Eros, Religion, El Duende and Spanish Poetry: A Student's Inferences

“You are the exterminating angels of the light. You preach war in the name of the Lord of Hosts…the world you have created is a stupid one whose wings have been trimmed…”
from Garcia Lorca in Mystical Treatise on God

Hon 3392T: Eros in Poetry w/ Prof. Kathleen Peirce

By Alysha Nicole Hernandez

If legends could be woven it would be said that Federico Garcia Lorca and Luis Bunuel were borne directly from Spain’s belly into the hands of her people. At their birth, the motherly emerald plains, trodden endlessly by gypsy caravans and unfurling skirts, held hands with their father, who was intense culture and bravado melted into the hooves of bulls and horses. Together the poets form the most ornate bolero jacket, worn by the mightiest of matadors, in the conflicted arena of eros and religion. It is in this arena I hope to illustrate the fraction in Occidental civilizations between religion and eros by utilizing selected works by Spanish poets, Bunuel and Garcia Lorca.

Both were poets in a politically isolated nation that “as a whole shared a particular mythical heritage that established basis for many of its beliefs and structured its reality” (Gonzalez 12). This is obvious through the lauding of Garcia Lorca’s traditional and cultural poetry by the Franco regime, while they ignored any with homosexual themes. In Spain, politics and religion, two of the largest institutions were side by side in the forced repression of freedoms, erotic or not.

By citing Lorca’s The Gypsy Nun and Bunuel’s Redemptress I hope to illustrate that growing up in a Spain of political upheaval and overwhelming Catholicism haunted Bunuel and Garcia Lorca throughout their lives. All this is reflected in their poetry, and can be seen as a possible catalyst to Bunuel’s abhorrence of sex, and Garcia Lorca’s homosexual and oversexual tendencies.

In the Double Flame, Octavio Paz expresses the difference between Oriental and Occidental culture, which in turn, may extend to freedom, eros, and religion. He writes, “The Occidental conception of fate and its reverse complement, freedom is substantially different…this difference includes…the responsibility of each one of us for our acts, and the existence of the soul,” (Paz 39).

To add to this point, it is quite known the Catholic Church is very much about these two ideas—responsibility and soul. And the Church lived in a time when peasants listened to their betters, and in a time of change it tended to be an “agency of repression” (Michener 341).

Moreover, on the subject of repression, such was the state under the Nationalist regime of General Francisco Franco. His regime used censorship to control the ideas of the people, and usually any opposition was met with violent means (Gonzalez vii). Consequently, most writers left, and those who remained were tied to the land, but also exiled, but it was an “internal” exile. Also, those writers who remained were forced to write texts that were vague so they would not thrown in the pyre of censorship.And so, the two institutions of responsibility and order joined sides, and kept Spain stagnant. Meanwhile, the drone of superfluous Masses, and the denial of human eroticism blanketed everything.

In the Objects of Desire Bunuel speaks eloquently on how the constant religious conscience stifled “impatient sexual curiosity” and “erotic obsessions” which caused an explosion in the poetry of him and Garcia Lorca.
Our sexual desire has to be seen as the product of centuries of repressive and emasculating Catholicism, whose many taboos—no sexual relations outside of marriage (not to mention within), no pictures or words that might suggest the sexual act, no matter how obliquely—have turned normal desire into something exceptionally violent (de la Colina 129).

Thus, the idea of impalpable, unfulfilled eroticism, much like the apple in Sappho’s poem, is evident in their poetry. Federico and Luis seemed to agree that religion, a thing that curbed the fire of human existence (eros), was impossible to embrace, yet impossible to escape. To them, eros was the fire of the masses, whereas Marx had described religion as the opiate for them.

Furthermore, to better understand this erotic-religious quarrel, one must understand the concept of el duende.
“’Whatever has black sounds has duende.’ There is no greater truth…the mystery of the roots, the probe through the mire that we all know of, and do not understand, no philosophy can explain” (Garcia Lorca 63).

It is no miracle then, that such fervor and eros is included in Spanish poetry. El duende is rife in Spain; an ”impish earth spirit” (Garcia Lorca lxi). Amazingly, most “spirits” run some bit of religiosity, but duende was embraced since it was seen as more demonic, mortal, and real. The chant of “Now that has real duende!” could be heard throughout the crowds of bullfight and flamenco dance-spectators.

