Lorca /'Blackburn Poems

of Federico Garcia Lorca

chosen and translated by
Paul Blackburn
Momo's Press San Francisco 1979
Lorca /Hlacl^burn * Poems
of Federico Garcia Lorca
chosen and translated by
Paul Blackburn
The cover and inside drawings are by Basil King. Design and
composition at Spring Creek. Library of Congress Catalog Card
Number: 78-78274. Copyright @ 1979 by Joan Blackburn and
the Estate of Federico Garcia Lorca. I SBN 0-917672-08-9 (paper)
0-917672-09-7 (cloth). Momo's Press gratefully acknowledges
the support and participation of Harry Lewis, George Economou,
Basil King, Joan Blackburn and Holbrook Teter in the production
of this volume. This book was partially funded by the National
Endowment for the Arts. Momo's Press, P.O. Box 14061,
San Francisco, California 94114.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Garcia Lorca, Federico, 1898-1936.
Lorca/Blackbum : poems of Federico Garcia Lorca.
I. Blackburn, Paul.
PQ6613.A763A22 1979 861'.6'2 78-78274
I SBN 0-917672-09-7
ISBN 0-917672-08-9 pbk.
Forward
So far as I have been able to ascertain, these versions of Lorca
represent the latest ones Blackburn made before his death on
September 13,1971. He was continuously "working" them. My
comparative reading of them against other versions (published &
unpublished) and the original texts (Obras Completas, Madrid:
Aguilar, 1954) confirms the efficacy of his special intelligence
and instincts as a poet-translator. The changes invariably reveal
moves in the interests of economy, melody, and accuracy; there
fore, I have invariably accepted the later readings except for
restoring what appears to have been an inadvertently omitted
stanza in the Ode to Salvador Dali (for the record, the second to
last one). To my knowledge, the only point at which a Blackburn
rendition does not "square" with the original comes in the first
stanza of Cancion de Jinete (1860) in which he translates ban
doleros as "stirrups." I note it here, not so much because it is
inexplicable an equivalence through synecdoche as it is
atypical, and let it stand.
The order of the poems does not always follow that of the
Aguilar edition, there being considerations other than strict
chronology in the planning of a book such as this.
Thanks are offered to Stavros Deligiorgis, Harry Lewis, and
Jeanne Sanchez, who helped in different ways.
George Economou
January, 1979
New York City
Introduction
No modern Spanish poet has so seduced the English-speaking
world as Federico Garcia Lorca. Some of the reasons are best
forgotten the political capital made out of his death, for ex
ample, or the fact that at times he coincides with some of our
tackier fantasies about "Spain." The real basis of his impact,
however, is surely his concentrated lyric energy. At once daring
and traditional, stark and explosive, his poetry seems to hold
vast worlds of violence and sexuality in momentary, volatile
equilibrium:
Paint me with your blood-reddened
mouth a heaven of love, in
a depth of flesh the dark
star of pain.
The poem in which these lines appear, "Madrigal de verano,"
is characteristic of Lorca's work in many ways. It begins with
echoes of popular song and brilliant primary colors, then projects
a stylized Andalusian landscape:
That red mouth of yours, Estrella, gypsy,
bring it close to mine, I
will bite the apple
under this sungold noonday light!
There's a moorish tower
in the green olive grove on the hill, the color
of your country flesh. it tastes
of honey and dawn.
The gypsy Estrella, with her double charge of pleasure and
pain (her name is echoed as "star of pain" or "estrella de dolor"
in the original), is also Lorca's necessary muse:
My andalusian pegasus is
captive of your open eyes;
should he see them dead, his flight
would be sullen, desolate.
In addition, she is linked to the murderous Danaides of Greek
mythology. The poem thus sweeps us through a variety of tones
held together by a climate of mingled lust and fear and by a
dazzling, primal imagery (mouth, apple, dawn, lily, wheat,
breasts) that suggests folk poetry in general and the Mediter
ranean folk tradition in particular.
Lorca was both a student and a practitioner of this tradition.
Unlike his North American contemporaries, he never tried to
make poetry out of modern industrial life. When he mentions
the world most Europeans inhabit, as he does at the beginning of
"Ode to Salvador Dali/' his purpose is to condemn it:
Man
stomps the flagstoned streets. Mirrors
avoid the reflection's magic.
The government's closed down the perfume shops.
A machine perpetuates its double beats.
This bleak, paved-over world is then contrasted with another
mythological landscape, Catalan this time instead of Andalusian
and hence a bit softer than in "Madrigal de verano":
Cadaques, set on the compass points between
the water and the hill, mounts flights of stairs and
hides
snails. Wooden flutes calm the air. An ancient
woods-god gives fruits to the children.
Surely this is part of Lorca's fascination for us. Ever since
Walt Whitman, our poets have been obliged to seek images of
pure beauty within the industrial world we inhabit. Blackburn
himself often sought and found fleeting moments of loveliness
within modern city life. The truth is that we have very little
choice. Since we live with our backs to the past, our only alter
native would be silence. Lorca, on the other hand, often seems
most relaxed and alive when he is writing ballads like "Cancion
de Jinete," whose only non-traditional feature is its slightly
elliptical imagery:
In the black
moon of stirrups
the spurs sing.
Little black horse,
Where do you carry your dead rider?
Or again, in a poem like "August," he stays close to the nursery-
rhymes that influenced him in his youth:
August.
Counterpoints
sugar & peach, and
the sun in the afternoon
like the pit in a fruit.
The corn keeps intact
its smile, yellow, hard.
August.
The kids eat
dark bread, rich moon.
Why is a modest poem like this one so successful? For one
thing, because of its bright, hard imagery. It's almost all nouns
tangible, everyday words that pile up, evoking the long, hot
days of childhood summers. The first adjectives don't appear till
the second stanza, when the natural world reveals its "smile."
The possibility that this smile might be too sweet is sidestepped
by the grinning row of corn-kernels, a whimsical but vivid pic
ture with a kind of comic-book grotesqueness, and by the words
"yellow" and "hard." The poem ends with a swift plunge into
mystery on which its sense of implied depths depends. Without
breaking the tone he has established in the first two stanzas,
Lorca's image of "dark bread, rich moon" also opens out other,
more suggestive worlds in which dream and reality briefly touch
and color each other. Poems like "August" must also have been
part of Lorca's attraction for Blackburn who, like many North
American poets, often reached for a maximum of suggestiveness
with a hard compression of phrasing.
