Duende gay

I was a gloomy nineteen-year-old taking my first poetry workshop when I first read Federico Garcia Lorca’s “Theory and Play of the Duende.” In this piece, he discusses a concept he sees as life-giving to poetry and yet never fully defines. He calls it duende; in English, we might call it desire or inspiration, although I don’t assume this encapsulates the idea entirely. I call it liveliness for two reasons. First, duende can also mean a literal spirit or ghost, and I enjoy the double meaning (it makes me picture myself in conversation with something else when I’m writing). Second, Lorca makes it abundantly clear that duende goes beyond being inspired. He compares his concept of duende to a Muse, which sends inspiration, but rejects her as necessary or even helpful:

The Muse dictates, and occasionally prompts. She can complete relatively little since she’s distant and so tired (I’ve seen her twice) that you’d assess her heart half marble. Muse poets hear voices and don’t know where they’re from, but they’re from the Muse who inspires them and sometimes makes her meal of them, as in the case of Apollinaire, a great poet des