Tu carne es su piel. Su aliento, tu aliento socorrido. Atormentada su conciencia por la noche. Para de nuevo provocar en este mundo el riego. The trees rumble in the conscience of the afternoon His words triumph Versified in the flesh. Leaves bleed clear drops… God looks direct into the Eye of the All sights, inside, into the guts.
Do not cry, never again the lost cry. Your flesh is his skin. His breath, your rescued breath. And they will come. They will come later Tormented their conscience by the night To provoke again in this world the irrigation. Inga Pizane born in Kraslava is a Latvian poet.
Pizane has studied education in Latvia and Sweden, simultaneously attending lectures at the Literary Academy. Her first collection of poems titled You are no Snow Tu neesi sniegs was published in by Janis Roze. She has performed at the Poetry Days events, the European Poetry festival and other international workshops and festivals; and her work has appeared in theatre and radio.
She is currently preparing her second book of poems in Latvian. Her poetry has been translated into English, Welsh, Russian, and Ukrainian. The most beautiful rain is always the rain right after a play, as the audience leaves, each taking the performance in their own direction through Riga. We are two of those people. With eyes that are more energetic than usual, we grasp the darkness. It is October —the sidewalks are clad in fallen leaves— the silence is rhythmically interrupted by our steps. We look at one another, as if to be sure we are still next to each other, then satisfied look away from one another forever.
Last Friday, with a full house at Instituto Cervantes in New York, the organizers of The Americas Poetry Festival announced that Indian-American poet, filmmaker and professor, Michelle Yasmine Valladares had been distinguished with the Poet of the Year Award by this multilingual poetry festival. The festival featured sixty poets representing twenty-two countries and five languages. As in previous editions, Artepoetica Press published a multilingual anthology celebrating the festival. The festival grows every year and is committed to cultural and literary inclusiveness. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Sus poemas han sido nominados al Pushcart Prize. Gathering the Waters Jamii Publishing is her first poetry collection. Follow her KeishaGaye1 or visit her at keishagaye. Scott Hightower is the author of four books of poetry in the U. Tartessos, his second bilingual, is forthcoming, also from Devenir. My father believed in decency and fair play. My father drove the getaway. My father was a blue jay. My father drove the boys away. My father drove a Thunderbird, a Skylark, a Firebird, an old pickup truck. My father drove hard bargains ever day; he was a force.
My father. He was passive, a little moody: rock… paper…. He loved me. He loved me not. He stomps and hurls lightning bolts. Has slipped away. Passed away. Taught me to pray. Because of him, I hoard things in an old shoe box. Because of him, I use. Because of him, I look to clocks. Because of my father, I have no use for similes. Because of my father, I hunger for my own catalog of metaphors. Mi padre era un arrendajo azul.
Mi padre. Era pasivo, algo impredecible: piedra… papel… tijeras. Aporrea el suelo y lanza rayos. Ha desfilado. Ha pasado al otro lado. His short story collection, The Haven of Distant Lands, is forthcoming. Arthur Jafa has a theory of fresh An aesthetics of fresh What is fresh? Is this poem fresh yet? Nor am I as I write it. I am half asleep Awoken from a nightmare I have forgotten the nightmare Of my country Which has forgotten me And itself And the world And everything but the whiteness Of the house The plantation was not fresh The whip broke the air inside us And apologized for itself as it struck And drew blood that was fresh They know not what they do And that is not fresh I need to sleep I need to stop refreshing Twitter Neruda said political poems are not fresh Until you understand how fresh it is to love.
Nadie se salva del recuerdo. These hands betray, uselessly sharpening the pencil to write the last line that searches for exile. It trembles. The village can be seen submerged by the defeating commotion of the loudspeakers. Nobody is saved from the memory. This moment is intimately kept, and its scar is reopened with time. I have lived all of my deaths here. I moved all the pieces until I drowned the chessboard, the solution is not final; they will remain in the clouds, their voice in the loudspeaker, the drenched satisfaction of escaping unharmed, memory.
I exchanged moves, and that is how all the walls have a precise way of ending: we have lived in the reflection. On the seventh day the destruction began. I confirmed it over the loudspeaker, everything was empty. I separated my faith from my reason. He translated from French to Spanish an anthology of Belgian poets— Urnas y nupcias He is author of five books of criticism, most recently Las puertas del regreso. On the right short sleeve of his khaki shirt how struck passersby were by the total absence of his arm.
Yet he walked cheerfully and, taking small leaps, insisted on the toy that she should buy him. And she watched him smilingly, immensely happy, telling him a hundred times yes with her eyes and her lips. She is an attorney, a writer and a translator. She is the author of eight books of essays and poetry, as well as of the first full translation of the Diwan-e-Ghalib into Spanish, soon to be published.
It rained. Was it Friday, Thursday or maybe Sunday? Yes, it rained. The blurred sidewalks were lost In a silence as sharp as a scream. Was it late? In the air flickered affections, Gradually melting, suspended, Remote amulets of the past. Were we drowning In the cold? Was it the wait? At the platforms, furtive looks Appeared as the light sheets of a book, Barely noticed, already forgotten.
