Spanish poetry

The Solea by Federico Garcia Lorca

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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 Guitar by Federico Garcia Lorca

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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

Casida Of The Rose by Federico Garcia Lorca

/ zdunno03 / 6 Comments

The rose
was not searching for the sunrise:
almost eternal on its branch,
it was searching for something else.

The rose
was not searching for darkness or science:
borderline of flesh and dream,
it was searching for something else.

The rose
was not searching for the rose.
Motionless in the sky
it was searching for something else.

translated by Robert Bly

With Her by Pablo Neruda

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This time is difficult. Wait for me.
We will live it out vividly.
Give me your small hand:
we will rise and suffer,
we will feel, we will rejoice.

We are once more the pair
who live in bristling places,
in harsh nests in the rock.
This time is difficult. Wait for me
with a basket, with a shovel,
with your shoes and your clothes.

Now we need each other,
not only for the carnations’ sake,
not only to look for honey–
we need our hands
to wash with, to make fire.
So let our difficult time
stand up to infinity
with four hands and four eyes.