The afternoon, grown wild with figs and hot murmurs, swoons and falls… And black angels were soaring through the western sky. Angels with long tresses and hearts of olive oil. — Federico García Lorca, “The Feud,” Romancero Gitano. (Agebe, March 2006) Originally published 1928.
Romance Sonambulo Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea and the horse on the mountain. With the shade around her waist she dreams on her balcony, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. Green, how I want you green. Under the gypsy moon,… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
They’ve bought me a shell. It sings inside a sea on a map. My heart fills up with water with a little fish shadow & silver. They’ve brought me a shell. — Federico García Lorca, “Caracola,” Lorca/Blackburn: Poems of Federico Garcia Lorca chosen and translated by Paul Blackburn. Small Pr Distribution, 1979
As I lose myself in the heart of certain children, I have lost myself in the sea many times. Ignorant of the water I go seeking a death full of light to consume me. — Federico García Lorca, from “Gacela De La Huida (Garcela Of The Flight),” The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca. Trans.… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
Lovers in my wound’s landscape, overjoyed, can watch the reeds bend in the crossing currents, can drink from red pools in the honeyed thigh. But hurry, let’s entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed. ― Federico García Lorca, from “Sonnet or the Garden of… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
En el contorno del límite Se complacen los objetos, Y su propia desnudez Los redondea: son ellos. In the sharpness of their edges Objects seem to take delight, And their own nakedness Fills them out: they are what they are. — Jorge Guillén, from “El Aire,” Cántico: A Selection, ed. Norman Thomas di Giovanni (Atlantic-Little,… Continue reading Jorge Guillén
Ditty of First Desire In the green morning I wanted to be a heart. A heart. And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale. A nightingale. (Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn the color of love.) In the vivid morning I wanted to be myself. A heart. And… Continue reading Federico García Lorca