Like Lorca himself, the culture about and for which he spoke
was an accidental victim of the Spanish Civil War. The arrival
of the consumer age and tourism, along with the mass exodus of
Andalusians themselves, have made it unlikely that another
figure of his type will appear. For all his considerable learning
and formal sophistication, he remained essentially a folk poet
whose roots seemed to reach back to a distant Minoan past.
Blackburn's translations catch this essential quality. Despite
some quibbles, I find them splendid, full of the keen sense of
words' sound and touch that characterized his own poetry. One
example, among many, would be the line in "Ode to Salvador
Dali":
El hombre pisa fuerte las calles enlosadas
Man stomps the flagstoned streets.
A losa is indeed a flagstone (or gravestone), but enlosadas could
also be translated as "paved." Blackburn chooses the longer but
more vivid "flagstoned," while shortening "pisa fuerte" (literally
"treads heavily") to the stronger "stomps." Small decisions like
these, so close to the ones involved in writing original verse,
make up the real art of translation. Blackburn, as his versions of
Occitan poetry have already shown, was one of the art's recent
masters. In mingling his voice with Lorca's, he has done us all
a service.
David H. Rosenthal
Lorca /T3lacl^burn
Madrigal
1919
Yo te mire a los ojos
cuando era nino y bueno.
Tus manos me rozaron
y me diste un beso.
(Los relojes llevan la misma cadencia,
y las noches tienen las mismas estrellas.)
Y se abrio mi corazon
como una flor bajo el cielo,
los petalos de lujuria
y los estambres de sueno.
(Los relojes llevan la misma cadencia,
y las noches tienen las mismas estrellas.)
En mi cuarto sollozaba
como el principe del cuento
por Estrellita de oro
que se fue de los torneos.
(Los relojes llevan la misma cadencia,
y las noches tienen las mismas estrellas.)
Yo me aleje de tu lado
queriendote sin saberlo.
No se como son tus ojos,
tus manos ni tus cabellos.
Solo me queda en la frente
la mariposa del beso.
(Los relojes llevan la misma cadencia,
y las noches tienen las mismas estrellas.)
Madrigal
1919
I looked at you, in your eyes,
when I was a boy and kind.
Your hands brushed against me
and you gave me a kiss.
(Clocks keep the same cadence
and nights have the same stars.)
My heart opened itself like
a flower under the sky;
petals of lubricity,
stamen of drowsiness.
(Clocks keep the same cadence
and nights have the same stars.)
I was sobbing in my room
like the prince in the story
for the proud lady
who left the tournament.
(Clocks keep the same cadence
and nights have the same stars.)
I left your side
wanting you without knowing it
I do not know what your hands
like, your eyes, your hair.
On my forehead all that's left,
the butterfly of a kiss.
(Clocks keep the same cadence
and nights have the same stars.)
Oda a Salvador Dali
Una rosa en el alto jardin que tu deseas.
Una rueda en la pura sintaxis del acero.
Desnuda la montana de niebla impresionista.
Los grises oteando sus balaustradas ultimas.
Los pintores modernos, en sus blancos estudios,
cortan la flor aseptica de la raiz cuadrada.
En las aguas del Sena un iceberg de marmol
enfria las ventanas y disipa las yedras.
El hombre pisa fuerte las calles enlosadas.
Los cristales esquivan la magia del reflejo.
El Gobiemo ha cerrado las tiendas de perfume.
La maquina eterniza sus compases binarios.
Una ausencia de bosques, biombos y entrecejos
yerra por los tejados de las casas antiguas.
El aire pulimenta su prisma sobre el mar
y el horizonte sube como un gran acueducto.
Marineros que ignoran el vino y la penumbra
decapitan sirenas en los mares de plomo.
La Noche, negra estatua de la prudencia, tiene
el espejo redondo de la luna en su mano.
Un deseo de formas y limites nos gana.
Viene el hombre que mira con el metro amarillo.
Venus es una blanca naturaleza muerta
y los coleccionistas de mariposas huyen.
Cadaques, en el fiel del agua y la colina,
eleva escalinatas y oculta caracolas.
Las flautas de madera pacifican el aire.
Un viejo dios silvestre da frutas a los ninos.
Ode to Salvador Dali
One rose in the high garden you desire.
A single wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped of impressionist fog.
Greys overlooking their final balustrades.
Modern painters in their white studios
cut the aseptic flower of the root squared.
In the Seine's waters a marble iceberg chills
windows, the ivy shrivels. Man
stomps the flagstoned streets. Mirrors
avoid the reflection's magic.
The government's closed down the perfume shops.
A machine perpetuates its double beats.
No woods, screens, frowns; mint
growing on the roofs of old houses. Air
polishes its prism upon the sea & the horizon
rises like a great aqueduct.
Sailors, unknowing of the vine and the line between
light and shadow, decapitate sirens on leaden seas.
Night, that black statue of prudence, holds
the rounded mirror of moon between her palms.
A desire for forms and limits wins us over.
The man with the yellow meter-measure comes.
Venus is a white still-life
& butterfly collectors
run.
Cadaques, set on the compass-point between
the water and the hill, mounts flights of stairs and hides
snails. Wooden flutes calm the air. An ancient
woods-god gives fruits to the children.
Sus pescadores duermen, sin ensueno, en la arena.
En alta mar les sirve de brujula una rosa.
El horizonte virgen de panuelos heridos
junta los grandes vidrios del pez y de la luna.
Una dura corona de blancos bergantines
cine frentes amargas y cabellos de arena.
Las sirenas convencen, pero no sugestionan,
y salen si mostramos un vaso de agua dulce.
jOh Salvador Dali, de voz aceitunada!
No elogio tu imperfecto pincel adolescente
ni tu color que ronda la color de tu tiempo,
pero alabo tus ansias de eterno limitado.
Alma higienica, vives sobre marmoles nuevos.
Huyes la oscura selva de formas increibles.
Tu fantasia llega donde llegan tus manos,
y gozas el soneto del mar en tu ventana.
El mundo tiene sordas penumbras y desorden,
en los primeros terminos que el humano frecuenta.
Pero ya las estrellas ocultando paisajes,
senalan el esquema perfecto de sus orbitas.
La corriente del tiempo se remansa y ordena
en las formas numericas de un siglo y otro siglo.
Y la Muerte vencida se refugia temblando
en el circulo estrecho del minuto presente.
Al coger su paleta, con un tiro en un ala,
pides la luz que anima la copa del olivo.
Ancha luz de Minerva, constructora de andamios,
donde no cabe el sueno ni su flora inexacta.
I ts fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.
A rose serves them as compass on the seas.
The clean horizon of wounded handkerchiefs
conjoins the great windows of fish and moon.
