The moon comes to the forge,in her creamy-white petticoat.The child stares, stares.The child is staring at her.In the breeze, stirred,the moon stirs her armsshows, pure, voluptuous,her breasts of hard tin.– ‘Away, luna, luna, luna.If the gypsies come here,they’ll take your heart fornecklaces and white rings.’– ‘Child, let me dance now.When the gypsies come here,they’ll find… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
Ghazal of the Terrible Presence I want the river to stand still,And the wind to stop stirring the air. I want the night to remain sightless,And my heart to beat without flowering gold. I want the oxen to speak with the leaves,And the earthworm to die of darkness. The skull’s teeth to shine a… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
We have said that the duende likes the edge of things, the wound, and that it is drawn to where forms fuse themselves in a longing greater than their visible expressions. — Federico García Lorca, from “Theory and Function of the Duende,” trans. J. L. Gilli, 1933, Toward the Open Field: Poets on the Art… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
I sought through my breastto give you letters of ivory saying always, — Federico García Lorca, from “Gacela of Unforseen Love,” transl. Gilbert Wesley Purdy, Jacket (no. 35, 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 seekinga 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. Stephen Spender and… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
Arbole, Arbole Tree, treedry and green. The girl with the pretty faceis out picking olives.The wind, playboy of towers,grabs her around the waist.Four riders passed byon Andalusian ponies,with blue and green jacketsand big, dark capes.“Come to Cordoba, muchacha.”The girl won’t listen to them.Three young bullfighters passed,slender in the waist,with jackets the color of orangesand swords… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
The Little Mute Boy The little boy was looking for his voice.(The king of the crickets had it.)In a drop of waterthe little boy was looking for his voice. I do not want it for speaking with;I will make a ring of itso that he may wear my silenceon his little finger In a drop… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
But there is no oblivion, no dream: raw flesh.Kisses tie mouths in a tangle of new veins and those who are hurt will hurt without rest… — Federico García Lorca, from “Sleepless City (Brooklyn Bridge Nocturne),” Poet in New York . Translation by Greg Simon and Steven F. White. Published June 24th 1998 by Farrar,… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
Quasida of the Woman Prone To see you naked is to remember the Earth, the smoooth Earth, clean of horses, the Earth without reeds, pure form, closed to the future, confine of silver. To see you naked is to understand the desire of rain that looks for the delicate waist, or the fever of the… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
If you ask me why I wrote “A thousand tambourines of crystal, wounded the light of daybreak –Mil panderos di cristal, herían la madruga,” I will tell you that I saw them in the hands of trees and angels, but I cannot say more: I cannot explain their meaning. And that is how it should… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
The Vale of Soul-Making 