Poems After Francisco de Goya's Pinturas Negras, by Lucas Davis

Duelo a Garrotazos, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823

​Duel

While children, we battled
with twigs off orange trees
in bloom, kicking up dust in
neglected patios, leaving playful welts
scented bright and bittersweet.

As we’ve grown, sweet and sickly
mold baked in the sun,
the same person severed
to distant scowls across run-down bars..
We slipped,
                         or I slipped,
and through booze-stained
breath we agreed for
one final time.

We dig up old wounds,
deeper than before — blood
on branches grown thick and calloused.
As the sky turns away;
the earth devours us
as if already dead.

Dos Viejos Comiendos, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823

Two Old Men Eating Soup

And, of course
it took a while, yes,
but now we’re fast friends.
That’s always the way, isn’t it?
Yes, I think so. Y’know, when
I first met him, he was loud-
mouthed as all hell!
You can’t tell from
the look of him now,
can ya! So demanding, too…
How time mellowed him out!
Please take a seat, yes, and
stay a while. I’m
sure you’ll fit right in,
eventually.

Dos Viejos, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823

Two Old Men

Surely you feel him, right?
You must feel his chin brush
against your shoulder,
feel his rotten breath as it
blows past your ear and lingers in your sinuses,
reeking of decades of decay.
Your body threatens to convulse as
you try not to move.
What does he whisper to you?
What secret is he sharing with you,
and you alone?
You brace yourself,
both hands trembling on your cane.
You try not to hear each ragged sound,
the taunting lilt, drawn from the earth.
Separate each syllable and try to ignore that
he’s telling you something that
you really should know by now.
Fight against it, but
how long can you really last?
Listen to what he says --
After all, you are still learning.

Perro Semihundido, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823

The Drowning Dog

And what do I look to
as I drown? The sky
turned away, offers nothing
but bleak reflection:
The ocean rising,
a swelling sea that 
rises like a landless mount.
The crowd of tides and currents
and swells are shoving,
jostling me, now one
way, now another, never
letting one have the advantage,
pushed always back to the same plot
                    (If I moved, would I know?), where
land has abandoned me, where
sun has refused to look, where
the only welcome direction is down.
I, low below the crest, am
ragged and unweathered - disrolled. Still,
my eyes are locked where torment meets the clouds,
and I wait.

La Romeria de San Isidro, by Francisco de Goya (Spain) 1819-1823

​Pilgrimage to San Isidro

I.
I walk onwards, stretching to the horizon. 
Thousands of feet amble in polyrhythm as I,
amorphous, drift over hills and throng through valleys, 
leaving matted grass and litter behind.
An argument breaks out between me — 
shortly silenced. I begin to play guitar. 
I complain, and I sing along. I cry out,
rueful — I laugh in turn. Beyond hills, 
I continue. I play a crooked game of dice 
into a hat. I lose and argue, 
wine-fueled boasts and refutations flying from my lips. 
Smug, I take my winnings.
I’ve developed this nasty habit of walking --
maybe for the sense of progress, 
or maybe just the fresh air. 
I tell me about how I heard from me 
(you know, always wearing that strange hat?)
that I am meant to travel to some holy ground. 
A man apart stands before me. The fear in his eyes 
betrays the scowl on his lips. Why not invite him in? 
I strum with new vigor, augmented and out of tune. 
I sing, tracing the words of a well-worn hymn. 
I sing, mouth agape as I belt pitches that resemble some tavern ballad. 
I sing, armswide as I approach,
always onward.


II.
At another time, I might
have seen the dying leviathan
and called it beauty.
I might have seen a 
pleasant picnic formed
from twisted limbs.
I cannot see them anymore.

— but maybe, maybe if you asked, I could
tell you about the beautiful day
it was, the way the fountain shimmered,
and maybe even a story of rebirth.
I could tell you about a group of
travelers, amicable, set against the hills,
the sun high above the chapel
as pilgrims celebrate their arrival.

I think, at one time, maybe, 
we could be made whole by
water or sun. I’ve forgotten.
Now, there is nothing
that might heal, only
a dying mind, a silence
but for an overpowering song
as it begins to rattle
a guitar. It gets closer.
It plays for me,
I think. I hear nothing,
but I understand.

There is nothing left to do
but sing along.

Lucas Davis
​
Originally from Macon, GA, Lucas Davis is an American poet living in Madrid, Spain. His writing tends towards ekphrastic poetry, and has appeared in Unstamatic, Healthline Zine, and others. He can be found at @Oddi_Teas on Twitter.