A harsh crown of white brigs invests
bitter foreheads and shocks of sandy hair.
The sirens convince but make no suggestion,
and if we show them a glass of fresh water, they go.
0 Salvador Dali, your voice olive-dark!
1do not praise the adolescent imperfection of your brush
or your color which guards the color of your time,
but I commend your everlastingly circumscribed longings.
Hygienic mind, you live above new marble pillars.
You flee the dark wood of incredible forms.
Your imagination attains wherever your hands arrive,
you take pleasure from the sonnet of the sea at your window.
The world contains
voiceless partial shadows
and riot
in those foregrounds man frequents.
But concealing landscapes, the stars
now make known
the perfect diagram of their orbits.
The current of time eddies, arranges itself
in the numerical rituals of one century and another.
And Death, subdued, trembling takes shelter in
the narrow circle of the passing minute.
In picking up your palette with the aim of a wing,
you invoke the light which informs the
crown of the living olive.
Wide-flung light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
upon which is no room for the dream
nor for your inaccurate flora.
Pides la luz antigua que se queda en la frente,
sin bajar a la boca ni al corazon del hombre.
Luz que temen las vides entranables de Baco
y la fuerza sin orden que lleva el agua curva.
Haces bien en poner banderines de aviso,
en el li'mite oscuro que relumbra de noche.
Como pintor no quieres que te ablande la forma
el algodon cambiante de una nube imprevista.
El pez en el pecera y el pajaro en la jaula.
No quieres inventarlos en el mar o en el viento.
Estilizas o copias despues de haber mirado
con honestas pupilas sus cuerpecillos agiles.
Amas una materia definida y exacta
donde el hongo no pueda poner su campamento.
Amas la arquitectura que construye en lo ausente
y admites la bandera como una simple broma.
Dice el compas de acero su corto verso elastico
Desconocidas islas desmiente ya la esfera. v
Dice la linea recta su vertical esfuerzo
y los sabios cristales cantan sus geometrias.
Pero tambien la rosa del jardin donde vives.
i Siempre la rosa, siempre, norte y sur de nosotros!
Tranquila y concentrada como una estatua ciega,
ignorante de esfuerzos soterrados que causa.
Rosa pura que limpia de artificios y croquis
y nos abre las alas tenues de la sonrisa.
(Mariposa clavada que medita su vuelo.)
Rosa del equilibrio sin dolores buscados.
iSiempre la rosa!
You invoke the ancient light which rests on the forehead
not reaching down to the man's mouth or his heart.
Light which the innermost vines of Bacchus fear
and the masterless force that curving water has.
You do well, friend, to put in warning flags
on the dark border which glistens in the night.
As painter, you do not want the form to soften you,
the changing iridescent cotton of an unforseen cloud.
The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You do not wish to devise them in the sea or in the wind.
You stylize or you copy after having, with honest eyes,
looked at their small agile bodies.
You love a matter defined and exact, mushroom
may not pitch its tent there, you love
architecture which builds upon the absent and
you accept the banner with a simple joke.
The thud of steel recites its short resilient line.
Undiscovered islands now contradict the sphere.
The straight line
speaks its vertical power
and learned mirrors
sing their geometries.
But in the garden where you live, also the rose.
Always the rose, always, north and south of us!
Concentrated, quiet as a blind statue, not knowing the
subterranean forces which occasion it.
Pure rose,
it cleanses in rough drafts and craftsmanship
and opens to us the delicate wings of the smile.
(The butterfly mounted, contemplating its flight.)
Rose of equilibrium, not looking for pangs.
The rose, always!
jOh Salvador Dali, de voz aceitunada!
Digo lo que me dicen tu persona y tus cuadros.
No alabo tu imperfecto pincel adolescente,
pero canto la firme direccion de tus flechas.
Canto tu bello esfuerzo de luces catalanas,
tu amor a lo que tiene explicacion posible.
Canto tu corazon astronomico y tierno,
de baraja francesa y sin ninguna herida.
Canto el anisa de estatua que persigues sin tregua,
el miedo a la emocion que te aguarda en la calle.
Canto la sirenita de la mar que te canta
contada en bicicleta de corales y conchas.
Pero ante todo canto un comun pensamiento
que nos une en las horas oscuras y doradas.
No es el Arte la luz que nos ciega los ojos.
Es primero el amor, la amistad o la esgrima.
Es primero que el cuadro que paciente dibujas
el seno de Teresa, la de cutis insomne,
el apretado bucle de Matilde la ingrata,
nuestra amistad pintada como un juego de oca.
Huellas dactilograficas de sangre sobre el oro
rayen el corazon de Cataluna eterna.
Estrellas como punos sin halcon te relumbren,
mientras que tu pintura y tu vida florecen.
No mires la clepsidra con alas membranosas,
ni la dura guadana de las alegorias.
Viste y desnuda siempre tu pincel en el aire,
frente a la mar poblada con barcos y marinos.
0 Salvador Dali, your voice olive-dark!
1speak only what you and your canvases tell me. I
do not praise the adolescent imperfection of your brush,
but I sing the firm direction of your arrows.
I sing your beautiful spirit full of Catalan lights,
your love of what has possible explanation.
I sing your heart, astronomical and tender,
out of the French deck and with no tear whatsoever.
I sing the statue's longing you pursue without let,
fear for the emotion which awaits you in the street.
I sing the small siren of the sea who sings to you
from a bicycle of conch and coral.
But I sing above all a common thought which
unites us in dark or golden hours. Art
is not the light that blinds our eyes. It is
love first, or friendship, or fencing.
It is first that the painting you sketch so patiently,
Teresa's breast, she with the restless flesh,
the tight curl of ungrateful Matilda, it's our
friendship painted as a game of dice.
Typewriter tracks of blood set upon gold
underline the heart of Catalunya eternal.
Stars like fists without falcons make you glitter
while your painting and your life flower.
You may not see the hourglass
its membranous wings,
nor the hard scythe, tough with its allegories.
You saw it, and naked always, your brush in the air,
face to the sea,
peopled with boats,
the men who sail them.
Los Cuatro Muleros
1
De los cuatro muleros,
que van al campo,
el de la mula torda,
moreno y alto.
2
De los cuatro muleros,
que van al agua,
el de la mula torda,
me roba el alma.
3
De los cuatro muleros,
que van al rio;
el de la mula torda,
es mi mario.
4
A que buscas la lumbre
la calle arriba
si de tu cara sale
la brasa viva.
The Four Muleteers
Of those four men with mules
heading out to the fields,
the one with the dappled mule,
dark and tall.
