Voice.

Caravaggio, Basket of Fruit, 1599

The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word. He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices: the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love, and the voice of art.

Federico García-Lorca

Happy Birthday, Lorca

FLOATING BRIDGES

Oh what a crush of People

Invisible, reborn

Make their way to into this garden

For their eternal rest

Every step we take on earth

Brings us to a new world

Every foot supported

On a floating bridge

I know there is no straight road

No straight road in this world

Only a giant labyrinth

Of intersecting crossroads

And steadily our feet

Keep walking and creating

Like enormous fans

These roads in embryo

Oh garden of white

Oh garden of all I am not

All I could

And should have been

I know there is no straight road

No straight road in this world

Only a giant labyrinth

Of intersecting crossroads

Federico García Lorca, born on this day in 1898

Time.

A garland, quick, I’m dying!

Weave it now, sing and moan and sing!

For shadows my throat are clouding

and again the January light comes in.

Trembling bushes and the air of stars

lie between your love and mine,

a dense mass of anemones picks up

an entire year with a muffled moan.

Revel in the open country of my wound,

break apart its reeds and delicate rivulets,

drink from my thigh my pouring blood.

But be quick! And then, together entwined,

with love-broken mouths and frayed souls

time will find us utterly destroyed.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Only.

The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word. He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices: the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love and the voice of art.

Federico García Lorca

Burn.

To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Happy Birthday, Lorca

Federico Garcia Lorca was born on this date in 1898.

FLOATING BRIDGES

Oh what a crush of People
Invisible, reborn
Make their way to into this garden
For their eternal rest

Every step we take on earth
Brings us to a new world
Every foot supported
On a floating bridge

I know there is no straight road
No straight road in this world
Only a giant labyrinth
Of intersecting crossroads

And steadily our feet
Keep walking and creating
Like enormous fans
These roads in embryo

Oh garden of white
Oh garden of all I am not
All I could
And should have been

I know there is no straight road
No straight road in this world
Only a giant labyrinth
Of intersecting crossroads

Federico Garcia Lorca

Evidence.

Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.

Leonard Cohen

Happy birthday, Lorca.

Federico García Lorca was born on this day in 1898.

SOMNAMBULIST BALLAD

Green green I want you green:

Green the wind, green the branches.

The ship upon the sea

and the horse in the mountain.

With the shadow at her waist

She dreams in her veranda,

green the flesh, green the hair,

and her eyes of cold silver.

Under the gypsy moon

They are watching her

and she cannot see them.

Green green I want you green:

Great stars of frost

come with shadows of fish

that open the way of the dawn.

The figtree caresses the wind

with its rasping branches,

and the grass, a thieving cat,

bristles at its sour chords.

But who will come? And from where?

She lingers in her veranda

green the flesh, green the hair,

dreaming the bitter sea.

Friend, I want to exchange

my horse for your house,

my saddle for your mirror

my knife for your blanket.

Friend, I come bloody

from the gates of Cabra."

"If I could, my son,

I'd do this trade.

But I am no longer myself,

nor is my house my house."

"Friend, I want to die

decently, in my own bed.

bravely, if it's possible,

in the soft sheets of Holland.

Can't you see the wound I have

from my chest to my throat?"

"You bear three hundred

Dark roses on your white chest

Around your sash, the blood

oozes, smells so powerfully."

"But now I'm not myself,

and my house is not my house.

At least let me go up

to the high veranda

Let me go! Let me me go up

to the green veranda,

where the water echoes

on the balustrades of the moon.

Now the two friends go up

to the high verandas.

Leaving a trail of blood.

Leaving a trail of tears.

Little lights of pane

Shook the tile roof.

A thousand crystal tambourines

wounded the dawn.

Green green I want you green:

green the wind, green the branches.

The two friends went up.

The great wind left

a strange taste of gall,

of mint, of sweet basil.

Friend! Where is she? Tell me.

Where's the girl of bitterness?

How many times

will she wait for you

on this green veranda

with her young face,

and her black hair.

Under the lip of the well

the gypsy rocked.

Green the flesh, green the hair,

and her eyes of cold silver.

She floats on the water

an icicle of the moon.

The night became as secret

As a little plaza.

Drunken civil guards

were beating on the portals.

Green green I want you green.

Green the wind, green the branches.

The ship upon the sea.

And the horse in the mountains.

Federico García Lorca

Baptizes

The life of an apple when it is a delicate flower to the moment when, golden russet, it drops from the tree to the grass, is as mysterious and as great as the perpetual rhythm of the tides. And a poet must know this. The magic virtue of a poem consists in always being daemon-ridden so that it baptizes with dark water those who look at it.

The daemon? Where is the daemon?

Federico Garcia Lorca

Mystery.

Only mystery makes us live. Only mystery.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Happy birthday, Lorca.

Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca was born on this day in 1898.

SOMNAMBULIST BALLAD

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,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

—My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
—If it were possible, my boy,
I’d help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
—My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that’s possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don’t you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
—Your white shirt has grown
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
—Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she—tell me—
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken “Guardias Civiles”
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.

Federico García Lorca

The Spirit of Lorca

Part 1

Part 2



Part 3

Entwining.

Sargent, Dans Les Oliviers, 1878

The girl with the beautiful face
is gathering olives.
The wind, lover of towers,
takes her by the waist.

Four riders passed,
on Andalusian ponies,
with suits of blue and green,
with long dark cloaks.
‘Come to Cordoba, maid.’
The girl pays no heed.

Three young bullfighters passed,
slender of waist,
with orange-coloured suits
and swords of antique silver.
‘Come to Seville, maid.’
The girl pays no heed.

When the evening became
purple, with diffused light,
a youth passed bringing
roses and myrtle of the moon.
‘Come to Granada, maid.’
And the girl pays no heed.

The girl with the beautiful face
goes on gathering olives,
with the grey arm of the wind
entwining her waist.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Intersecting.

FLOATING BRIDGES

Oh what a crush of People
Invisible, reborn
Make their way to into this garden
For their eternal rest

Every step we take on earth
Brings us to a new world
Every foot supported
On a floating bridge

I know there is no straight road
No straight road in this world
Only a giant labyrinth
Of intersecting crossroads

And steadily our feet
Keep walking and creating
Like enormous fans
These roads in embryo

Oh garden of white
Oh garden of all I am not
All I could
And should have been

I know there is no straight road

No straight road in this world
Only a giant labyrinth
Of intersecting 

Federico García Lorca