Federico García Lorca
Twenty-Six Early Poems
‘Aloes and Prickly Pears, Tarragona, Spain’
Harry John Johnson, 1826–1884, British
Yale Center for British Art
Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2007, All Rights Reserved.
This work may be freely reproduced, stored and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. Conditions and Exceptions apply.
Please note that Federico García Lorca's original, Spanish works may not be in the public domain in all jurisdictions, notably the United States of America. Where the original works are not in the public domain, any required permissions should also be sought from the representatives of the Lorca estate, Casanovas & Lynch Agencia Literaria.
Contents
- Weather Vane
- New Songs
- The Footsteps of la Siguiriya
- Cellar Song
- Juan Breva
- Earth
- Berceuse for a Mirror sleeping
- Variation (From Remansos)
- Running
- Towards
- River Bend
- Flash of Light
- Madrigals
- The Garden
- Print of the Garden II
- Song of the Boy with Seven Hearts
- The Dune
- Schematic Nocturne
- Little Song of Seville
- Adelina Walking By
- Lover
- Venus
- Two Moons of Evening
- Lucía Martínez
- Little Song of First Desire
- Prelude
- Index of First Lines
Weather Vane
(July 1920, Fuente Vaqueros, Granada)
Wind of the South.
Dark-haired, ardent,
you come over my flesh
bringing me seed
of brilliant
gazes, soaked
in orange blossom.
You make the moon red
and make a sobbing
in the captive poplars, but you come
too late!
I’ve rolled up the night of my story
on the shelf!
Without any wind,
Look out!
Spin, heart;
spin, heart.
Breeze of the North,
white bear of the wind!,
you come over my flesh
trembling with auroras
boreales,
with your cloak
of spectral captains
and screaming with laughter
at Dante.
O polisher of stars!
But you come
too late.
My chest is covered with moss
and I’ve lost the key.
Without any wind,
Look out!
Spin, heart;
spin, heart.
Gnomish airs, and winds
from nowhere.
Mosquitoes of the rose
with pyramidal petals,
Trade winds weaned
among the rough trees,
flutes in the tempest,
leave me be!
Strong chains hold
my memory,
and the bird is captive
whose warbling draws
the evening.
The things that are gone never return,
all the world knows that,
and among the clear crowd of the winds
it’s useless to complain.
Isn’t that so, poplar, master of the breeze?
It’s useless to complain!
Without any wind,
Look out!
Spin, heart;
spin, heart.
New Songs
The afternoon speaks: ‘I am thirsty for shadows!’
The moon speaks: ‘I thirst for stars.’
The crystalline fountain asks for lips
and the wind for sighs.
I am thirsty for perfumes and laughter.
I thirst for new songs
without moons or irises,
and without loves that have died.
A song of the morning that might tremble
the quiet still pools
of the future. And fill with hope
their waves and mud.
A song, luminous and restful,
full of pensiveness,
innocent of miseries and anguish,
innocent of dream.
A song without lyric substance that fills
the silence with laughter.
(A flock of blind doves
thrown into mystery.)
A song that might go to the soul of things
and to the soul of the winds
and that might rest at last in the joy
of the eternal heart.
The Footsteps of la Siguiriya
Through black butterflies
goes a girl with dark hair
joined to a white serpent
of mistiness.
Earth of light,
Sky of Earth.
She goes tied to the trembling
of a rhythm that never arrives:
she has a heart of silver
and a dagger in her hand.
‘Where do you go, Siguiriya
with a mindless rhythm?
What moon will gather up your
grief of lime and oleander?
Earth of light,
Sky of Earth.
Note: La Siguiriya, is a gipsy song, a basic form of canto jondo, the ‘deep song’ of Andalusia. Its emotionally intense lyrics do not depend on rationality and are usually in four verse lines with assonant rhyme, and syllables 6-6-11-6.
Cellar Song
From the cellar issue
great sobs.
(The purple
above the red.)
The gypsy evokes
distant countries.
(High towers and men
of mystery.)
On his faltering voice
his eyes travel.
(The black
above the red.)
And the whitewashed cellar
trembles in gold.
(The white
above the red.)