Of those four men with mules
going down to water,
the one with the dappled mule
robbed my soul.
Of those four men with mules
heading down to the river,
the one with the dappled mule
is my husband.
Why do you borrow fire
in the street above,
when in your soot-streaked face
those coals live?
Madrigal de Verano
Agosto de 1920
(Vega de Zujaira)
Junta tu roja boca con la mia,
joh Estrella la gitana!
Bajo el oro solar del mediodia
mordere la manzana.
En el verde olivar de la colina,
hay una torre mora,
del color de tu carne campesina
que sabe a miel y aurora.
Me ofreces en tu cuerpo requemado,
el divino alimento
que da flores al cauce sosegado
y luceros al viento.
^Como a mi te entregaste, luz morena?
^Por que me diste llenos
de amor tu sexo de azucena
y el rumor de tus senos?
<;No fue por mi figura entristecida?
(jOh mis torpes andares!)
^Te dio lastima acaso de mi vida,
marchita de cantares? .
<;C6mo no has preferido a mis lamentos
los muslos sudorosos
de un San Cristobal campesino, lentos
en el amor y hermosos?
Madrigal de Verano
August, 1920
(Zujaira meadow)
That red mouth of yours, Estrella, gypsy,
bring it close to mine, I
will bite the apple
under this sungold noonday light!
There's a moorish tower
in the green olive grove on the hill, the color
of your country flesh it tastes
of honey & dawn.
Your flesh does, & you offer me
your doubly sunburnt body, the
holy food
makes flowers in the brookbed, quiet, blaze of
morning stars to the wind.
Tawny light,
why give yourself to me, why
give me your cunt full of lilies
& love &
the sound of your breasts moving?
Not because of my sorry figure, my
slow, lumpy walk?
My life maybe,
seared by songs
hurt you?
I nstead of my moaning, why
not prefer the
thighs of a San Cristobal peasant,
sweating & slow in love, & handsome?
Danaide del placer eres conmigo.
Femenino Silvano.
Huelen tus besos como huele el trigo
reseco del verano.
Enturbiame los ojos con tu canto.
Deja tu cabellera
extendida y solemne como un manto
de sombra en la pradera.
Pintame con tu boca ensangrentada
un cielo del amor,
en un fondo de carne la morada
estrella de dolor.
Mi pegaso andaluz esta cautivo
de tus ojos abiertos;
volara desolado y pensativo
cuando los vea muertos.
Y aunque no me quisieras te querria
por tu mirar sombrio,
como quiere la alondra al nuevo dia,
solo por el rodo.
Junta tu roja boca con la mia,
joh Estrella la gitana!
Dejame bajo el claro mediodia
consumir la manzana.
The first night
the Danaides killed their husbands, it's
like that, you goddess of woods, your
kisses smell like wheat when it's
dried by the summer.
Muddy my eyes with your song. Let
your hair fall, hang long & formal
as a cape spread, a shadow
upon the pasture.
Paint me with your blood-reddened
mouth a heaven of love, in
a depth of flesh the dark
star of pain.
My andalusian pegasus is
captive of your open eyes;
should he see them dead, his flight
would be sullen, desolate.
And should you not love me, I
would love you for your shadowed glance,
as lark loves the new day
for the dew alone.
Bring your red mouth close
to mine, Estrella, gypsy!
In the clear light of mid day
I will eat the apple. Let me!
Cancion con Movimiento
Ayer.
(Estrellas
azules.)
Manana.
(Estrellitas
blancas.)
Hoy.
Sueno flor adormecida
en el valle de la enagua.)
Ayer.
(Estrellas
de fuego.)
Manana.
(Estrellas
moradas.)
Hoy.
Este corazon, jDios mio!
jEste corazon que salta!
Ayer.
(Memoria
de estrellas.
Manana.
(Estrellas cerradas.)
Hoy . . .
(j Manana!)
^Me mareare quiza
sobre la barca?
jOh los puentes del Hoy
en el camino de agua!
Song with a Particular Movement
Yesterday.
(Stars
blue.)
Tomorrow.
(Little stars
white.)
Today.
(I dream of the flower sleeping
in the valley under the petticoat.)
Yesterday.
(Stars
of fire.)
Tomorrow.
(Purple
stars.)
Today.
This heart, O my Christ!
This heart of mine keeps jumping!
Yesterday.
(Remembering
stars.)
Tomorrow.
(Stars
thick, closed.)
Today . . .
(Tomorrow! )
I'll probaby get sick on the boat.
Today's bridges / on the road of water . . .
Balanza
La noche quieta siempre
El dia va y viene.
La noche muerta y alta.
El dia con un ala.
La noche sobre espejos
y el dia bajo el viento.
Balanza
The night, quiet, always.
The day goes & comes.
The night, tall & dead.
The day with a wing.
The night over a glass
& the day below the wind.
Cristo moreno
pasa
de lirio de Judea
a clavel de Espana.
jMiradlo por donde viene!
De Espana
Cielo limpio y oscuro,
tierra tostada,
y cauces donde corre
muy lenta el agua.
Critso moreno,
con las guedejas quemadas,
los pomulos salientes
y las pupilas blancas.
Saeta
jMiradlo por donde va!
Saeta
The dark Christ
walks from
the iris of Judea to
Spain's pink carnation.
Look there! He's coming!
Spain's
a clean dark sky,
parched land
& drains
where water
runs
very
slowly. .
The dark Christ
with scorched locks,
with protruding cheekbones,
the pupils of the eyes, white.
Look! There he goes!
Mar
Abril de 1919
El mar es
el Lucifer del azul.
El cielo caido
por querer ser la luz.
jPobre mar condenado
a eterno movimiento,
habiendo antes estado
quieto en el firmamento!
Pero de tu amargura
te redimio el amor.
Pariste a Venus pura,
y quedose tu hondura
virgen y sin dolor.
Tus tristezas son bellas,
mar de espasmos gloriosos.
Mas hoy en vez de estrellas
tienes pulpos verdosos.
Aguanta tu sufrir,
formidable Satan.
Cristo anduvo por ti,
mas tambien lo hizo Pan.
La estrella Venus es
la armonia del mundo.
jCalle el Eclesiastes!
Venus es lo profundo
del alma . . .
. . . Y el hombre miserable
es un angel caido.
La tierra es el probable
Paraiso perdido.
Sea
1919
The sea is
the Lucifer of blue.
The sky fallen
for wanting to be the light.
Poor sea! condemned
to eternal movement
having been before
a stillness in the firmament.
But from your bitterness
love redeemed you.
