Gabriel Moreno was born in Gibraltar in 1977. Graduated in Philosophy and Hispanic Studies at the University of Hull, Yorkshire, UK (1995-1999). Doctorate in Hispanic Literature at the University of Barcelona (2002-2007).
Published works in Spanish include, Londres y el susurro de las amapolas, Omicrón (2007), Cartas a Miranda (2008) and Identidad y Deseo (2010). Published first book of poems in English in London (2012) The Hollow Tortoise, Orion Contemporary publishers. Winner of the Cardoso Poetry Prize in Mexico 2007 and regular poetry performer at the Poetry Brothel, New York.
Gabriel Moreno is also an accomplished singer songwriter signed by Flat City Music for two albums.
Please visit Gabriel Moreno’s website: www.gabrielmoreno.co.uk
You are the rock who dreamt me
Dream me now,
under a Moorish moon,
conceive me in the southern night,
you hold the mirror of my mind,
you thread petals in my dreams.
Rain on my summit of doubts,
cross our straits of stagnation,
you are the paradox of time,
you are the theatre of belief.
As the ocean breathes into the sea,
unfold me with your gypsy knife,
you enhance the English verb,
you release me from oblivion.
Shred the flags you knew and wore,
hurl them out in western winds,
you are the market of desire,
you are the porthole of identity.
Design a voice of Saxon sound,
give me songs of stones and gulls,
you are the vision of the whole,
you are the rock who dreamt me.
Ballad of the death of Federico Garcia Lorca
(for Mr.Joe Wilkes)
The olives in the trees sparkle
likes shoes of patent leather,
too radiant is this mountain
for a man to meet his end.
Descending from the moon
are its cries of melted silver,
civil guards are not immune
but they are ready for the kill.
Where are the gypsies Lorca?
mocks the captain of the men,
are they coming to this fiesta?
are they hiding in their caves?
Did the fear unhinge their knives?
I cannot hear their saddle bells.
Did they discharge their horses
or are they dancing in their tents?
But all the stars responded,
quivering fiercely in the night,
you will ruin this poet’s body,
but you’ll never touch his mind.
O, the smell of blood and wax!
O, the anger of the fig trees!
No bullet from a retrograde thug
will deter our birds from singing.
Dark, dark is the heart of Spain,
black reeds grow upon its chest.
All of the angels have departed
for the pain of Lorca’s death!
Heated youths rip off their shirts,
Virgin girls insult their mothers,
whimpers for a foreign Christ,
rage for the son of Granada.
On the death of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
“And if God choose, I will love thee better
after death,” Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
If I am to die,
may it be drowned
in the rivers of Florence.
I want a slow fall
from a coloured terrace.
past the violet hour,
escorted by a breeze
of yellow flowers.
with my organs lit
like chestnut fire.
I wish to fall
exactly where the bridge
is reflected on the river,
where the waters
and the universe
amidst the jumble of my mind.
I want to die then.
My body undone,
like a poppy
dispossessed of its petals.
I want nothing to remain,
I want to disappear
in the waters of Italy
and give birth,
to the miracle
Poetry in this post: © Gabriel Moreno
Published with the permission of Gabriel Moreno