Duende is present at times of great emotion, like eros. It is, much like eros, a tornado of pleasure, evil and mortal, pure and everlasting, that evokes the muse along with torment and beauty. It is segregation and integration. Eros and duende are both like the “spirit that comes into you…the perfect example is death in the bullfight, the passing of life, the flash of red” (Hernandez). The two are parallel in their impulsiveness, and defiance of order; i.e. the Church.

It is the addition of duende that leaves resin on the bodies of the audience—the resin being the palpable resin of eros. Throughout Bunuel and Garcia Lorca's literature, the tension and confusion
between the erotic and religious in their lives is obvious. They tend to include religious imagery in many poems, often in ways that may be deemed as controversial, irreverent, maybe even heretical.

Consequently, all this may explain why even after Garcia Lorca's assassination, he was still feared. Franquist soldiers burnt his books in Granada's Plaza del Carmen, and his books were banned until 1971 (Lorca's Works http://simr). Here is the proof—a dissection and interpretation of the poetry of these golden poets.

In Bunuel's Redemptress he describes a scene that seems to be taken from his
childhood, due to its mischievous tone, which will be depicted a bit later. In the poem, Bunuel is walking in the snow through what ends up being a monastery's garden. In his description it seems that he shouldn't be in the garden, expressed by the curious countenance on the face of the monk gazing at him from a window, and the territoriality of the red mastiff held in his arms.

Bunuel writes, “I had the feeling that the friar wanted to turn him loose on
me, and filled with fear I began to dance in the snow" (3-4). Oddly, rather than being filled with fear and running, he begins to dance; a dance of taunting defiance.

Bunuel wrote "to provoke, to shock, to destroy a society that he found corrupt and idiotic, to ridicule a religion that had oppressed millions and continues to do so," (Bunuel 265).

As the poem progresses, one sentence's end changes the tone and speed of the poem, into something that is chaotic, erotic. It is a sentence expressing, at first, Bunuel's hesitancy at mocking the monk, which can be written off as his conscience and the responsibility of taking care of his soul lingering over him. But, as he continues the sentence, a sudden look in the eye of the monk, urges him to dance on. Perhaps it is the look of a "madman" that scares him into dancing more. Perhaps it is the youth, lack of discretion, and irreverence to the responsibility of his soul, that makes Bunuel dance on. Turning red with excitement each with each quickening of pace is much like Bunuel telling the monk, "This feels good, don't you wish you could join in, and yes, I may be sorry later, but I have already begun...why stop now?" It is this that disturbs the onlooker, who is a man of order, discretion, and the Church.

...I began to dance in the snow. Slowly at first. Then, increasingly as
the hatred welled in the eyes of my viewer, with fury, like a madman,
like someone possessed. All the blood rushed to my head, blinding my eyes with red, the very same red of the mastiff (5-8.)

Furthermore, the simplistic description and use of words, is what makes me believe this is a snapshot from his youth, portraying somehow, even then, he was not afraid of religion. Rather than using the word "cherry" or "blood-colored" to describe the red mastiff or the red color of his face, and his eyes, at the fire of the moment, proves this is not a story of embellishment, but purely a story of retelling. It seems known, also, that the color red is used in times of intensity, and his taunting dance, leads to redness on both the part of the taunted, and the taunter; but for different reasons.

The poem, with its lack of rhyme scheme is more productive as showing the passing of time, it is not insistent in slowing down the reader, and making the poem strict to a style, but wants to tell of an erotic experience.
Time passes; Bunuel stops dancing, and looks up to realize the monk and his dog are not in the window. Likewise, the snow has melted, and out of fields of wheat, (which seemed to appear out of nowhere, marking the cycle of seasons and nature) appears his sister bearing gifts.

Then, through wheat fields bathed in the light of spring, came my
sister, dressed in white, bringing me a turtledove in her upraised
hands. It was exactly noon, the moment at which every priest on
earth raises the Host over the wheat (8-12).

It is here, Bunuel is called back to earth, a confession of sorts, as his sister comes in to scene clothed in white. Her presence seems to alleviate all he has just done, yet in her hands she is cupping the turtledove, which is symbolic of the Holy Spirit. Originally, this led me to believe she too was taking part in this mockery. But then, the sentence where he speaks of the Host being held over the wheat, shocked me into seeing, that Bunuel cannot, with all his heart escape his religion.