Juan Breva
(From: Flamenco Vignettes, for Manuel Torres)
Juan Breva had
the body of a giant
and the voice of a young girl.
Nothing was like his warbling.
It was itself
pain singing
behind a smile.
He evoked the lemons
of Málaga, the sleepy one,
and had in his weeping tones
the brine of the ocean.
Like Homer, he sang
blind. His voice held
something of sea with no light
and an orange squeezed dry.
Earth
We travel
over a mirror
without silver,
over a crystal
without cloud.
If the lilies were to grow
upside down,
is the roses were to grow
upside down,
if all the roots
were to face the stars
and the dead not shut
their eyes,
we would be like swans.
Berceuse for a Mirror sleeping
Sleep.
Do not fear the gaze
that wanders.
Sleep.
Not the butterfly
or the word
or the furtive ray
from the keyhole
will hurt you.
Sleep.
As my heart
so you,
mirror of mine.
Garden where love
awaits me.
Sleep without a care,
but wake
when the last one dies
the kiss on my lips.
Note: A berceuse is a French cradle-song.
Variation (From Remansos)
The remanso of air
under the branch of echo.
The remanso of water
under a frond of stars.
The remanso of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses.
Note: A remanso is a still pool in a running stream.
Running
That which travels
clouds itself.
The running water
can see no stars.
That which travels
forgets itself.
And that which halts itself
dreams.
Towards
Turn,
Heart!
Turn.
Through the woods of love
you will see no one.
You will pour out bright fountains.
In the green
you will find the immense rose
of Always.
And you will say: ‘Love! Love!
without your wound
being closed.
Turn,
Heart!
Turn.
River Bend
I want to return to childhood
and from childhood to the shadows.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want to return to the shadows,
and from the shadows to the flower.
Are you going, fragrance?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you going, love?
Farewell!
(To my abandoned heart!)
Flash of Light
She passes by, my girl.
How prettily she goes by!
With her little dress
of muslin.
And a captive
butterfly.
Follow her, my boy, then
up every byway!
And if you see her weeping
or weighing things up, then
paint her heart over
with a bit of purple
and tell her not to weep if
she were left single.
Madrigals
I
Like concentric ripples
over the water,
so in my heart
your words.
Like a bird that strikes
against the wind,
so on my lips
your kisses.
Like exposed fountains
opposing the evening,
so my dark eyes
over your flesh.
II
I am caught
in your circles,
concentric.
Like Saturn
I wear
the rings
of my dream.
I am not ruined by setting
nor do I rise myself.
The Garden
Never born, never!
But could come into bud.
Every second it
is deepened and renewed.
Every second opens
new distinct pathways.
This way! That way!
Go my multiplying bodies.
Traversing the villages
or sleeping in the sea.
Everything is open! There are
locks for the keys.
But the sun and moon
lose us and mislead us.
And beneath our feet
the roadways are confused.
Here I’ll contemplate
all I could have been.
God or beggar,
water or ancient pearl.
My many pathways
lightly tinted
make a vast rose
round my body.
Like a map, but impossible,
the garden of the possible.
Every second it
is deepened and renewed.
Never born, never!
But could come into bud.
Print of the Garden II
The Moon widow
who could forget her?
Dreaming that Earth
might be crystal.
Furious and pallid
wishing the sea to sleep
combing her long hair
with cries of coral.
Her tresses of glass
who could forget them?
In her breast the hundred
lips of a fountain.
Spears of giant
surges guard her
by the still waves
of sea-flats.
But the Moon Moon
when will she return?
The curtain of wind
trembles without ceasing.
The Moon widow
who could forget her?
Dreaming that Earth
might be crystal.
Song of the Boy with Seven Hearts
Seven hearts
I hold.
But mine does not encounter them.
In the high mountains, mother,
the wind and I ran into each other.
Seven young girls with long fingers
carried me on their mirrors.
I have sung through the world
with my mouth of seven petals.
My galleys of amaranth
have gone without ropes or oars.
I have lived in the lands
of others, My secrets
round my throat,
without my realising it, were open!
In the high mountains, mother,
(my heart above the echoes
in the album of a star)
the wind and I ran into each other.
Seven hearts
I hold.
But mine does not encounter them.