Santiago de Chile, Marked by the military dictatorship of September 11, The deep cultural effect of the 17 years of implementation of neoliberalism in Chile is incorporated in his writings. He has a list of publications of articles, essays, short stories and poetry. In finished his first novel: The station of Mauritius. His poetic work is connected organically with his academic research and his essays and short stories. The grave of the oppressed is in the mind of those that shut up.
Well-ventured in the conscious of the adventurous that wayward In turning the other cheek like the bastard Christs. In the silence of those who speak, in the levity of the claims The grave of the oppressed should be in the law that also is the cemetery of their memory. Poet and narrator. Bless you, tango because in nights of rage and pain I took you in my arms without caring who provided the music the tears, this farewell fog, who the recurrent story. Bless you, scoundrel ritual only by men professed in faraway times.
Taciturn lovers who in a turn of the concertina took a leap and dropped upon the prompt rendezvous with destiny, on the dreadful score written before time. Rough melody, in its cellars you can still catch a glimpse of the sword or that other lightning bolt, perhaps more modest, the knife with which epics are written indoors. Bless you because on the soiled snow of this dawn, a desperate man, some man dead of love, greases his hair right now and dances you in flames burnt by his shadow.
He is a Poet as well as a Breast Reconstructive Surgeon. Gosto dos frescos de Pompeia em dias de mais calor. Distingo a dor dos que perdem da total perda de dor. Prefiro o fundo da alma a fundos de investimento. Distingo liquidez dos bancos da liquidez de teus olhos.
I like the frescoes of Pompei on really hot days. I distinguish the pain of losers from the total loss of pain. I like to feel the music returning to my life. I prefer the depths of my soul to the depths of the stock market. I distinguish the liquidity of banks from the liquidity in your eyes. I like a Caesar salad in a piazza in Rome. His work assisting non-profit organizations has produced over 20 chapbook titles for workshop participants. He is the current Co-Editor of Interstice, the literary journal of South Texas College, and co-runs a mobile book store.
Caracas, Editor of the American bilingual anthology Entre el aliento y el precipicio. Her work is included in several American anthologies. Ecstatic Truth In Bolivia, Werner Herzog, maker of movies, maker of Salt and Fire , was looking for ecstatic truth , which sounds painful. Mychal Judge Era noche cerrada. Communion In memoriam Fr. Mychal Judge It was late at night.
Remains While sleeping, I saw my grandmother in a white nightgown asking for air— a tired angel, but with radiant skin, hidden wrinkles, and stains covered in dye. Translated by the author. America, the Beautiful This is America, the dark house of fiction, the dark horse, the battle ground. Would You Marry Me? Alone Nighttime came to her like a tame and saffron dragon but the women in the neighborhood disapproved of the nocturnal shadows so she ate alone.
Left Over Stolen from your drawer is the view of the sea missing from the stage are the nimble fingers of your youth removed from beneath the blanket are the words and phrases so apt to win you praise absent from the emerald is the woman who loved you and laced with cyanide is the familiar welcome to the remains.
The Gray Pilgrim Operating on instinct rather than intellect, I pull up to the gas pump in need of coffee as much as my car needs fuel. His bike is an expression of himself. Walt Whitman rides a Harley Davidson. Period 11 Observation I. The Wound the exile refuses to sit on the sidelines nursing a wound, there are things to be learned Edward Said In English, a wound is the past of the wind winding itself up, the footprint of a storm and not the lightening, the rubble, in that instant, of past ages.
The Gay Travelers Look both ways before you hold her hand. The house 1 I did not forget the house. The House 3 A word of tears between the two covers of a book. Repatriated Poetry poem 1: chair and in the reality of here, in the reality of now, in the reality from where I write has begun to dawn. The Fall Standing on the crest of the wave You receive triumphal congratulations. Close your eyes, dear. And your eyelids drop. Cierra los ojos, querida. Traducido por Isaac Goldemberg.
Cusco I walked alongside the wall, stone after stone… I touched the stones with my hands…… in the silence, the wall seemed alive, over the palm of my hands flamed the joint of the stones I had touched. Translated by Jonathan Tittler. Porfirio Barba Jacob He descendido de otras orillas, mis ojos vuelan en la hondura, mis labios no musitan quejido alguno pero oigo y pienso y hablo pensamientos.
River of Tombs This land is very smooth, very warm, not at all fertile, and long rivers of pain nourish it. Translated by Jennifer Rathbun. World Trade Center Memory or helplessness. Y testimonio, con amorosa envidia que un milagro mil veces repetido es un milagro y nada menos. Cincinnati, Ohio. Thanksgiving Day, Witness Your daughter is dancing, says my wife touching her belly.
