"Satyrs at Play" - aediculaantinoi.wordpress.com: HADRIAN and ANTINOUS finally release their embrace, and notice DIONYSOS
Monday, February 24, 2014
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Friday, December 27, 2013
The Worshiper of The Lost Sword: Yukio Mishima
Yukio Mishima - GSI | Videos tagged “yukio mishima”
Yukio Mishima in the pose of Saint Sebastian
The Passion - by ALEX CARNEVALE
Yukio Mishima as Sebastian by Hirominya
Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters
Confessions of a Mask, a semi-autobiographical account of a young homosexual who must hide behind a mask in order to fit into society
Yukio Mishima by Mark Richfield
Mishima with sword in a landscape of winter: With a flaming heart, ready to fight in snow and ice. This ancient, traditional pose was preferred by the Samurai.
Yukio Mishima by Reign-of-Phoebus
Vogues like Madonna. Knows how to put his best assets forward with coquettish flair. Strike the pose, Yukio. You’re too sexy for your shirt. Did he pose in front of a mirror while writing his fevered sex scenes? It would have worked for me.
Yukio Mishima Poster By Fabrizio Cassetta
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Abu Nuwas: In the Bath-House | Mike Nova: The Mystery
Abu Nuwas (ca. 756-ca. 810)
In the bath-house, the mysteries concealed by trousers
Are revealed to you.
All becomes radiantly manifest.
Feast your eyes without restraint!
You see handsome butts and shapely trim chests,
You hear the murmuring of pious formulas,
One lad to another:
"God is Great!" "Praise be to God!"
Ah, what a palace of pleasure is the bath-house!
Even when the towel-bearers come in
And spoil the fun a bit.
_______________________________
The Mystery
In the baths at St. Mark's Place
Where the deadly particles spread
So easily, so eager, so readily,
So ecstatic, so indiscriminately, so sick,
So beautiful, so erotic, so upper class gutter,
So animalistic, so true,
So incredibly pathological,
So fucking sexy -
I could not stand it
And run away,
And stayed alive,
So strangely so,
I cannot stand it,
And all of them died,
Perished,
For a minute of pleasure.
And so they mixed,
Like the wildfire of sex and death,
For the sake of this most mysterious mixing:
The most social animals humans are,
At the price of death,
As always.
And so
I could not stand it
And I run away
In anger, pain, fear, rage;
From all those hands
So willing to touch,
To comfort, to give.
I did run away,
They stayed.
With mystery buried
And revived, and buried forever,
And revived again:
The flock of the feather,
In life and death.
The mystery wrapped tightly in snow white towels,
So visible, so seductive,
So innocent, so simple,
So magic.
So eternal - I cannot stand it;
The heart of all mysteries.
Send a telegram to whoever,
To the most higher-ups;
I want them to know this:
This is The Mystery.
"Concealed by trousers"...
What a horrible translation!
Just The Mystery:
I could never figure it out,
And no one will.
No one will.
M.N.
Monday, December 2, 2013
The House of Garcia Lorca or Variations on Symphony Number Fourteen | "Broad's body, white boobs, white thighs, - Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos," - Selected Spanish Lyric Poetry in Mike Nova's Translations
Last Update on 12.2.13
POEMA 1
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.
Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava
y hace saltar el hijo del fondo de la tierra
Fui solo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros
y en mí la noche entraba su invasión poderosa.
Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.
Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y te amo.
Cuerpo de piel, de musgo, de leche ávida y firme.
Ah los vasos del pecho! Ah los ojos de ausencia!
Ah las rosas del pubis! Ah tu voz lenta y triste!
Cuerpo de mujer mía, persistirá en tu gracia.
Mi sed, mi ansia sin límite, mi camino indeciso!
Oscuros cauces donde la sed eterna sigue,
y la fatiga sigue, y el dolor infinito.
-Mike Nova's translation:
Broad's body, white boobs, white thighs,
You are my world surrendering to me.
My peasant savage body is beneath you,
It makes the sun burst from the depths of earth
Alone like tunnel, by the birds abandoned,
Wrapped in the night, crushed by invading pangs.
To stay alive I forged you as a weapon,
My arrow's bow, my rocks' delicious sling.
But payback time then comes, and I do love you.
The skin, the moss, the milk; the flesh so eager, so firm.
Ah, heavy breath! Ah, absence in the eyes!
Ah, pubic roses! Ah, your voice, melancholy and slow!
My woman's body will be graced forever
By thirst of mine, by no-limits wants, by all my waits!
This thirst eternal runs the rivers dry,
Into exhaustion runs it, into endless ache.
-
Google Translation
POEM 1
Body of woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My savage peasant body undermines you
and makes the son leap from the depths of the earth
I was alone like a tunnel. Birds fled from me
, and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.