Yet, even more shockingly, the last sentence flew from the page, depicting once again his confusion between eros, pleasure, religion, and redemption. Bunuel concludes Redemptress with this...
"I greeted my sister with my arms crossed on my chest, completely delivered, in the midst of the white, august silence of the host," (13-14). And this is the last proof that Bunuel was a child at the time of this occurrence. An inference made since the Catholic Church, requires children in preparation for receiving their First Communion to walk up with their parents, but rather than extending their arms out to receive the Body of Christ, (which is, believed to be, at the time, to be the true flesh of Christ) you cross them over your chest. At that time, the priest will bless you, and you head back to your seat, itching to taste, what just looks like bread.

(This scenario seems childish in their playing of roles, but I can identify. In youth, the idea of what you see in front you actually being Jesus's flesh is remarkable, and repulsive. I recall being envious, and practicing in my room for when I would actually receive the bread and wine. Furthermore, I was detained for passing out pieces of flattened bread and rounded-out chips as to a line of students, as I played the priest.)

So, in the naming of this poem Redemptress, it seems, that rather than being atoned for his mischief by the Almighty Host, he is instead atoned by his sister. This poem seemingly indicates the presence of temptation, pleasure, and the person's want to succumb to it. Also, Redemptress illustrates a passage of time, in its changing of seasons, in which not only time has changed, but also the basis of who Bunuel is, and has been taught to be. He is someone who, at the realizing at the end of this dance, denounces his religion, yet feels conflicted when submitting to the call of eros, pleasure, and the impish force of el duende.

Stepping away from poetry for a bit, the process of writing may be described as highly pleasurable, therefore to some, it may also be erotic…or I just may be one of the few. Turning a blank page, into one full of images and stories is like playing god. Therefore it must be implied that these writers felt this force as well.

“’In the beginning God created…” With these opening words, the sacred scriptures of both Judaism and Christianity proclaim the relationship between creativity and divinity…virtually all cultures have creation myths…which provide their respective cultures with a sense of its particular identity…” (Mazur 15).
He goes on to argue that wherever a religious reference or allusion is made in art, it represents an “encounter between man and the divine” (Mazur 17). Which goes to say that Bunuel and Garcia Lorca have plenty encounters, whether they are welcomed or not.

That being explained, it is onto Garcia Lorca’s Gypsy Nun to exemplify this tortured relation between eros and religion. Just the title alone seems to present an oxymoron, presenting an image of order and chastity alongside one of a nomadic restless nature. The poem is the fifth in his famous work, The Gypsy Ballads.

In opening, Garcia Lorca paints a picture of a nun, in silence sitting peacefully embroidering, but the title alone left me suspicious, so on I read. Garcia Lorca seems to describe things, with the slowness and peace that is incorporated into embroidering. He describes the church in the distance as full of “growls in the distance like a bear turned on its back” (7-8). He goes on to show that something is hushed beneath her habit, because as she embroiders flowers of all types across the altar cloth she is unfulfilled.

Garcia Lorca writes, “She is longing to embroider flowers of her fantasies on the flaxen cloth,” (10-11).
Lorca doesn’t express what exactly her fantasies are, but continues with flowers and exclamations, promoting an energetic suggestion and interference with her mind veering into fantasy, as suggested by the sudden…” What a sunflower! What magnolias of sequins and ribbons!”

Here, upon reading I recognized the more silent revolution of Garcia Lorca’s writing, as opposed to the in-your-face antics of Bunuel. Garcia Lorca is definitely the more romantic of the two, using punctuation, and more colorful language, as opposed to the realism presented by Bunuel’s poem. Yet, both are riddled with religious imagery.
Garcia Lorca continues to delve deeper and deeper into the nun’s world, describing the fruits in a nearby kitchen—which is innocent enough, until you finish the sentence. “In the nearby kitchen, five grapefruit sweetening; the five wounds of Christ picked in Almeria,” (17-20).

How he could describe the wounds of Christ as ripening fruits is unusual, yet seems sweet in a way, knowing that Christ gave himself up to nourish those who believe in him. Yet, the nun is soon confronted with all she is bound from. Two gypsy bandits ride into her periphery and as this happens, Garcia Lorca describes how her shirt blows up, and the nun’s flesh is revealed, and she is saddened.

Through the nun’s eyes two gypsy bandits gallop. A dull and distant
noise lifts the shirtwaist from her back, and seeing clouds and
mountains across the rigid distances, her heart of lemon verbena and
sugar breaks in two, (21-29).