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My wife is a house inside my house and I am outside of my own heart. I am sure she is happy, she says and I would give up poetry in exchange for having, inside me, my daughter. And I testify, with loving envy, that an everyday miracle is a miracle and nothing less. Cincinnati, Ohio Thanksgiving Day, This Body next to Mine How can I not be more aware that this body in this bed makes sleep deeper and more beautiful, makes dreams more childlike? Translated by David Colmer. Translated by Samantha Schnee. Carlos Aguasaco and Michelle Yasmine Valladares. My Father for Doris Schnabel was a cowboy.
My father was a sugar man. My father was a teamster. My father had a triple bi-pass. Dali too encouraged him to make the exploration of his own unconscious a spur to more radical literary experiment. Thus when in his Gypsy Ballads achieved its out- standing popular success, Lorca had in a sense already moved beyond it. Partly in reaction to an unhappy homosexual love-affair he left Spain in to study at Columbia University.
In 1 93 1 , the year following his return to Spain, the Second Republic was established. His literary projects of the early s included new poetic ventures — The Tamaril Divan; the Lament for his bullfighter friend, Ignacio Sanchez Mejias — and, in Blood Wedding , Yerma , and Doha Rosita the Spinster a new kind of theatre: poetic, radical, questioning, but also accessible and popular. His success in this, his broad identification with progressive public causes, and his seemingly inexhaustible creativity made the Republican years a rewarding time for him.
That was cut short when, in August , a few weeks into the Civil War, and soon after finishing The House of Bernarda Alba , he was arrested and murdered by the Nationalist authorities in Granada. Martin Sorrell is Emeritus Professor of Literary Translation at the University of Exeter, where he has spent most of his career teach- ing and researching French literature.
The pocket-sized hardbacks of the early years contained introductions by Virginia Woolf, T. Eliot, Graham Greene, and other literary figures which enriched the experience of reading. Today the series is recognized for its fine scholarship and reliability in texts that span world literature, drama and poetry, religion, philosophy and politics.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law', or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Garcia Lorca, Federico, Gareth Walters.
ISBN alk. Garcia Lorca, Federico, — Translations into English. Sorrell, Martin. AA2 86F. From his father, a prosperous farmer and landowner, and from the family servants Lorca derived a love and knowledge of peasant life and rural lore that served to shape him as a writer. Before he was 4, he knew dozens of folk songs by heart, and such an early acquaintanceship with this material explains its ready assimilation into his poetry. In , the family moved to Granada so that the educational needs of Federico and his brother and sister could be met.
As schoolboy, student, and ultimately as a writer, Lorca was to base himself in Granada for the rest of his life. The spiritual kinship of the poet with the city, in particular with its Arabic heritage, is undoubted, as indeed is the association of Lorca with Andalusia as a whole. Important for his development as a writer, however, were study-visits he undertook as a student in and to other regions of Spain. Of crucial significance, too, for the devel- opment of his art was the period he spent living at the Residencia de Estudiantes in Madrid in the s.
The purpose of this institution, similar to an Oxbridge college, was to bring together the finest young talents of Spain and to help them blossom in an invigorating cultural and intellectual environment. Stimulating in a different way was his experience as a student at Columbia University, New York, in —30; it is nothing less than culture shock that is registered in a series of poems written during his stay in the city.
Less inspiring, though certainly more enjoyable, was his South American tour of His fame was by now considerable in the Spanish-speaking world, and his trip coincided with successful productions of his plays. On his initiative, Spanish plays were performed all over the country, in squares, marketplaces, and barns.
Should he remain in Madrid or return home to Granada as he normally did in the summer? Where would he be safer if hostili- ties were to break out? After some agonizing, he decided to go to Granada where he thought that he could rely on the protection of friends in the event of a Nationalist takeover.
The University of Chicago Spanish dictionary Spanish-English, E.pdf
Indeed, within less than a month he was forced to seek refuge at the house of the family of a friend and fellow poet, Luis Rosales. Unfortunately, the Rosales were unable to save Lorca. Even while at their house, the Civil Governor issued an order for his arrest. He was detained on 16 August and exe- cuted by firing squad three days later along with a small group of his fellow citizens on a hillside above the town. The outcry that followed, outside Spain as much as inside it, given the international impact of the Civil War and the fame that his works immediately achieved, proved embarrassing for the representa- tives of the Franco regime.
Rumours that his death was prompted by purely personal factors, such as jealousy arising from a homosexual liaison, were useful in deflecting attention away from the political dimension. Moreover, from his youth he had offended the Granada bourgeoisie by associating with some of the more flamboyant and arty types of the city. His homosexuality 7 , although not blatant, further outraged the conservative-minded citizens. Yet he is also perceived, especially by readers in the English-speaking world, as the epitome of what it is to be a Spanish writer.
Images of guitars, moons, violence, and passion occur with just enough regularity to justify the label. In , around the age of 20, he wrote several thousand lines of poetry; in terms of sheer productivity this was the most prolific period of his poetic career. This was a wise decision for there is little of genius or even charm in these earnest, inflated compositions for all their exuberance and pretension. Their publication in a popular paperback edition in , as opposed to a more specialist one, was therefore questionable: a reader new to the poet could hardly recognize in this large volume the portents of talent or the hallmarks of style, and could indeed be dissuaded from reading other works of his.