You brought forth Venus
without blemish
your depth diminished
without travail . virgin .
Your glooms are beautiful, sea,
your glorious spasms.
Besides, today, in place of stars
you have cuttlefish, viridescent.
Formidable Satan
suffers when you suffer.
Christ walked upon you, but
then, so did Pan.
The star Venus is
the world's harmony.
Calle el Eclesiastes!
Venus is the soul-depth of
the soul . . .
. . . And man, miserable, a
fallen angel.
And earth is the probable
paradise that was lost.
Nocturnos de la Ventana
A la memoria de Jose Ciria y Escalante, poeta
1
Alta va la luna.
Bajo corre el viento.
(Mis largas miradas
exploran el cielo.)
Luna sobre el agua.
Luna bajo el viento.
(Mis cortas miradas
exploran el suelo.)
Las voces de dos ninas
venian. Sin esfuerzo,
de la luna del agua
me fui a la del cielo.
2
Un brazo de la noche
entra por mi ventana.
Un gran brazo moreno
con pulseras de agua.
Sobre un cristal azul
jugaba al rio mi alma.
Los instantes heridos
por el reloj . . . pasaban.
Nocturnes: The Window
In memoriam Jose Ciria y Escalante, poet
1
The moon goes high.
The wind blows down.
(My long glances
search the sky.)
Moon over water.
Moon under the wind.
(My short glances
search the ground.)
Voices of 2 small girls
were coming. Powerless,
I went from the water's
moon to the sky's moon.
2
An arm of night enters
comes in thru my window.
A great brown arm
with bracelets of water.
Over a blue pool, my
soul played at the river.
And the seconds wounded
by the clock . . .were passing.
3
Asomo la cabeza
por mi ventana, y veo
como quiere cortarla
la cuchilla del viento.
En esta guillotina
invisible, yo he puesto
la cabeza sin ojos
de todos mis deseos.
Y un olor de limon
lleno el instante inmenso,
mientras se convertia
en flor de gasa el viento.
4
Al estanque se le ha muerto
hoy una nina de agua.
Esta fuera del estanque,
sobre el suelo amortajada.
De la cabeza a sus muslos
un pez la cruza, llamandola.
El viento le dice "nina"
mas no pueden despertarla.
El estanque tiene suelta
su cabellera de algas
y al aire sus grises tetas
estremecidas de ranas.
Dios te salve. Rezaremos
a Nuestra Senora de Agua
por la nina del estanque
muerta bajo las manzanas.
Yo luego pondre a su lado
dos pequenas calabazas
para que se tenga a flote,
jay! sobre la mar salada.
3
I shove my head out
my window and see
how the knife of wind
wants to cut it off.
Into this invisible
guillotine, I 've put
the eyeless head of
all my desires.
The smell of lemon
filled an immense second,
while the wind transformed
itself to a gauze blossom.
4
Today, in the reservoir,
a small girl died in the water.
She is out of the lake now,
sheeted and on the ground.
From her head to her thighs
a fish passes over, calling her.
The wind says it : "nina"
but cannot wake her.
The pool has loosened its hair
shocks of weed floating.
In the air, grey are its nipples
terrified, shaken by frogs.
God keep you. We shall
pray to Our Lady of Waters
for the small girl from the pool
dead under the appletrees.
I will put later
two small gourds beside her,
that she may keep herself afloat
hai! on the salt sea.
Anda Jaleo
Yo me subi a un pino verde
por ver si la divisaba
y solo divise el polvo
del coche que la llevaba.
Anda jaleo, jaleo;
ya se acabo el alboroto
y ahora empieza el tiroteo.
En la calle de los Muros
mataron a una paloma.
Yo cortare con mis manos,
las flores de su corona.
Anda jaleo, jaleo;
ya se acabo el alboroto
y ahora empieza el tiroteo.
No saigas, paloma, al campo,
mira que soy cazador
y si te tiro y te mato
para mi sera el dolor,
para mi sera el quebranto.
Anda jaleo, jaleo;
ya se acabo el alboroto
y ahora empieza el tiroteo.
Hit It!
(Anda Jaleo)
I climbed up
a green pine
to see what I could see
I saw the dust only &
the car that was raising it.
Go! I cry to the hounds, I cry;
already the shouting's finished.
Now the shooting starts.
In the calle de los Muros
they'll kill a dove.
With my hands I'll cut the
flowers for his crown.
Go! I cry to the hounds, I cry;
already the shouting's finished.
Now the shooting starts.
Dove, don't go to the country, recognize
that I am hunter,
& if I shoot & kill you,
mine the pain,
mine will be the loss.
Go! I cry to the hounds, I cry;
already the shouting's finished.
Now the shooting starts.
Los Reyes de la Baraja
Si tu madre quiere un rey,
la baraja tiene cuatro:
rey de oros, rey de copas,
rey de espadas, rey de bastos.
Corre que te pillo,
corre que te agarro,
mira que te lleno
la cara de barro.
Del olivo
me retiro,
del esparto
yo me aparto,
del sarmiento
me arrepiento
de haberte querido tanto.
Kings in the Deck
I f your mother wants a king
the deck of cards has 4 :
King of Coins, King of Cups,
King of Swords, King of Clubs.
Run, or I 'll grab you,
run or I 'll catch you,
look out or I'll stuff
mud in your mouth.
From the olive tree
I walk free.
From esparto grass
I shake ass,
& by the vine shoot
I regret
having wanted you so much.
Nana de Sevilla
Este galapaguito
no tiene mare;
lo pario una gitana,
lo echo a la calle.
No tiene mare, si;
no tiene mare, no;
no tiene mare,
lo echo a la calle.
Este nino chiquito
no tiene cuna;
su padre es carpintero
y le hara una.
Sevilla Slumber Song
This little scallawag
does not have a mother;
gypsy gave birth to him,
threw him in the street.
Has no mother, si,
has no mother, no,
ain't got no mother, she
threw him in the street.
This tiny fellow
does not have a cradle;
his father is a carpenter
& will make him one.
Huerto de Marzo
Mi manzano
tiene ya sombra y pajaros.
i Que brinco da mi sueno
de la luna al viento!
Mi manzano
da a lo verde sus brazos.
jDesde marzo, como veo
le frente blanca de enero!
Mi manzano . . .
(viento bajo).
Mi manzano . . .
(cielo alto).
Orchard in March
My apple tree
has shadow and birds already.
What a leap my sleep
takes from the moon to the wind!
My apple tree
gives its arms to greenness.
How, after March, January'
s white forehead I see!
My apple tree . . .
