To die. . .To fall like a drop
of sea water into the immense sea?
Or to be what I have never been:
one man, without shadow, without dream,
a man alone, walking
with no road, with no mirror?
translated by Robert Bly
Spanish poet
from Proverbs and Tiny Songs 6 by Antonio Machado
You walking, your footprints are
the road, and nothing else;
there is no road, walker,
you made the road by walking.
By walking you make the road,
and when you look backward,
you see the path that you
never will step on again.
Walker, there is no road,
only wind-trails in the sea.
translated by Robert Bly
untitled poem 2 by Antonio Machado
Mankind owns four things
that are no good at sea:
rudder, anchor, oars,
and the fear of going down.
translated by Robert Bly
untitled poem by Antonio Machado
Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own road as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship’s wake on the sea.
translated by Mary G. Berg & Dennis Maloney
Last Night, As I Was Sleeping by Antonio Machado
Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt–marvellous error!–
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt–marvellous error!–
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt–marvellous error!–
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night, as I slept,
I dreamt–marvellous error!–
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
translated by Robert Bly
The Unmarried Woman At Mass by Federico Garcia Lorca
Beneath the Moses of the incense,
asleep.
Eyes of bulls were looking at you.
Your rosary was raining.
In that dress of deep silk,
do not move, Virginia.
Give the black melons of your breasts
to the whispers of the mass.
translated by Robert Bly
The Solea by Federico Garcia Lorca
Dressed in black mantles,
she thinks the world is tiny
and the heart immense.
Dressed in black mantles.
She thinks the loving sigh
and the cry disappear
on the currents of the wind.
Dressed in black mantles.
The balcony was left open
and at dawn the whole sky
emptied onto the balcony.
Ay yayayayay,
dressed in black mantles!
The Six Strings by Federico Garcia Lorca
The guitar
makes dreams weep.
The sobbing of lost
souls
escapes through its round
mouth.
And like the tarantula
it spins a large star
to trap the sighs
floating in its black,
wooden water tank.
translated by Carlos Bauer
Full Moon by Juan Ramon Jimenez
The door is open,
the cricket is singing.
Are you going around naked
in the fields?
Like an immortal water,
going in and out of everything.
Are you going around naked
in the air?
The basil is not asleep,
the ant is busy.
Are you going around naked
in the house?
translated by Robert Bly
The Guitar by Federico Garcia Lorca
The crying of the guitar
starts.
The goblets
of the dawn break.
The crying of the guitar
starts.
No use to stop it.
It is impossible
to stop it.
It cries repeating itself
as the water cries,
as the wind cries,
over the snow.
It is impossible
to stop it.
It is crying for things
far off.
The warm sand of the South
that asks for white camellias.
For the arrow with nothing to hit,
the evening with no dawn coming,
and the first bird of all dead
on the branch.
Guitar!
Heart wounded, gravely,
by five swords.
translated by Robert Bly
Leonard Durso 