The true worth of the poetic juvenilia was that of a necessary apprenticeship. They afforded a space and opportunity for learning through the very act of writing poetry, acquiring the negative but crucial value of an exorcism. That Lorca could within five years be producing exquisite and disturbing miniatures speaks volumes for his capacity for self-analysis and self- criticism. His ambition was channelled ruthlessly into a practical awareness of what it took to become a poet.
Book of Poems Before embarking on his poetic adventure Lorca seemed destined for a career in music. Introduction xii he had hoped to pursue his musical studies in Paris. Parental oppo- sition and the death of his music teacher, Antonio Segura, combined to stifle this aspiration. In any case Lorca did not abandon music. Such a heavy-handed manner is characteristic of the poetic juvenilia, with their ready recourse to enumeration and anaphora, liberally sprinkled with exclamation and interrogation marks.
It is not surprising then that only a handful of the poems that appear in the edition of the juvenilia should have found their way into print. Of a different level of achievement altogether is Book of Poems , a collection of sixty-eight poems written between and Uneven though it may be in quality, it offers a distinctive glimpse into the making of a poet. Arturo del Hoyo, 13th edn. Madrid: Aguilar, , Introduction xiii and painful acquisition of identity and aspiration. The collection is rich in a creative tension that is symptomatic of a learning curve. Such strains and conflicts can be found both in individual poems and between poems.
Strategically placed at the end of Book of Poems are a dozen or so poems that serve to embody discov- ery and adventure. At first that feels as if you have lost something. In this respect, the roughness and aggression of the poem — the blunt terminology, the visceral phrasing — are if not a metaphor, then a working out in both senses of the term of expressive problems.
Suites What writing Book of Poems may have taught Lorca, among other things, was the art of minimalism. He was not especially interested in the various ephemeral Hispanic avant-garde poetic movements that were in vogue around , but in the two years prior to the publi- cation of Book of Poems his artistic horizons had widened with his entry into the Residencia de Estudiantes.
The quest for a new and fresh poetic was manifested initially in the poems that came to com- prise his Suites. More significant than the musical inspiration for the poetic form is the fastidiousness and precision of diction, a far remove from the verbosity of the unpublished poems and some compositions of Book of Poems. What we have are faint impressions and evasions in the unanswered questions and elisions.
Such an abbreviated and truncated piece can hardly be expressive of anything, let alone of personal emotions, such is its incompleteness, its gaps. What its unremitting suggestiveness approximates to are intimations of a rela- tionship, as faceless as it is wordless, and as fleeting and insubstantial as the reflection of its title. It is a salutary reminder that poems work on the basis of what comes out of them rather than what certainly or allegedly goes into them. Poem of the Cante Jondo The cante jondo festival that Lorca organized in collaboration with Manuel de Falla and the businessman Miguel Ceron Rubio in inspired the Poem of the Cante Jondo, a work that could be considered as the greatest set of suites, although not named as such.
In cante jondo Lorca discovered a depth and authenticity of folklore that read- ily translated into a form of poetry that he favoured in the early s. Lorca avoided the cliches of such a heady art and lifestyle. Instead he seeks an equivalence of elfect. One of the characteristics of flamenco song is voice modulation, enhanced by the use of the melisma, a decorative treatment of melody.
It conveys that kind of stillness that we might be tempted to label unworldly until we realize that it is the very embodiment of world. The form of the suite enables an integration that mimics what actually happens in cante jondo : the guitar preceding the voice, the song that opens with an ornate cry of pain, the sequences in time. They acknowledge the solemnity of the occasion without being serious, and although they embody mystery insofar as they enunciate the dark and the remote, they also have an uncertain, elu- sive quality that is not so much spiritual as playful.
Obras completas , XVI Introduction even establishing a witty link with the mythological archer, Cupid. In a further twist, the blind bowmen are connected to the hooded penitents of the brotherhoods that participate in the Good Friday processions. He betrays a capacity for thinking in larger structures: he attains a con- ception of a macro-poem made up of a number of smaller poems. Songs Such an accomplishment was to be consolidated in Songs , a work that occupied the poet mainly between and and which can be considered the culmination of his early poetry.
In particular, it is in this collection that the functioning of the lyric presence, that had been tenaciously confronted in Book of Poems and controlled in Poem of the Cante Jondo, would be supremely refined. In the lunge towards new experiences, the recklessness of the child-speaker is obvious. For if the danger is unwelcome, it is the price to be paid for the pleasure of finding out: the window through which the child puts his head to savour the smells of the night becomes a guillotine.
Like others, this poem is a blend of neo-classical purity and pseudo-folkloric sim- plicity. This kind of approach — reductive as it is — often has the sole effect of telling us what we want to find out about the poet because we already know it. In any case it does not do justice to the complexity of the issue. We could envisage a brief narrative whereby the speaker is approached by a female figure who seeks an intimate embrace only for him to recoil before her. It is reminiscent of some of the quieter pieces in Poem of the Cante Jondo. There is a poise about the placing of the figures, each to his function: the poet on the balcony, the child eating oranges, the reaper in the fields.