So, it seems as though the fantasies the nun had wished to embroider had alluded to these men, who rode in and broke her heart. The poem later describes how she had glimpsed her fantasies just by seeing their feet, as though the ripening of carnal knowledge had been fulfilled and not, all at once; but, such is eros.

What is interesting is how she continues with her weaving, and the translation seems like a play on words. In the Spanish text, alongside this one in English, it says “la luz juega ajedrez alto de la celosia,” (35-36). And the English version it says “the light plays chess across the jalousies,” (36-37).

When the word jalousies is looked up it is defined as a shutter, or a blind of some sort, but in reality I am pretty sure what could be placed there is celosa, or jealousy—at least that’s what my mind placed. So, it would read as “the light plays chess above her jealousy.” And, interpreted either way it seems to mean her heart is broken at seeing what she can’t have and she goes back to being a pure nun—but only after the temptation has crossed her path, and she views the world from a fish tank, never seeing what lies beyond the glass.

Much of Garcia Lorca’s poem is vague, making the reader decide what to think next, yet his use of punctuation and beautiful imagery, makes it seem as though his intent could only be virtuous.

But, such is the poetry of the time, obliquely virtuous, and obliquely unvirtuous due to the censorship that was mentioned before. It seems as though the conflicted arena of eros cannot be resolved, for as long as human nature will exist so will the quarrel between pleasure and order. Meanwhile, Bunuel and Garcia Lorca, the bulls in the clouds weep over their mortality, and unfulfilled eros.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Redemptress
by Luis Bunuel

I found myself in the snow-colored garden of a monastery. From a
nearby cloister a Benedictine monk gazed upon me curiously, holding a
large red mastiff by a chain. I had the feeling that the friar wanted to
turn him loose on me, and filled with fear I began to dance in the snow.
Slowly at first. Then, increasingly as the hatred welled up in the eyes of my
viewer, with fury, like a madman, like someone possessed. All the blood
rushed to my head, blinding my eyes with red, the very same red of
the mastiff. The friar finally disappeared, and the snow melted. Then,
through the wheat fields bathed in the light of spring, came my sister
dressed in white, bringing me a turtledove in her upraised hands. It was
exactly noon, the moment at which every priest on earth raises the Host
over the wheat.
I greeted my sister with my arms crossed on my chest, completely
delivered, in the midst of white, august silence, of the Host.

The Gypsy Nun (fifth poem in the Gypsy Ballads collection)

Silence of myrtle and lime.
Mallows bloom in meadow grasses.
The nun embroiders gillyflowers
on a flaxen cloth.
Through the gray chandelier
fly the prism's seven birds.
The church growls in the distance
like a bear turned on its back.
How finely she embroiders! And with such grace!
She is longing to embroider flowers of her fantasies
on the flaxen cloth.
What a sunflower! What magnolias
of sequins and ribbons!
What crocuses, what moons
across the altar cloth!
In the nearby kitchen,
five grapefruits sweetening:
the five wounds of Christ,
picked in Almeria.
Through the nun's eyes
two gypsy bandits gallop.
A dull and distant noise
Lifts the shirtwaist from her back,
and seeing clouds and mountains
across the rigid distances,
her heart of lemon verbena
and sugar breaks in two.
Oh what a rising plain
with twenty suns above!
What rivers on their feet
her fantasy has glimpsed!
But she continues with her flowers,
while standing in the wind,
the light plays chess
across the jalousies.

“You are miserable politicians of Evil,” wrote Garcia Lorca

Works Cited

Bunuel, Luis. An Unspeakable Betrayal: Selected Writings of Luis Bunuel. Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 2000.


Garcia Lorca, Federico. "Lecture on Duende." 1930. Twentieth-Century Literary
Criticisms Vol.49.

Gonzalez, Margaret C. Literature of Protest: The Franco Years. Lanham: University
Press of America, 1998.

Hernandez, Joe J. Personal Interview. 10 October 2003.

Maurer, Christopher, ed. Federico Garcia Lorca: Collected Poems. New York: Farrar,
Straus and Giroux, 2002.

Michener, James A. Iberia: Spanish Travels and Reflections. New York: Fawcett Crest
Book Publications Inc., 1968.

Paz, Octavio. The double flame.

Objects of Desire: Conversations With Luis Bunuel Jose De LA Colina, Tomas Perez
Turrent, Marsilio Pub; (June 1993)