But falls payback time, and I love you.
Corps of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
vessels chest Ah! Oh the eyes of absence!
Ah the roses of the pubis! Ah your voice slow and sad!
Body of my woman, persist in your grace.
My thirst, my desire without limit, my hesitant way!
Dark channels where the eternal thirst follows,
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.
-
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Poetry of Pablo Neruda - CopperCanyonPress.org
www.coppercanyonpress.org/Neruda
Bilingual Translations Available Browse Our Selection Online
Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda - GS
Pablo Neruda - GS
Pablo Neruda - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Neruda
Pablo Neruda was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet, diplomat and politician Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. He chose his pen name ...
Pablo Neruda poems on love and friendship translations
XVII (I do not love you...)
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Translated by Stephen Tapscott
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Translated by Stephen Tapscott
Anonymous Submission
-
Pablo Neruda
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda - PoemHunter.Com
www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xvii/
Jan 3, 2003 - Sonnet XVII - by Pablo Neruda. I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as ...
One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII by Pablo Neruda : The Poetry ...
www.poetryfoundation.org › Poems & Poets
I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, / or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: / I love you as one loves certain obscure things, / secretly, between ...
SONETO XVII - Cien sonetos de amor (1959) Mañana
www.poesi.as/pn59017.htm
Translate this pagePablo Neruda, 1959. No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio. ... SONETO XVII. No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que ...
SONETO XVII
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
Google Translation:
SONNET XVII
Do not love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that does not bloom and carries
within himself, hidden, the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
within himself, hidden, the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you and because I do not know love otherwise
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you and because I do not know love otherwise
well but this way I am not, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
-
Images for rosa de sal
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No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
www.poesi.as/pn59017.htm
Translate this pageSONETO XVII. No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
¿que quiere decir este poema de pablo neruda... es urgente ...
Oct 8, 2008 - No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio. O flecha de clavees que propagan el fuego, Te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
Cien sonetos de amor - Poemas de Pablo Neruda
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, entre la ...
37 XVII: No te amo como si fueras rosa / I don't love you ... - Red Poppy
www.redpoppy.net/poem37.php
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, entre la ...
100 sonetos de amor - Soneto XVII Bilingual Parallel Text - Texto ...
albalearning.com/audiolibros/.../soneto017-sp-en.html
Translate this pageNo te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, entre la ...
Pablo Neruda: No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal - YouTube
www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjN7U4ysvwM
Feb 20, 2011 - Uploaded by Uno SettequattrocinquePablo Neruda: No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal. Uno Settequattrocinque·10 videos ...
NO TE AMO COMO SI FUERAS ROSA DE SAL, TOPACIO - YouTube
www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlEGRj1lQbI
Sep 23, 2008 - Uploaded by jacpoe3NO TE AMO COMO SI FUERAS ROSA DE SAL, TOPACIO - YouTube. Subscribe 597. All Comments ...
Pablo Neruda - No te amo como si fueras rosa del sal LOVE ME ...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyng2xKZ2lI
Apr 24, 2013 - Uploaded by Steffany Jamalle HannaPablo Neruda - No te amo como si fueras rosa del sal ♥ ♥AMOR € POESIA ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥spañol traducidos al inglés 15 de ...
Cien Sonetos de Amor de Pablo Neruda - Poetheart poetry pages
poetheart.com/poetry/admire/lovesonnetc.shtml
(Original Spanish) No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de chaveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
Pablo Neruda - Discussion » SpanishPod
spanishpod.com/lessons/pablo-neruda
Translate this pageSep 25, 2008 - No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: / I don't love you as if you were rose salt, topaz or ...
- - -
Quote by Pablo Neruda: Sonnet XVII I do not love you as if you were ...
www.goodreads.com/.../121705-sonnet-xvii-i-do-not-love-you-as-if-you
Pablo Neruda — 'Sonnet XVIII do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.I love you as certain ...
Neruda, Pablo Postcolonial Studies @ Emory
postcolonialstudies.emory.edu/pablo-neruda/
Sonnet XVII (100 Love Sonnets, 1960). I don't love you ... Pablo Neruda was born Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto in Parral, Chile on July 12, 1904. His mother ...
Sonnet XVII – Pablo Neruda: Patch Adams | pocketful of poesy
pocketfulofpoesy.wordpress.com/.../sonnet-xvii-pablo-neruda-patch-ada...
Apr 5, 2013 - Another beautiful sonnet by another wonderful poet was read to us in the film Patch Adams, the true-story of Dr. Hunter "Patch" Adams.
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (Spanish: Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada)
is a collection of romantic poems by the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, first published in 1924 when Neruda
was 19. It was Neruda's second published work, and made his name as a poet.
Veinte poemas was controversial for its eroticism, especially considering its author's very young age.