This spatial harmony is complemented by the uncluttered sentence- structure, simply and finely shaped. The uncanny fantasy of the moon who comes to the forge in order to abduct a child reveals Lorca at his most characteristically cre- ative. In a lecture recital on the Ballads he observed that this was an invented myth: the moon as deadly ballerina.
The sing-song repetition, both entranced and threatening in this ballad about the moon, the lavish detail, the sudden spurts of narrative energy, are all celebrated in this collection. The subject of innumerable inter- pretations, variously ingenious and preposterous, it none the less refuses to yield a clear narrative. Yet this should not be viewed as the product of a riddle-producer. The sense of delight that comes from reading — or hearing — such a poem is repeated elsewhere in Gypsy Ballads.
Commentators who extract anguished and tragic messages or statements from the work are in danger of forgetting the form in which such supposed portentous utterances are cast. Moreover, these poems betray a lightness of touch, an imaginative verve and even touches of humour. Such are the two ballads about Antonito el Camborio pp. XX Introduction depression, partly at least as a result of an amatory disappointment: the sculptor Emilio Aladren, with whom he was infatuated, was starting to become interested in the girl who was to become his wife.
This is perhaps an oversimplification produced by the need to square the life with the work; in reality, Lorca was well received, even feted, and rel- ished the music of the blacks, whom he compared to the gypsies of his native Andalusia. He did, however, feel alienated from the life and, more especially, the lifestyle of New York, although only he could be blamed for this. He made little effort to learn English and displayed an instinctive antipathy to Anglo-Saxon culture and religion: his let- ters home are evidence of a closed mind.
Not even a month in the country at the Vermont home of the parents of Philip Cummings, a young American student whom Lorca had met at the Residencia de Estudiantes the previous year, sufficed to relieve his depression. A poem he wrote when stopping off at Cuba on the way home is a joyous cry of relief: his verse seems to sing and dance again p. Out of the New York experience Lorca made a poetry that is perhaps less indiv idually distinctive than some of his previous work.
The notion of the city as a dehumanizing environment, his revulsion at the multi- tudes who crowded Coney beach on holiday, and his lyrical disassoci- ation from what he considered disagreeable or unacceptable, are hallmarks of a kind of artistic sensibility provocatively outlined by John Carey in The Intellectuals and the Masses. Such a fusion leads to a poetry of bold strokes, even of sim- plicities. To extrapolate ideas from Poet in New York and write about them as if they were the poem is poor critical practice and an unjust tool of assessment: Lorca is a poet, not an essayist, to be judged on the poetic assimilation and integration of ideas not on their value in them- selves.
He fantasizes about how nature will one day wreak retribution on the metropolis, he denounces the world of money and numbers, and he manufactures a rhetoric of revolt. The vivacity of the imagination and the verve of the spoken voice for many of the New York poems are splendid recitation pieces, as Lorca himself realized are such that we overlook the embarrassingly rough-edged ideology. That there are profoundly self-searching compositions in the collection touching on matters of religious speculation and sexual identity is not in doubt.
Their tortuous probing, allied to a deployment of imagery that approxi- mates to that of the surrealists, makes for difficult reading, though it has proved a rich seam for scholars. The T amarit Divan In the last six years of his life Lorca wrote comparatively little poetry. Indeed some of the finest poetry in these years is to be found in the three tragedies, not only in the set-piece poems, frequently in the guise of songs, but also in the sharp melodies of dialogue. He also returned to the kind of poetry he wrote in the early s. The poems that appear in The Tamarit Divan are brief and evocative — an attempt to conjure up the delicate and exotic world of Arabic poetry.
Though there are few formal connections between the ghazals and qasidas and the Arab genres from which this terminology derives, Lorca again succeeds — as he had with Poem of the Cante Jondo — in assimilating the essence and the flavour of such poetry. Lorca was also on friendly terms with a number of Galician writers and knew the literature of the region well. One of the poems p. It is perhaps indicative of the way in which his allegiance was changing from poetry to drama that it should have taken a specific event to prompt him to such a work.
In October the bullfighter Ignacio Sanchez Mejias, a friend of the poet, died as a result of a goring by a bull in a corrida in Manzanares, a small town south of Madrid. Mejias had retired from the ring some years earlier and his surprising return was foolhardy: now in his for- ties, he was overweight and had lost his former agility. His friendship with Lorca went back a number of years as, unusually for a bullfighter, albeit the son of a distinguished doctor, he had literary pretensions and talent, notably as a dramatist. The poem that Lorca wrote in his memory p. To say it is a refrain is an understatement; it rings through the opening section of the poem like a maddening bell behind which the snatches of narrative are assembled.