(low wind).
My apple tree . . .
(high sky).
La Monja Gitana
A Jose Moreno Villa
Silencio de cal y mirto.
Malvas en las hierbas finas.
La monja borda alheh'es
sobre una tela pajiza.
Vuelan en la arana gris,
siete pajaros del prisma.
La iglesia grune a lo lejos
como un oso panza arriba.
jQue bien borda! jCon que gracia
Sobre la tela pajiza,
ella quisiera bordar
flores de su fantasia.
jQue girasol! jQue magnolia
de lentejuelas y cintas!
jQue azafranes y que lunas,
en el mantel de la misa!
Cinco toronjas se endulzan
en la cercana cocina.
Las cinco llagas de Cristo
cortadas en Almeria.
Por los ojos de la monja
galopan dos caballistas.
Un rumor ultimo y sordo
le despega la camisa,
y al mirar nubes y montes
en las yertas lejanias,
se quiebn su corazon
de azucar y yerbaluisa.
j Oh!, que llanura empinada
con veinte soles arriba.
jQue rios puestos de pie
vislumbran su fantasia!
Pero sigue con sus flores,
mientras que de pie, en la brisa,
la luz juega el ajedrez
alto de la celosi'a.
For Jose Moreno Villa
Silence of lime & myrtle .
Mallows among delicate herbs .
The nun embroiders gilliflowers
on a straw-colored fabric .
7 birds in a prism
circle in the spider-grey .
The church grunts at the prospect
like a bear with a high stomach .
How well she embroiders! With what
On the straw-colored fabric she
wanted to embroider flowers out
of her fantasy . What
sunflower! What magnolia!
magnolia with spangles & ribbons!
What crocuses & moonflowers!
in the altar-cloth for the mass.
5 grapefruit are ripening
in the kitchen close by .
5 wounds of the Christ
cut open in Almeria.
Through the nun's eyes, a
pair of bandits gallop .
A rustling, final & thin,
escapes the starched fichu,
6 to see clouds & mountains
in the motionless distances,
the heart twists in itself
sugar & yerbaluisa . What
an exalted flatland, high
with 20 gold suns above it!
What rivers of foot-tracks
her mind caught glimmering of!
But she continues with her flowers .
Footloose in the breeze,
the lumina plays at chess
high on the window blind .
The Gypsy Nun
Cancion de las Siete Doncellas
(Teoria del arco iris)
Cantan las siete
doncellas.
(Sobre el cielo un arco
de ejemplos de ocaso.)
Alma con siete voces
las siete doncellas.
En el aire bianco,
siete largos pajaros.)
Mueren las siete
doncellas.
QPor que no han sido nueve?
<jPor que no han sido veinte?)
El rio las trae,
nadie puede verlas.
(A Theory to Explain Rainbows)
They sing
7 donzellas .
(Across the sky an arc
pattern for sunsets)
A soul with 7 voices, the
7 donzellas .
(In the white air
7 great birds)
The 7 donzellas die
(Why could they not be 9?
Why could they not be 20? !)
The river carries them
No one
can see them.
Song of the 7 Maidens
Eco
Ya se ha abierto
la flor de la aurora.
QRecuerdas
el fondo de la tarde?
El nardo de la luna
derrama su olor frio.
QRecuerdas
la mirada de agosto?)
Echo
Dawn's flower has already
opened itself
up.
(Remember?
the depths of the afternoon?
The spikenard of moon diffuses
its cold smell .
(Remember?
the long glance of August?)
Madrigalillo
Cuatro granados
tiene tu huerto.
(Toma mi corazon
nuevo.)
Cuatro cipreses
tendra tu huerto.
(Toma mi corazon
viejo.)
Sol y luna.
Luego . . .
i ni corazon
ni huerto!
Your orchard has
4 pomegranate trees .
(Take my new heart)
4 cypresses is what
your orchard will have .
(Take my old heart)
Sun and moon .
Then . . .
neither heart nor orchard!
Small Madrigal
Zarzamora con el tronco gris,
dame un racimo para mi.
Sangre y espinas. Acercate.
Si tu me quieres, yo te querre.
Deja tu fruto de verde y sombra
sobre mi lengua, zarzamora.
Que largo abrazo te daria
en la penumbra de mis espinas.
Zarzamora, ^donde vas?
A buscar amores que tu no me das.
[Zarzamora con el Tronco Gris]
Blackberry Bush
Blackberry, with the grey stem, give me
a handful of berries to eat.
Blood & thorns. Closer!
I f you love me, I 'll love you.
Leave on my tongue your
fruit of green & shadow, blackberry .
Just think
of the long hug I 'll give you with
in the partial shadow of my thorns .
Blackberry, where're you going?
To look for the loves you don't give
me.
[Galan]
Galan,
galancillo.
En tu casa queman tomillo.
Ni que vayas, ni que vengas,
con Have cierro la puerta.
Con Have de plata fina.
Atada con una cinta.
En la cinta hay un letrero:
"Mi corazon esta lejos."
No des vueltas en mi calle.
jDejasela toda al aire!
Galan,
galancillo.
En tu casa queman tomillo.
Ladies' Man
Lover,
little lover.
At your house they burn thyme & clover.
Tho you neither come in nor go out
I lock the door with a key.
With a key of fine silver
bound, laced with a ribbon.
On the ribbon a text:
"My heart is far from me."
You wouldn't take a turn around my block,
into my street. Go ahead!
Leave it all up in the air!
Lover,
little lover.
They burn thyme & clover at your house.
Cancion de Jinete
(1860)
En la-luna negra
de los bandoleros,
cantan las espuelas.
Caballito negro.
I Donde llevas tu jinete muerto?
. . . Las duras espuelas
del bandido inmovil
que perdio las riendas.
Caballito frio.
jQue perfume de fior de cuchillo!
En la luna negra
sangraba el costado
de Sierra Morena.
Caballito negro.
I Donde llevas tu jinete muerto?
La noche espolea
sus negros ijares
clavandose estrellas.
Caballito frio.
jQue perfume de flor de cuchillo!
En la luna negra,
i un grito! y el cuerno
largo de la hoguera.
Caballito negro.
I Donde llevas tu jinete muerto?
Cancion de Jinete
(1860)
In the black *
moon of the stirrups
the spurs sing.
Little black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?
The hard spurs
of the unmoving bandit who
lost the reins.
Cold little horse. What a
scent of the flower of a knife!
In the black moon
bloody were the spurs
of the Sierra Morena.
Little black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?
The night spurs
its black flanks
nailed with stars.
Cold little horse.
