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
Of everything I have seen, it’s you I want to go on seeing: Of everything I’ve touched, it’s your flesh I want to go on touching. I love your orange laughter. I am moved by the sight of you sleeping. — Pablo Neruda, from “Amor,” Intimacies: Poems of Love. (Harper; 1st edition, October 28, 2008)
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
In the dimly lit room I had a brief glimpse of bliss: sight of your naked body like a god reclining. That was all. Quite unaware you got up to get your clothes just naturally while I shuddered like the earth split open by lightning. — Daisy Zamora, “Vision of Your Body,” UniVerse: Nicaragua.
Last Night As I Was Sleeping Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that a spring was breaking out in my heart. I said: Along which secret aqueduct, Oh water, are you coming to me, water of a new life that I have never drunk? Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous… Continue reading Antonio Machado
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
You know the secret passageways of the soul, the roads that dreams take, and the calm evening where they go to die… . — Antonio Machado, from “It Doesn’t Matter Now if the Golden Wine,” Times Alone: Selected Poems (Wesleyan University Press 1983)