Sunday, July 13, 2014

"Richard Armitage...Like a Mythic Figure out of Lorca." - The Sunday Times




Federico García Lorca is one of the most important Spanish poets and dramatists of the twentieth century.

(www.poets.org)

Gacela of the Dark Death 

I want to sleep the dream of the apples,

to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.

I want to sleep the dream of that child

who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.


I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,

that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.

I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass,

nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth

that labors before dawn.


I want to sleep awhile,

awhile, a minute, a century;

but all must know that I have not died;

that there is a stable of gold in my lips;

that I am the small friend of the West wing;

that I am the intense shadows of my tears.


Cover me at dawn with a veil,

because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me,

and wet with hard water my shoes

so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.


For I want to sleep the dream of the apples,

to learn a lament that will cleanse me to earth;

for I want to live with that dark child

who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas. 

Federico García Lorca







and one for me:


Cuando llegue la luna llena 
iré a Santiago de Cuba, 
iré a Santiago, 
en un coche de agua negra. 
Iré a Santiago. 
Cantarán los techos de palmera.
Iré a Santiago. 
Cuando la palma quiere ser cigüeña,
iré a Santiago. 
Y cuando quiere ser medusa el plátano, 
Iré a Santiago 
con la rubia cabeza de Fonseca.
Iré a Santiago. 
Y con la rosa de Romeo y Julieta 
iré a Santiago.
Mar de papel y plata de monedas
Iré a Santiago.
¡Oh Cuba! ¡Oh ritmo de semillas secas!
Iré a Santiago. 
¡Oh cintura caliente y gota de madera! 
Iré a Santiago. 
¡Arpa de troncos vivos, caimán, flor de tabaco!
Iré a Santiago. 
Siempre dije que yo iría a Santiago
en un coche de agua negra. 
Iré a Santiago. 
Brisa y alcohol en las ruedas,
iré a Santiago. 
Mi coral en la tiniebla,
iré a Santiago. 
El mar ahogado en la arena, 
iré a Santiago, 
calor blanco, fruta muerta,
iré a Santiago. 
¡Oh bovino frescor de cañavera!
¡Oh Cuba! ¡Oh curva de suspiro y barro!
Iré a Santiago.


Federico García Lorca



2 comments:

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    ReplyDelete

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