What a perfume of the flower of a knife
In the black moon
a yell! and the spur,
the long horn of the bonfire.
Little black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?
Cordoba.
Lejana y sola.
Jaca negra, luna grande,
y aceitunas en mi alforja.
Aunque sepa los caminos
yo nunca llegare a Cordoba.
Por el llano, por el viento,
jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me esta mirando
desde las torres de Cordoba.
i Ay que camino tan largo!
jAy mi jaca valerosa!
jAy que la muerte me espera,
antes de llegar a Cordoba!
Cordoba.
Lejana y sola.
Cancion de Jinete
Cordoba. Remote
and alone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Altho I know all the roads,
I will never arrive at Cordoba.
Over the plain, over the wind,
black pony, moon red.
Death is looking at me
down from the towers of Cordoba.
Ai! this road is long!
Ai! my valorous pony!
Ai! that Death awaits me
before I come to Cordoba!
Cordoba. Remote
and alone.
Cancion de Jinete
Es Verdad
jAy que trabajo me cuesta
quererte como te quiero!
Por tu amor me duele el aire,
el corazon
y el sombrero.
^Quien me compraria a mi,
este cintillo que tengo
y esta tristeza de hilo
bianco, para hacer panuelos?
jAy que trabajo me cuesta
quererte como te quiero!
Es Verdad
Ai, what work it costs me,
wanting you like I want you!
All on account of your love
the air
hurts me
my heart,
even my hat.
Who will buy it for me,
this hatband I 'm holding,
and this sorrow of linen,
white to make handkerchiefs?
Ai! what work it costs me,
wanting you like I want you.
Omega
(poema para muertos)
Las hierbas.
Yo me cortare la mano derecha.
Espera.
Las hierbas.
Tengo un guante de mercurio y otro de seda.
Espera.
jLas hierbas!
No solloces. Silencio, que no nos sientan.
Espera.
jLas hierbas!
Se cayeron las estatuas.
al abrirse la gran puerta.
j ; Las hierbaaas!!
Omega
(poem for the dead)
Herbs.
I 'll cut off my right hand.
Hold it.
The herbs.
I have one glove of mercury & the other of silk.
Hold it.
The herbs!
Don't blubber. Keep quiet, they won't sense us.
Hold it.
Herbs!
The statues fell
at the swinging wide of the great door.
The herrrbs!!
La Solea
Vestida con mantos negros
piensa que el mundo es chiquito
y el corazon es inmenso.
Vestida con mantos negros.
Piensa que el suspiro tiemo
y el grito, desaparecen
en la corriente del viento.
Vestida con mantos negros.
Se dejo el balcon abierto
y al alba por el balcon
desemboco todo el cielo.
jAy y ay ay ay ay,
que vestida con mantos negros!
Rigged out in black veils
she thinks the world is tiny
& that the heart is immense
BLACK VEILS
She thinks the delicate sigh
& the scream, will disappear
in the wind-flow
THOSE BLACK VEILS
Balcon was left open &
at dawn, the whole sky
rushed in at the balcony
The Recluse
MI GOD, WHAT A WAY TO DRESS!
BLACK VEI LS!
Sorpresa
Muerto se quedo en la calle
con un punal en el pecho.
No lo conocia nadie.
jComo temblaba el farol!
Madre.
jComo temblaba el farolito
de la calle!
Era madrugada. Nadie
pudo asomarse a sus ojos
abiertos al duro aire.
Que muerto se quedo en la calle
que con un punal en el pecho
y que no lo conocia nadie.
Surprise
The dead man lay in the street
with a knife in his chest.
No one knew who he was. How
the streetlamp trembled!
Madre.
How the little streetlamp trembled!
Between the night & the morning. No one
could lean over his eyes open on raw air.
How come
this dead man lies in the street, what?
with a knife in his chest, & that no
one should know who he was?
Cancion de le Muerte Pequena
Prado mortal de lunas
y sangre bajo tierra.
Prado de sangre vieja.
Luz de ayer y manana.
Cielo mortal de hierba.
Luz y noche de arena.
Me encontre con la muerte.
Prado mortal de tierra.
Una muerte pequena.
El perro en el tejado.
Sola mi mano izquierda
atravesaba montes sin fin
de flores secas.
Catedral de ceniza.
Luz y noche de arena. *
Una muerte pequena.
Una muerte y yo un hombre.
Un hombre solo, y ella
una muerte pequena.
Prado mortal de luna.
La nieve gime y tiembla
por detras de la puerta.
Un hombre, iy que? Lo dicho.
Un hombre solo y ella.
Prado, amor, luz y arena.
Song of the Small Dead Girl
Meadow of moons, mortal
& blood below the earth.
Meadow of old blood.
Yesterday's light & tomorrow's.
Sky of herbs, mortal.
Light & night of sand.
I found myself with the girl.
Mortal meadow of earth.
A small dead girl.
The dog in the shed.
My lonely left hand passed
over endless mountains
of dried flowers.
Cathedral of ashes.
Light & night of sand.
A small dead girl.
A dead girl & I, a man.
A man alone & her
a small dead girl.
Mortal meadow of moon.
Snow moans & trembles
outside the door.
A man & what? I said it.
A man alone & her.
Meadow & love,
light & sand.
Refran
Marzo
pasa volando.
Y Enero sigue tan alto.
Enero,
sigue en la noche del cielo.
Y abajo Marzo es un momento.
Enero.
Para mis ojos viejos.
Marzo.
Para mis frescas manos.
Saying
March
passes flying.
And January follows so high.
January,
follows in the night of the sky.
And below, March is a second.
January.
For my old eyes.
March.
For my fresh hands.
La mar no tiene naranjas,
ni Sevilla tiene amor.
Morena, que luz de fuego
Prestame tu quitasol.
Me pondra la cara verde
zumo de lima y limon
tus palabras pececillos
nadaran alrededor.
La mar no tiene naranjas.
Ay, amor.
iNi Sevilla tiene amor!
Adelina de Paseo
Saturday Paseo: Adelina
Oranges
do not grow in the sea
anymore than there's love in Sevilla.
Dark one, the sun's that hot, I'm-
loan me your parasol.
I'll wear my jealous expression,
all lemon & lime juice
your words,
sinful little words
will swim around it a bit.
Oranges
do not grow in the sea,
ay, love!
And there's no love in Sevilla!
Cazador
jAlto pinar!
Cuatro palomas por el aire van.
Cuatro palomas
vuelan y tornan.
Llevan heridas
sus cuatro sombras.
jBajo pinar!
Cuatro palomas en la tierra estan.
