Barcelona – One of Spain’s famous poets is Federico Garcia Lorca. I must admit that I have never really known Lorca until I came to Spain six years ago. So to educate myself and avoid being left out in the crowd, I decided to immerse myself into Lorcadom.
Lorca was a dramatist and a theaterdirector. But he was also into poetry. His drama works include La Casa de Bernarda Alba (The House of Bernarda Alba) and Bodas de Sangre (Blood Weddings). Lorca fell in love with Salvador Dali and later on with Emilio Aladren. But all these fell into disgrace when these men got married. Lorca’s family advised him to go to New York, where he studied in Columbia University for awhile.
The New York dawn has
four columns of mud
and a hurricane of black doves
that paddle in putrescent waters.
The New York dawn grieves
along the immense stairways,
seeking amidst the groins
spikenards of fine-drawn anguish.
The dawn comes and no one receives it in his mouth,
for there no morn or hope is possible.
Occasionally, coins in furious swarms
perforate and devour abandoned children.
The first to come out understand in their bones
that there will be no paradise nor amours stripped of leaves:
they know they are going to the mud of figures and laws,
to artless games, to fruitless sweat.
The light is buried under chains and noises
in impudent challenge of rootless science.
Through the suburbs sleepless people stagger,
as though just delivered from a shipwreck of blood.
Breaking dawn in New York.
The Interrupted Concert
The frozen sleepy pause
of the half moon
has broken the harmony
of the deep night.
The ditches, shrouded in sedge,
protest in silence,
and the frogs, muezzins of shadow,
have fallen silent.
In the old village inn
the sad music has ceased,
and the most ancient of stars
has muted its ray.
The wind has come to rest
in dark mountain caves,
and a solitary poplar—Pythagoras
of the pure plain—
lifts its aged hand
to strike at the moon.
The concert of candle lights in El Escorial.