Over the decades, Veinte poemas has become Neruda's best-known work, and has sold more than
a million copies. [1] The book has been translated into many languages; in English, the translation
was made by poet W. S. Merwin.
See also[edit]
References[edit]
-
Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada - Poema 1
Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada
Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada
Poema 1
Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.
Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava
y hace saltar el hijo del fondo de la tierra.
Fui solo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros
y en mí la noche entraba su invasión poderosa.
Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.
Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y te amo.
Cuerpo de piel, de musgo, de leche ávida y firme.
Ah los vasos del pecho! Ah los ojos de ausencia!
Ah las rosas del pubis! Ah tu voz lenta y triste!
Cuerpo de mujer mía, persistirá en tu gracia.
Mi sed, mi ansia sin limite, mi camino indeciso!
Oscuros cauces donde la sed eterna sigue,
y la fatiga sigue, y el dolor infinito.
Poema 2
En su llama mortal la luz te envuelve.
Absorta, pálida doliente, así situada
contra las viejas hélices del crepúsculo
que en torno a ti da vueltas.
Muda, mi amiga,
sola en lo solitario de esta hora de muertes
y llena de las vidas del fuego,
pura heredera del día destruido.
Del sol cae un racimo en tu vestido oscuro.
De la noche las grandes raíces
crecen de súbito desde tu alma,
y a lo exterior regresan las cosas en ti ocultas.
de modo que un pueblo pálido y azul
de ti recién nacido se alimenta.
Oh grandiosa y fecunda y magnética esclava
círculo que en negro y dorado sucede:
erguida, trata y logra una creación tan viva
que sucumben sus flores, y llena es de tristeza.
Poema 3
Ah vastedad de pinos, rumor de olas quebrándose,
lento juego de luces, campana solitaria,
crepúsculo cayendo en tus ojos, muñeca,
caracola terrestre, en ti la tierra canta!
En ti los ríos cantan y mi alma en ellos huye
como tú lo desees y hacia donde tú quieras.
Márcame mi camino en tu arco de esperanza
y soltaré en delirio mi bandada de flechas.
En torno a mí estoy viendo tu cintura de niebla
y tu silencio acosa mis horas perseguidas,
y eres tú con tus brazos de piedra transparente
donde mis besos anclan y mi húmeda ansia anida.
Ah tu voz misteriosa que el amor tiñe y dobla
en el atardecer resonante y muriendo!
Así en horas profundas sobre los campos he visto
doblarse las espigas en la boca del viento.
Poema 4
Es la mañana llena de tempestad
en el corazón del verano.
Como pañuelos blancos de adiós viajan las nubes,
el viento las sacude con sus viajeras manos.
Innumerable corazón del viento
latiendo sobre nuestro silencio enamorado.
Zumbando entre los árboles, orquestal y divino,
como una lengua llena de guerras y de cantos.
Viento que lleva en rápido robo la hojarasca
y desvía las flechas latientes de los pájaros.
Viento que la derriba en ola sin espuma
y sustancia sin peso, y fuegos inclinado.
Se rompe y se sumerge su volumen de besos
combatido en la puerta del viento del verano.
Poema 5
Para que tú me oigas
mis palabras
se adelgazan a veces
como las huellas de las gaviotas en las playas.
Collar, cascabel ebrio
para tus manos suaves como las uvas.
Y las miro lejanas mis palabras.
Más que mías son tuyas.
Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.
Ellas trepan así por las paredes húmedas.
Eres tú la culpable de este juego sangriento.
Ellas están huyendo de mi guarida oscura.
Todo lo llenas tú, todo lo llenas.
Antes que tú poblaron la soledad que ocupas,
y están acostumbradas más que tú a mi tristeza.
Ahora quiero que digan lo que quiero decirte
para que tú las oigas como quiero que me oigas.
El viento de la angustia aún las suele arrastrar.
Huracanes de sueños aún a veces las tumban
Escuchas otras voces en mi voz dolorida.
Llanto de viejas bocas, sangre de viejas súplicas.
Ámame, compañera. No me abandones. Sígueme.
Sígueme, compañera, en esa ola de angustia.
Pero se van tiñendo con tu amor mis palabras.
Todo lo ocupas tú, todo lo ocupas.
Voy haciendo de todas un collar infinito
para tus blancas manos, suaves como las uvas.
Poema 6
Te recuerdo como eras en el último otoño.
Eras la boina gris y el corazón en calma.
En tus ojos peleaban las llamas del crepúsculo
Y las hojas caían en el agua de tu alma.
Apegada a mis brazos como una enredadera.
las hojas recogían tu voz lenta y en calma.
Hoguera de estupor en que mi sed ardía.
Dulce jacinto azul torcido sobre mi alma.
