Federico Garcia Lorca

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Federico Garcia Lorca Saturday Paseo: Adelina Oranges do not grow in the sea neither is there love in Sevilla. You in Dark and the I the sun that's hot, loan me your parasol. I'll wear my jealous reflection, juice of lemon and lime and your words, your sinful little wordswill swim around awhile. Oranges do not grow in the sea, Ay, love! And there is no love in Sevilla! Lament for the Death of Ignacio Sánchez Mejías Translated from Spanish by Pablo Medina an excerpt Up the bleachers goes Ignacio with death on his shoulders. He looks for dawn and it isn’t dawn. He looks for his sensible profile and sleep confuses him. He looks for his beautiful body and finds his open blood. Don’t ask me to see it! I don’t want to feel the spurt growing weaker by the moment, the spurt that illumines the seats and spills on the hide of the thirsty crowd. Who orders me to look! Don’t make me see it! His eyes didn’t close when he saw the horns approach, but the terrible mothers raised their heads and all through the cattle ranches there was an air of secret orders thrown to celestial bulls by the foremen of pale mists. There wasn’t a prince in Seville who could compare, no sword like his sword nor a heart so real. His strength was a river of lions, his prudence a torso of marble. An air of Andalusian Rome gilded his head where his smile was a rose of salt and intelligence. The great fighter of bulls! The good mountaineer of the mountain! How soft with the wheat stalk! How hard with his spurs! How tender with the dew! How dazzling in the fair! How grand with the last banderillas of dusk! But now he sleeps forever. Now the grass and the moss open with sure fingers the flower of his skull. And his blood comes singing: singing through marshes and prairies, sliding down shivering horns, wandering soulless in fog, stumbling on thousands of hoofs like a long, dark, sorrowful tongue to form a puddle of agony by the Guadalquivir of the stars. Oh white wall of Spain! Oh black bull of sorrow! Oh hard blood of Ignacio! Oh nightingale of his veins! No. I don’t want to see it! There is no chalice to hold it. There are no swallows that drink it, no frost of light to cool it, no song or deluge of lilies, no crystal to bathe it in silver. No. I don’t want to see it! Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint Never let me lose the marvel of your statue eyes or the accent that by night the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek. I’m afraid to be on this shore a trunk without limbs, and what I most regret is not to have flower, pulp or clay for the worm of my suffering. If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross and my wet sorrow, if I am the dog of your dominion, do not let me lose what I have won and adorn the waters of your river with leaves of my alienated autumn. Night of Sleepless Love The night rose with its moon full above. I began to mourn, and you laughed with contempt. Your scorn was a god, and my poor lament was a momentary, shackled dove. The night fell. You became a crystal of hurt, weeping for distances slowly deepening. My sadness, like a crowd of sores, came creeping across your sickened heart of dirt. But dawn joined our bodies on the bed and with frozen lips pried wide apart we drank the endless blood we’d shed. And through the shutters, I saw sunrise start. And the coral of life, with its branches spread, arched high above my shrouded heart. Federico García Lorca Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2013

Saturday Paseo: Adelina

Oranges
do not grow in the sea
neither is there love in Sevilla.
You in Dark and the I the sun that's hot,
loan me your parasol.
I'll wear my jealous reflection,
juice of lemon and lime and your words,
your sinful little wordswill swim around awhile.
Oranges
do not grow in the sea,
Ay, love!
And there is no love in Sevilla!

Lament for the Death of Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

Translated from Spanish by Pablo Medina
an excerpt

Up the bleachers goes Ignacio
with death on his shoulders.
He looks for dawn
and it isn’t dawn.
He looks for his sensible profile
and sleep confuses him.
He looks for his beautiful body
and finds his open blood.
Don’t ask me to see it!
I don’t want to feel the spurt
growing weaker by the moment,
the spurt that illumines
the seats and spills
on the hide of the thirsty crowd.
Who orders me to look!
Don’t make me see it!

His eyes didn’t close
when he saw the horns approach,
but the terrible mothers
raised their heads
and all through the cattle ranches
there was an air of secret orders
thrown to celestial bulls
by the foremen of pale mists.
There wasn’t a prince in Seville
who could compare,
no sword like his sword
nor a heart so real.
His strength was a river of lions,
his prudence a torso of marble.
An air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a rose
of salt and intelligence.
The great fighter of bulls!
The good mountaineer of the mountain!
How soft with the wheat stalk!
How hard with his spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling in the fair!
How grand with the last
banderillas of dusk!

But now he sleeps forever.
Now the grass and the moss
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And his blood comes singing:
singing through marshes and prairies,
sliding down shivering horns,
wandering soulless in fog,
stumbling on thousands of hoofs
like a long, dark, sorrowful tongue
to form a puddle of agony
by the Guadalquivir of the stars.
Oh white wall of Spain!
Oh black bull of sorrow!
Oh hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh nightingale of his veins!
No.
I don’t want to see it!
There is no chalice to hold it.
There are no swallows that drink it,
no frost of light to cool it,
no song or deluge of lilies,
no crystal to bathe it in silver.
No.
I don’t want to see it!

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue eyes or the accent
that by night the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek.
I’m afraid to be on this shore
a trunk without limbs, and what I most regret
is not to have flower, pulp or clay
for the worm of my suffering.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross and my wet sorrow,
if I am the dog of your dominion,
do not let me lose what I have won
and adorn the waters of your river
with leaves of my alienated autumn.

Night of Sleepless Love

The night rose with its moon full above.
I began to mourn, and you laughed with contempt.
Your scorn was a god, and my poor lament
was a momentary, shackled dove.
The night fell. You became a crystal of hurt,
weeping for distances slowly deepening.
My sadness, like a crowd of sores, came creeping
across your sickened heart of dirt.
But dawn joined our bodies on the bed
and with frozen lips pried wide apart
we drank the endless blood we’d shed.
And through the shutters, I saw sunrise start.
And the coral of life, with its branches spread,
arched high above my shrouded heart.
Federico García Lorca

Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2013