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It is a virtuouso performance comparable to the Gypsy Ballads. There are subtle touches of technical wizardry: the changes of tense, the shift from metaphor to simile, above all, the elaboration of the refrain at strategic points like hammer blows resounding above the monotonous tolling. Introduction xxiii The sensation of horror and the sense of anger that are tradition- ally part of the planctus yield in the later part of the poem to a resigned sorrow culminating in the tribute to the dead man and the implied consolation of his memory.
Cultivated and brilliant though he may have been, Mejias was dignified beyond his significance by this noble threnody, converted into an Andalusian hero as Antonito el Camborio had been years earlier. Sonnets In the last months of his life Lorca was planning a book of sonnets. This was not a form he had cultivated widely, but when he composed a group of eleven love sonnets at the end of it came at a moment when the form was enjoying something of a revival. Most of these poems were unpublished until the s, as indeed had been the Suites.
In the case of the sonnets, however, the delay in publication excited more interest. The title by which they are now known — Sonnets of Dark Love — was not one that appeared in the manuscript, but it has arisen because Lorca supposedly referred to them as such to friends. Once his life and his com- plete work became a subject for open discussion and scrutiny his 9 Lorca's Late Poetry: A Critical Study Liverpool: Francis Cairns, , Neither of these terms serves him well.
Ignorance, willed or otherwise, yielded to overfamiliarity, to an open season for crude deconstructionists.
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At the same time, as if to compensate for his wretched fate at the hands of Nationalist thugs, there has emerged a rosy-tinted version of his life and character. Posterity may deem it necessary to adjust those judgements that presently overrate the man and underrate the work. Lorca was a victim not a martyr; a man of decent instincts, not a saint. He was generous and impulsive, but he could be vain and self- centred. One could excuse his lack of modesty for it would have been false. He towered over his contemporaries, and they knew it: he was feted and lionized.
Yet a later critical consensus, which looks to the achievements of the poetic group to which Lorca belonged, variously denominated the Poetic Group of , the Generation of , and the Generation of the Dictatorship, is apt to treat him at most as a first among equals. There is, however, surely no doubt that he is the most stylish and spectacular poet of twentieth-century Spain — a writer who fulfils most readily our expectations of what poetry can achieve.
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This has entailed including rather fewer poems than is usual in anthologies from the better-known books, notably Romancero gitano and Poeta en Nueva York , and instead finding more space for those from the earlier works. His Spanish is highly charged, culturally specific, strongly rhythmic, always musical.
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It evokes an ancient land, Andalusia, where Europe, Africa, and Arabia met and clashed. It evokes a world of searing heat, passions, and rough justice, resonating to the haunting sound of cante jondo, the purest form of Flamenco music. Here is a world which could scarcely be less Anglo-Saxon. My aim has been to produce angular, tight, uncluttered lines. Form and content become synonymous. Nor does Lorca use end-rhyme, another possible agreeable agent of security. Instead, he exploits the naturally occurring assonance of Spanish, which the English versions loosely have sought to reflect.
My grateful thanks go to all three organizations. I would also like to thank my colleague, Gareth Walters, not only for his contribution to this venture, but for suggesting changes to the translation. I must thank the Heirs of Federico Garcia Lorca for permission to publish this selection; and Bill Kosmas, acting on their behalf. Once more, Judith Luna has been a tactful and skilful editor.
Andre Belamich Barcelona: Ariel, Libro de poemas, ed. Mario Hernandez Madrid: Alianza, Poema del Cante Jondo; Romancero gitano, ed. Allen Josephs and Juan Caballero, 8th edn. Madrid: Catedra, Canciones y primeras canciones , ed. Piero Menarini Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, Andrew A. Anderson Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, Collected Poems, rev.
Critical Studies Anderson, Andrew A. Brian Morris ed. Loughran, David K. Morris, C. Brian ed. Stanton, Edward F. John Edmunds. Early musical studies, but enters University Faculty of Letters Begins Songs, and the cante jondo poems. Publishes Songs. Mariana Pineda performed June. Exhibition of his drawings in Barcelona July.
Rupture with Dali. Reads press reports of Nijar murder case kernal of Blood Wedding. Goes to study at Columbia University June. Yerma in progress. In Madrid from June: reads the explicitly homosexual The Public to friends. Theatre-club performance of Don Perlimplm. Centre-right government takes office in autumn. Lorca visits Argentina September — March Partial reading of Yerma.
Abortive October Revolution followed by repression. Lorca sup- ports appeals for clemency. Yerma performed 29 December. Final draft- ing of Poet in New York August. Signs anti-fascist manifesto November. Doha Rosita the Spinster performed 12 December. Lorca signs appeal for peaceful co-operation. Writing Sonnets of Dark Love , and projects for theatre. Political tension increases. Lorca travels to Granada on 13 July. Military uprising 17 July seizes power in Granada 20—3 July. Mass arrests and killings. La luz me troncha las alas y el dolor de mi tristeza va mojando los recuerdos en la fiiente de la idea.
