Federico Garcia Lorca wrote Poet in New York during his time here in the late 1920s. He really did not like New York City, as he much preferred the country and despised New York's grime and architecture.

Not long after I moved to New York, I took a class, a large part of which was dedicated to the reading of Lorca's Poet in New York. Unlike Lorca, I knew that I loved it here before I signed my first lease.

Our professor sent us to the far corners of the City (the Botanical Gardens and Coney Island in Brooklyn, the Cloisters at the top of Manhattan, the Staten Island Ferry) and made us write poetry inspired by those places and by Lorca's word.

While I do consider myself a songwriter, I have never much considered myself a poet, and I had trouble writing words knowing they would never hear music behind them.

But I ultimately came up with what I consider a respectable collection of poetry, and I wanted to finally come out and share it with someone other than that one professor.

This poem was inspired by the first section of Lorca's book.

Five Years Later

yes, we must watch our bags

must wait to move with feverish patience

and overheated rooms force us to open

our windows to snow

yes, libraries and clubs open

award shows, the President comes

but a comparative few notice

even the most significant events

No, five years ago no one was ignored

we wandered, unguarded, in bewildered tears

no one missed the spectacular spectacular

that affected even faces of children

- September 11, 2006

This poem was inspired by my first required field trip for the class.

Notes from a Broken Finger

conversation before the Brooklyn Bridge

“Is it dangerous?”

“Of course.

Everything is dangerous at night.”

“I don’t want to go; it hurts.”

“But the lights!”

“The lights...

And God?”

“Yes, God.

And the water.”

“Over the water, not under...”

“Of course.”

“Then yes. Let’s go.”

- September 25, 2006

This poem was inspired by the second section of Lorca's book. (The italic selection is an excerpt from a song by Bright Eyes and was written by Connor Oberst.)

First Floor Window

nestled behind a flower box of dry brown ivy

and iron bars keeping you on the outside lies my

first floor window

no way to escape from flames licking the kitchen

or to open the bars to birds

no way to watch cascades of streaming water;

they are

blocked -- by upstairs neighbors' concrete porches

they have open glass sliding doors

railings patio chairs and table, but I have my

first floor window

or part of it

(a giant air conditioner fills

up almost half of one half of my

first floor window)

when you walk by at night and my lights are on,

you can see me, can watch without my knowing

but when I turn out my lights and I watch you,

you can't even see my little window at all

I lean back and sing with my guitar

when everything is lonely I can be my own best friend

I grab a coffee and a paper, have my own conversations

with the sidewalk and the pigeons and my window reflection...

I didn't write it, but I might as well have for

all the talking I do to no one but my window

the landlords say it lowers the price

no natural light to fill my vast, empty walls

they know nothing of the treasures of windows

and privacy and light, they are everywhere!

I should knock down the wall

open a shop

I would

but I don't own my

first floor window

before... I had two tall, second-floor panes of glass

and a cold fire escape over an abandoned courtyard

to climb on and think on

until building dust and noise consumed it

now, nestled behind a flower box of dry. brown. ivy

and an iron gate -- rusted lock and all -- hides my

first floor window

- September 19, 2006

This poem was inspired by the second field trip required by the class.

Hey Angela!

I could write a haiku about my night

or try to make it rhyme

write about the thunder in the streets

pretend I care about her precious time

or mine

endless arguments on end

who will win? who's the best.

and if a tear falls without hitting hand

does that make it mean more or less?

or less?

the maestro asked her for a dance

as she passed him by again

she told him “There’s no music!”

he could poke out her eye, too

Mulberry Street depresses the senses

I’ll just try the thick haiku

pesto in her teeth

dancing and tiramisu

little italy

- October 4, 2006

This poem was inspired by the third section of Lorca's book.

The Largest Store is Burning

the expressway smelled the decline in dangerstairs

the smoking workers outside the afternoon store

the impending evacuation caught before anyone could notice

fire was on sale that day and the elevator out of commission

not even the lazy emergency phone could call out

the evacuation delivers stolen merchandise, delivers ex-customers

pulling from the street were the firemen

the sample sale began to start all over again

start to limit, calling the product by name:

Ralph bedding and hotel coats

sole cashmere drowning in décor electronics

Rwanda floor luggage

free Chanel shipping

gift sensibility hands

the expressway smelled the decline in dangerstairs

the smoking workers outside the afternoon store

and the impending evacuation caught after everyone had noticed

October 9, 2006

This poem was inspired by the fourth section of Lorca's book.

Ode to Addiction and a Cancelled Class

There are peaches in the refrigerator

leaves in your hair

we don’t know where

the hell they came from…

the stillness of a dark Harlem pond

envelopes your angry, stumbling figure

the hoodrats and homeless rotting teeth

scream after you

tear at your intoxicated pockets

for your hundred dollar papers

grope for your girlfriend to feel

a healthy, unrotting breast

with a home

Because enemy neighborhoods don’t take kindly

to drunken white boys

but the magnet driving you to drink pulls on

and love may fall, crushing, on your head, Addiction,

but enemy neighborhoods don’t take well

to your kind

There are needles pulling at the space between veins

arteries pump away from the heart

but in they go, tearing apart

any semblance of life…

the halved straws and Bic pens

swarm around your bloodless face, chest

sucking twenty times harder than any

snort of your nose

tell your brain to quiet down, your

tired, drunken heart to speed up!

speed up.

bite through your tongue, cover your

chin with the blood gone from your face

with no home

Because sterile doctors don’t approve

of you, Addiction,

though love may be crushing in your skull

but the doctors will be called eventually

as soon as we can find (to hide) the

stash you somewhere lost

But somehow you entranced me and

I allowed myself to feel the magnet, too

because what hurts now will still hurt later

but it was only later (now) that I am starting

to understand, Addiction:

Your insanity impeded my drive, but

may be why I’m keeping you around.

Not even an unconditional desire to love

can tame an insatiable desire to drown.

- October 10, 2006