The Dune
On the wide sand-dune
of ancient light
I found myself confused
without a sky or road.
The moribund North
had quenched its stars.
The shipwrecked skies
rippled slowly.
Through the sea of light
where do I go? Whom do I seek?
Here the reflection wails
of veiled moons.
Ay! Let my cool sliver
of solid timber
return me to my balcony
and my living birds!
The garden will follow
shifting its borders
on the rough back
of a grounded silence.
Schematic Nocturne
The fennel, a serpent, and rushes.
Aroma, a sign, and penumbra.
Air, earth, and solitariness.
(The ladder lifts up to the moon.)
Little Song of Seville
At the dawn of day
in the orange grove.
Little bees of gold
searching for honey.
Where is the honey
then?
It’s in the flower of blue,
Isabel.
In the flower
there, of rosemary.
(A little gold chair
for the Moor.
A tinsel chair
for his spouse.)
At the dawn of day
in the orange grove.
Adelina Walking By
The sea has no oranges,
Sevilla has no love.
Dark-haired girl, what fiery light.
Lend me your parasol.
It will give me green cheeks
- juice of lime and lemon -
Your words – little fishes –
will swim all around us.
The sea has no oranges.
Ay, love.
Sevilla has no love!
Lover
Lover,
little lover.
In your house they’re burning thyme.
Whether you’re going, whether you’re coming,
I will lock the door with a key.
With a key of pure silver.
Tied up with a ribbon.
On the ribbon there’s a message:
My heart is far away.
Don’t pace up and down my street.
All that’s allowed there is the wind!
Lover,
little lover.
In your house they’re burning thyme.
Venus
(So I saw you)
The young girl dead
in the seashell of the bed,
naked of flowers and breezes
rose in the light unending.
The world was left behind,
lily of cotton and shadows,
revealing in crystal panes
the infinite transit’s coming.
The young girl dead,
ploughed love inside.
Among the foaming sheets
her hair was wasted.
Two Moons of Evening
I
(For Laurita, friend of my sister)
The Moon is dying, dying:
but will be born again in the spring.
When on the brow of the poplars
is curled the wind from the south.
When our hearts have given
their harvest of sighing.
When the rooftops are wearing
their little sombreros of weeds.
The moon is dying, dying:
but will be reborn in the spring.
II
((For Isabelita, my sister)
The evening is chanting
a berceuse to the oranges.
My little sister’s chanting:
the Earth is an orange.
The moon weeping cries:
I want to be an orange.
You cannot be, my child,
even if you were reddened.
Not even if you turned lemon.
What a shame that is!
Note: A berceuse is a French cradle-song.
Lucía Martínez
Lucía Martínez.
Shadowy in red silk.
Your thighs, like the evening,
go from light to shadow.
The hidden veins of jet
darken your magnolias.
Here I am, Lucía Martínez.
I come to devour your mouth
and drag you off by the hair
into the dawn of conches.
Because I want to, because I can.
Shadowy in red silk.
Little Song of First Desire
In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
Heart.
And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
go the colour of oranges.
Soul
go the colour of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
And at evening’s fall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul
go the colour of oranges.
Soul,
go the colour of love!
Prelude
(From Amor: with wings and arrows)
The poplar groves are going,
but leave us their reflection.
The poplar groves are going,
but leave us the breeze.
The breeze is shrouded
full length below the heavens.
But it has left there, floating,
its echoes on the rivers.
The world of the glow-worms
has pierced my memories.
And the tiniest of hearts
buds from my fingertips.
Index of First Lines
- Wind of the South.
- The afternoon speaks: ‘I am thirsty for shadows!’
- Through black butterflies
- From the cellar issue
- Juan Breva had
- We travel
- Sleep.
- The remanso of air
- That which travels
- Turn,
- I want to return to childhood
- She passes by, my girl.
- Like concentric ripples
- Never born, never!
- The Moon widow
- Seven hearts
- On the wide sand-dune
- The fennel, a serpent, and rushes.
- At the dawn of day
- The sea has no oranges,
- Lover,
- The young girl dead
- The Moon is dying, dying:
- Lucía Martínez.
- In the green morning
- The poplar groves are going,