Hunter
High the pine grove!
Thru the air
4 pigeons.
4 pigeons turn
return. Their 4 shadows
carry wounds.
Low the pine grove!
On the ground
4 pigeons.
Fabula
Unicornios y ciclopes.
Cuemos de oro
y ojos verdes.
Sobre el acantilado,
en tropel gigantesco,
ilustran el azogue
sin cristal, del mar.
Unicornios y ciclopes.
Una pupila
y una potencia.
^Quien duda la eficacia
terrible de esos cuernos?
jOculta tus blancos,
Naturaleza!
Fable
Unicorns & cyclopes.
Gold horns
& green eyes.
On the sheer bluff
they illustrate
in a monstrous herd
quicksilver of the sea
no crystal.
Unicorns & cyclopes.
An eyeball
& a power.
Who is there doubts the terrible
efficacy of those horns?
World,
hide your targets!
[Agosto]
Agosto.
Contraponientes
de melocoton y azucar,
y el sol dentro de la tarde,
como el hueso en una fruta.
La panocha guarda intacta
su risa amarilla y dura.
Agosto.
Los ninos comen
pan moreno y rica luna.
[August]
August.
Counterpoints,
sugar & peach, and
the sun in the afternoon
like the pit in a fruit.
The com keeps intact
its smile, yellow, hard.
August.
The kids eat
dark bread, rich moon.
a mi ahijada I sabel Clara
La senorita
del abanico,
va por el puente
del fresco rio.
Los caballeros
con sus levitas,
miran el puente
sin barandillas.
La senorita
del abanico,
y los volantes,
busca marido.
Los caballeros
estan casados,
con altas rubias
de idioma bianco.
Los grillos cantan
por el Oeste.
(La senorita,
va por lo verde.)
Los grillos cantan
bajo las flores.
(Los caballeros,
van por el Norte.)
Cancion China en Europa
Chinese Song in Europe
for my goddaughter I sabel Clara
The young lady
with the fan
goes over the bridge
at the cool river.
The gentlemen
wearing smocks
look at the bridge
without handrails.
The young lady
with the fans & veils
is looking for
a husband.
The gentlemen
are married
to tall blondes
with white speech.
The crickets sing
in the west.
(The young lady
goes toward the green.)
The crickets sing
under the flowers.
(The gentlemen
go north.)
Cancioncilla Sevillana
a Solita Salinas
Amaneda
en el naranjel.
Abejitas de oro
buscaban la miel.
I Donde estara
la miel?
Esta en la flor azul,
Isabel.
En la flor,
del romero aquel.
(Sillita de oro
para el moro.
Silla de oropel
para su mujer.)
Amaneda
en el naranjel.
Small Song from Sevilla
for Solita Salinas
Daybreak
in the orange grove.
Little golden bees
were looking for honey.
Where will
the honey be?
In the blue flower,
I sabel.
In the flower of
the rosemary there.
(Little gold chair
for the moor.
Tinsel chair
for his wife.)
Dawn was breaking
in the orange grove.
a Natalita Jimenez
Me han traido una caracola.
Dentro le canta
un mar de mapa.
Mi corazon
se llena de agua
con pececillos
de sombra y plata.
Caracola
Me han traido una caracola.
Caracola
for Natalia Jimenez
They've brought me a shell.
It sings inside
a sea on a map.
My heart
fills up with water
with little fish
shadow & silver.
They've
brought me a shell.
Gacela del Amor Imprevisto
Nadie comprendia el perfume
de la oscura magnolia de tu vientre.
Nadie sabia que martirizabas
un colibri de amor entre los dientes.
Mil caballitos persas se dormian
en la plaza con luna de tu frente,
mientras que yo enlazaba cuatro noches
tu cintura, enemiga de la nieve.
Entre yeso y jazmines, tu mirada
era un palido ramo de simientes.
Yo busque, para darte, por mi pecho
las letras de marfil que dicen siempre,
siempre, siempre: jardin de mi agonia,
tu cuerpo fugitivo para siempre,
la sangre de tus venas en mi boca,
tu boca ya sin luz para mi muerte.
No one understood the fragrance
of your belly's dark magnolia.
No one knew you were martyring
a loving hummingbird between your teeth.
A 1000 persian horses were sleeping
in the plaza, with the moon of your forehead,
while for four nights I held
enemy of the snow, your waist.
Your glance between gypsum and jasmin,
between the white wall and the flowers,
was a pallid branch of seeds.
I searched about my chest to give you
the ivory letters reading siempre,
siempre, siempre: garden of my agony,
your fugitive body for always,
the blood of your veins in my mouth,
darkness of your mouth for my death.
Gacela of the Unexpected Love
Gacela de la Terrible Presencia
Yo quiero que el agua se quede sin cauce.
Yo quiero que el viento se quede sin valles.
Quiero que la noche se quede sin ojos
y mi corazon sin la flor del oro;
que los bueyes hablen con las grandes hojas
y que la lombriz se muera de sombra;
que brillen los dientes de la calavera
y los amarillos inunden la seda.
Puedo ver el duelo de la noche herida
luchando enroscada con el mediodia.
Resisto un ocaso de verde veneno
y los arcos rotos donde sufre el tiempo.
Pero no ilumines tu limpio desnudo
como un negro cactus abierto en los juncos.
Dejame en un ansia de oscuros planetas,
pero no me ensenes tu cintura fresca.
Gacela of the Awful Presence
I want the water to stay without pipes.
I want the wind to stay without valleys.
I want the night to remain without eyes
and my heart without the golden flower;
the oxen to talk with the big leaves,
and the worm to die from the shadow;
that the teeth glitter from the skull
and all yellows to flood over silk.
I can see the duel of night wounded,
struggling, twisted with midday.
I resist a west of green poison,
the broken arches under which the time suffers.
But do not show the light your clean nakedness,
a black cactus standing open in the garbage pits.
Quit me in the anxiety of dark planets, but do
not teach me the freshness of your waist.
No modern Spanish poet has so seduced
the English-speaking world as Federico
Garcia Lorca . . . . At once daring and
traditional, stark & explosive, his poetry
seems to hold vast worlds of violence
and sexuality in momentary, volatile
equilibrium . . . . In mingling his voice
with Lorca's, he (Blackburn) has done us
all a service.
Davi'd H. Rosenthal, Introduction
Blackburn's versions have an intelligence
& piquancy which immediately insure
the reader of being in expert hands . . .
probably the best Lorca in English.
Stephen Fredman, Chicago Quarterly
Drawings by Basil King
Momo's Press
$4.95