top of page

A Beautiful Poet

One of the things I love most about my work is I never know what surprises a session will hold. 

One of my dear clients is a writer and as we were about to wrap up our session she asked me about a Spanish poet and playwright she adores. Much to my surprise, he was delighted to hear his name and began speaking with us!

Fredrico Garcia Lorco was born June 5, 1898 and assassinated August 18, 1936. My client wanted to know if he was at peace, because he was assassinated. He conveyed to me that “just as he was not worried about being born, he was not worried to die””  Later, while I was researching him a bit, I found out that was one of his famous sayings!  

He began sharing such beautiful thoughts and images with me.  I felt that they were so poignant that I wanted to share them with the world!

He began by showing me an image of himself.  He had slicked back, black hair, dark eyes and a long face.  He had beautiful hands and enjoyed wearing tailored suits with silk shirts.  He was very handsome. I felt like he was either bi polar or bi sexual, it felt like there were two distinct sides to his personality.  My client told me he was a Gemini and that he was thought to be gay or bi. Later, in my research, I also learned he suffered with depression after the loss of his friendship with Salvador Dali. 

He began to tell me that he loved life.  He loved textures, tastes, architecture. He showed me a beautiful building, it looks like a church.  It had fabulous moldings and design, but it didn’t have electricity. He said that the artist who created such a lovely building never saw his work in the light of day and nobody else would either. He said that his favorite thing was to look at art and contemplate how the artist was feeling when creating it.  He would imagine the picture zoomed out and visualize, in his mind, what might have been going on beyond what was captured on the canvas. He showed me that he loved his country because it was full of beautiful art, architecture, dance. He said that there were fabrics from around the world. Swords that were works of art.  The dance in his country was electric.

He showed me a beautiful piece of cloth.  He loved to caress it, rub it on his cheek.  He said it was a fine, chinese silk. It was iridescent, with small flowers on it.  They changed colour as he moved the fabric in the light. He showed me that he could spend hours looking at a thing of beauty, appreciating it.  He wanted to write in a way that would bring people in touch with this beauty.

He then began talking about women.  He said that women were so powerful.  That it should be a man’s position of honour to please a woman completely in bed.  He said that women opened the stale hearts of men and graced them with their delicate skin and that men seldom appreciated them enough.  He then showed me a woman’s thigh. It was so pale and the skin was dimply. He said that it was such a pleasure to caress the skin of a woman.  You could feel curves and dimensions that could open your heart to poetry. He felt the same way about the thick leaves of the olive tree rubbed between his thumb and index finger.

My client told me that he was assassinated.  He just showed me that he dissolved into the forest. It felt as though his death was very peaceful.  He shared this poem with me when we spoke of his death.

Song of the rider


Far away, and lonely.

Full moon, black pony,

olives against my saddle.

Though I know all the roadways

I’ll never get to Córdoba.

Through the breezes, through the valley,

red moon, black pony.

Death is looking at me

from the towers of Córdoba.

Ay, how long the road is!

Ay, my brave pony!

Ay, death is waiting for me,

before I get to Córdoba.


Far away, and lonely.

He showed me that politics was like a sword in his country. That power was used as a blade to conceal the truth and support lies.  He felt it was his time to go. He showed me that much culture was lost in his country during the civil war.

He also said that he loved his country when he lived there.  People loved beauty and revered sensitivity. He now feels it has become very practical and colourless.

He commented that America was colourless in that same way.  As I was researching him after my reading, I found out that he lived in New York for some time.  He did suffer from depression as well.

I was so moved to meet this beautiful sensual man.  The way he described things and felt things were so rich.  I could smell and taste and feel the things he showed me, but also feel his heart.  He touched me so deeply that I wanted to share him with everyone. His poetry is beautiful and his plays have been redone many times.


bottom of page