figure out. I had
A doppelgänger also, but not me at a different age.
I discovered him when I gave a reading once
At a bar in Boston. Some people showed up
Expecting him and left when they realized
Their mistake. We never met, but I’ve seen
His picture. He had those long sideburns they
Call “mutton chops” that were popular back
In the 70s. Sometimes, friends mistake his books
For mine, at least one book of poetry and a work,
I believe, on Eastern religious practices. He
Traveled to India for sure, while I only know
Asia from museums. I suspect he was the more
Intelligent of the two of us. He could read Sanskrit
like Eliot, but I don’t know his poems. I avoided
Them on purpose, afraid I’d meet myself, with
Whatever consequence that might entail.
It’s generally bad news to encounter your
Other self. Still, a few nights ago, I read online
That he’d died last year. I had to look away
From the screen. He wasn’t that much older
Than I am. Now, the only chance we’ll have
To meet will be on a park bench by Lake Geneva
Or walking in a garden in Babylon.
*
George Franklin is the author of seven poetry collections, including his recent: What the Angel Saw, What the Saint Refused from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions. Individual poems have been published in Matter Monthly, Solstice, South Florida Poetry Journal, Rattle, Cagibi, New Ohio Review, The Threepenny Review, The Comstock Review, One Art, and Cultural Daily. He practices law in Miami, is a translations editor for Cagibi and a guest editor for Sheila-Na-Gig Online, teaches poetry workshops in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez’s Último día/Last Day. In 2023, he was the first prize winner of the W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize, and his work has been featured on the public radio podcast The Slowdown. His website: https://gsfranklin.com/
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