Todas las rosas son blancas, tan blancas como mi pena, y no son las rosas blancas, que ha nevado sobre ellas. Antes tuvieron el iris. Tambien sobre el alma nieva. La nieve del alma tiene copos de besos y escenas que se hundieron en la sombra o en la luz del que las piensa. La nieve cae de las rosas pero la del alma queda, y la garra de los anos hace un sudario con ella. From Book of Poems Autumn Song November igi8 Granada Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars, but my way is lost in the soul of the mist.
Light lops my wings. Earlier they wore a rainbow. Will the snow melt when death claims us? Or will there be more snow and more perfect roses? Will we know peace as Christ promises? Libro de Poemas ; nunca sera posible la solucion del problema? Si la esperanza se apaga y la Babel se comienza, d'que antorcha iluminara los caminos en la Tierra?
Si el azul es un ensueno, d'que sera de la inocencia? Y si la muerte es la muerte, d'que sera de los poetas y de las cosas dormidas que ya nadie las recuerda? Hoy siento en el corazon un vago temblor de estrellas y todas las rosas son tan blancas como mi pena. If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows? If death is death, what then of poets and the hibernating things no one remembers? Sun of our hopes! Clear water! New moon! Hearts of children!
Rough souls of the stones! Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain. Libro de Poemas Cancion menor Diciembre de igi8 Granada Tienen gotas de rocio las alas del ruisenor, gotas claras de la luna cuajadas por su ilusion.
Tiene el marmol de la fiiente el beso del surtidor, sueno de estrellas humildes. Las ninas de los jardines me dicen todas adios cuando paso. Las campanas tambien me dicen adios. Y los arboles se besan en el crepusculo. Yo voy llorando por la calle, grotesco y sin solucion, con tristeza de Cyrano y de Quijote, redentor de imposibles infinitos con el ritmo del reloj.
Y veo secarse los lirios al contacto de mi voz manchada de luz sangrienta, y en mi lirica cancion llevo galas de payaso empolvado. El amor bello y lindo se ha escondido bajo una arana. El sol como otra arana me oculta con sus patas de oro. The girls in the gardens all bid me farewell as I pass.
Bells too bid me farewell and trees kiss in the half-light. I see irises dry touched by my voice bloodstained by light, and in my lyric song I wear the costume of a grease-painted clown. Beautiful marvellous love hides under a spider. The sun like another spider hides me beneath its golden legs. Dare todo a los demas y llorare mi pasion como nino abandonado en cuento que se borro.
Balada triste Pequeno poema Abril de igi8 Granada jMi corazon es una mariposa, ninos buenos del prado! De nino yo cante como vosotros, ninos buenos del prado, solte mi gavilan con las temibles cuatro unas de gato. Pase por el jardin de Cartagena, la verbena invocando, y perdi la sortija de mi dicha al pasar el arroyo imaginario.
Fui tambien caballero una tarde fresquita de Mayo. Ella era entonces para mi el enigma, estrella azul sobre mi pecho intacto. Cabalgue lentamente hacia los cielos, era un domingo de pipirigallo, y vi que en vez de rosas y claveles ella tronchaba lirios con sus manos. Yo siempre fui intranquilo, ninos buenos del prado. Book of Poems whose arrows are tears, whose quiver the heart.
When I was a boy I sang like you, good children of the field, I let loose my sparrow-hawk with its four frightful cat-claws. I was a horseman too one fresh afternoon in May. She was my enigma then, blue star on my unspoiled chest. Slowly I rode towards the skies. That Sunday of sainfoin I saw her hands were cutting lilies not roses and carnations. Always I was restless, good children of the field. En abril de mi infancia yo cantaba, ninos buenos del prado, la ella impenetrable del romance donde sale Pegaso.
Yo decia en las noches la tristeza de mi amor ignorado, y la luna lunera, jque sonrisa ponia entre sus labios! Y de aquella chiquita, tan bonita, que su madre ha casado, i'en que oculto rincon de cementerio dormira su fracaso? Yo solo con mi amor desconocido, sin corazon, sin llantos, hacia el techo imposible de los cielos con un gran sol por baculo. Good children of the field, in the April of my childhood I sang the impregnable she of the romance where Pegasus rides out.
By night I told the sadness of my unsuspected love — and what a smile the moonish moon wore on its lips! And that so pretty little girl, given in marriage by her mother, in what dark cemetery plot will they lay her ruin? Such grave sadness shades me! Libro de Poemas Elegia Diciembre de igi8 Granada Como un incensario lleno de deseos, pasas en la tarde luminosa y clara con la carne oscura de nardo marchito y el sexo potente sobre tu mirada. Llevas en la boca tu melancolla de pureza muerta, y en la dionisiaca copa de tu vientre la arana que teje el velo infecundo que cubre la entrana nunca florecida con las vivas rosas, fruto de los besos.
En tus manos blancas llevas la madeja de tus ilusiones, muertas para siempre, y sobre tu alma la pasion hambrienta de besos de fuego y tu amor de madre que suena lejanas visiones de cunas en ambientes quietos, hilando en los labios lo azul de la nana. Como Ceres dieras tus espigas de oro si el amor dormido tu cuerpo tocara, y como la virgen Maria pudieras brotar de tus senos otra Via Lactea.
Te marchitaras como la magnolia. Nadie besara tus muslos de brasa. Ni a tu cabellera llegaran los dedos que la pulsen como las cuerdas de un arpa. Venus del manton de Manila que sabe del vino de Malaga y de la guitarra. Book of Poems i3 Elegy December igi8 Granada Like a censer filled with desires, you pass through clear evening, flesh dark as spent spikenard; your face pure sex.
In your white hands the twist of lost illusions, and on your soul a passion hungry for kisses of fire, and your mother-love dreaming distant pictures of cradles in calm places, lips spinning azure lullabies. No kisses burnt on your thighs, no fingers in your hair, playing it like a harp. Woman strong with ebony and spikenard, breath white as lilies, Venus of the Manila shawl tasting of Malaga wine and guitars!
Libro de Poemas jOh cisne moreno! Nadie te fecunda. Martir andaluza, tus besos debieron ser bajo una parra plenos del silencio que tiene la noche y del ritmo turbio del agua estancada. Pero tus ojeras se van agrandando y tu pelo negro va siendo de plata; tus senos resbalan escanciando aromas y empieza a curvarse tu esplendida espalda. Virgen dolorosa que tiene clavadas todas las estrellas del cielo profundo en su corazon, ya sin esperanza.
Eres el espejo de una Andalucia que sufre pasiones gigantes y calla, pasiones mecidas por los abanicos y por las mantillas sobre las gargantas que tienen temblores de sangre, de nieve y aranazos rojos hechos por miradas. Te vas por la niebla del Otono, virgen como Ines, Cecilia y la dulce Clara, siendo una bacante que hubiera danzado de pampanos verdes y vid coronada.
La tristeza inmensa que flota en tus ojos nos dice tu vida rota y fracasada, la monotonia de tu ambiente pobre viendo pasar gente desde tu ventana, oyendo la lluvia sobre la amargura que tiene la vieja calle provinciana, mientras que a lo lejos suenan los clamores turbios y confusos de unas campanadas.
Andalusian martyr, left barren. But below your eyes circles start, and your black hair turns silver. Your breasts ease, spreading their scent and your splendid shoulders start to stoop. Slender woman, meant for motherhood, burning! Virgin of sorrows; forever hopeless heart nailed by every star of the deep sky. The great sadness floating in your eyes tells us your broken, shattered life, the monotony of your bare world, at your window watching people pass, hearing rain fall on the bitterness of the old provincial streets; far away, a troubled clash of bells.
Libro de Poemas Mas en vano escuchaste los acentos del aire. Nunca llego a tu oido la dulce serenata. Detras de tus cristales aun miras anhelante. Tu cuerpo ira a la tumba intacto de emociones. Sobre la oscura tierra brotara una alborada.
De tus ojos saldran dos claveles sangrientos y de tus senos rosas como la nieve blancas. Pero tu gran tristeza se ira con las estrellas como otra estrella digna de herirlas y eclipsarlas. Yo voy a dormirme; si no me despiertas, dejare a tu lado mi corazon frio. The sweet serenade never reached you. Behind your windows still you look and yearn. The sadness that will flood your soul when your wasted breast discovers the passion of a girl new to love.
Your body will be buried untouched by emotion. A dawn song will spread across the dark earth. Two blood-red carnations will spring from your eyes, and from your breasts, snow-white roses. But your great sadness will join the stars, a new star to wound and outshine the skies. The wind on the panes, my love! Why do you desert me on this road? If you go oft so far Libro de Poemas mi pajaro llora y la verde vina no dara su vino.
Un silencio hecho pedazos por risas de plata nueva. Such joy for the deep silence of the alleyway! A silence smashed to pieces by bright new silver laughter. En el monte solitario un cementerio de aldea parece un campo sembrado con granos de cala veras. Y han florecido cipreses como gigantes cabezas que con orbitas vacias y verdosas cabelleras pensativos y dolientes el horizonte contemplan.
Sueno Mayo de i gig Mi corazon reposa junto a la fuente fria. Llenalo con tus hilos, arana del olvido. El agua de la fuente su cancion le decia. Mi corazon despierto sus amores decia. Arana del silencio, tejele tu misterio. Book of Poems 21 ii I take the afternoon path among orchard flowers leaving on the way the water of my sadness. On the lonely hill a village cemetery looks like a field sown with seeds of skulls. Cypresses have flourished like green-haired hollow-socket giant heads pensive and in pain contemplating the horizon.
Sacred April, now here with your cargoes of essence and sun, fill the flowering skulls with nests of gold! Dream May igig My heart rests beside the cool fountain. Add to Wishlist. USD 7. Sign in to Purchase Instantly. Product Details. Average Review. Write a Review. Related Searches. El Capit n Veneno Spanish. View Product. Welcome to this educational and entertaining collection of English to Spanish words.