Siento viajar tus ojos y es distante el otoño:
boina gris, voz de pájaro y corazón de casa
hacia donde emigraban mis profundos anhelos
y caían mis besos alegres como brasas.
Cielo desde un navío. Campo desde los cerros.
Tu recuerdo es de luz, de humo, de estanque en calma!
Más allá de tus ojos ardían los crepúsculos.
Hojas secas de otoño giraban en tu alma.
Poema 7
INCLINADO en las tardes tiro mis tristes redes
a tus ojos oceánicos.
Allí se estira y arde en la más alta hoguera
mi soledad que da vueltas los brazos como un
náufrago.
Hago rojas señales sobre tus ojos ausentes
que olean como el mar a la orilla de un faro.
Solo guardas tinieblas, hembra distante y mía,
de tu mirada emerge a veces la costa del espanto.
Inclinado en las tardes echo mis tristes redes
a ese mar que sacude tus ojos oceánicos.
Los pájaros nocturnos picotean las primeras estrellas
que centellean como mi alma cuando te amo.
Galopa la noche en su yegua sombría
desparramando espigas azules sobre el campo.
-
Google Translations:
Google Translations:
poem 2
In his mortal flame light envelops you .
Absorbed pale mourner , well located
against the old propellers of the twilight
that revolves around you .
Muda , my friend ,
alone in the loneliness of this hour Kill
and filled with the lives of fire,
pure heir of the day destroyed.
The sun goes down a bunch in your dark dress .
In the evening the large roots
grow suddenly from your soul ,
and return to the outside hidden things in you.
so pale and blue town
you feed newborn .
Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave
circle in black and gold happens:
upright , is so alive and achieves creation
succumbing flowers , and is full of sadness .
-
poem 3
Ah vastness of pines , murmur of waves breaking ,
Slow play of lights, solitary bell ,
twilight falling in your eyes , doll,
terrestrial shell, in you the earth sings !
In you the rivers sing and my soul flees in them
as you want and where you want.
Aim my way into your bow of hope
in a frenzy and my flock of arrows.
Around me I see your waist of fog
and your silence hunts down my tormented hours
and are you with your arms of transparent stone
my kisses anchor , and my moist desire nests .
Ah your mysterious voice that love tolls and
sunset in the resonant and dying !
So deep hours of the fields I have seen
bend the pins in the mouth of the wind.
-
poem 4
It's the morning full of storm
in the heart of summer.
As white handkerchiefs of goodbye traveling clouds ,
the wind shakes its hands.
Numberless heart of the wind
beating about our love silence.
Whizzing through the trees, Orchestral and divine ,
as a language full of wars and songs .
Fast wind carrying litter theft
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.
Wind that topples wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.
Breaks and immersed volume of kisses
fought in front of the summer wind.
-
poem 5
For you to hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.
Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.
And I watch my words far .
More than mine are yours .
Van They climb on my old suffering like ivy .
They climb well on damp walls .
You are to blame for this cruel sport .
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
Everything you full , all full.
Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy ,
and are more used to my sadness than you .
Now I want you to say what I want to say
that you hear as I want you to hear .
The wind of anguish still drags .
Hurricanes of dreams still knock them sometimes
Listen to other voices in my painful voice .
Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications .
Love me , mate. Do not leave me . Follow Me.
Follow me , companion, on this wave of anguish.
But go with your love dyeing my words.
Everything you occupy , occupy everything .
I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands , smooth as grapes .
-
poem 6
I remember you as you were last fall.
You were the gray beret and the still heart .
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clasping my arms like a creeper.
collected leaves your slow and calm voice.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning .
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far :
gray beret , voice of a bird house and heart
towards which my deep longings migrated
and my happy kisses fell like coals .
Sky from a ship . Field from the hills .
Your memory is of light, of smoke, of a still pond !
Beyond your eyes blazing sunsets .
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
-
poem 7
INCLINE in afternoon shooting my sad nets
your oceanic eyes .
There are stretches and burns in the highest fire
my loneliness arms turning like a
castaway .
I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that olean as the sea at the edge of a lighthouse.
Save only darkness, my distant female ,
your eyes sometimes emerge coast of dread .
Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes .
Night birds peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you .
The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land .
-
In his mortal flame light envelops you .
Absorbed pale mourner , well located
against the old propellers of the twilight
that revolves around you .
Muda , my friend ,
alone in the loneliness of this hour Kill
and filled with the lives of fire,
pure heir of the day destroyed.
The sun goes down a bunch in your dark dress .
In the evening the large roots
grow suddenly from your soul ,
and return to the outside hidden things in you.
so pale and blue town
you feed newborn .
Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave
circle in black and gold happens:
upright , is so alive and achieves creation
succumbing flowers , and is full of sadness .
-
poem 3
Ah vastness of pines , murmur of waves breaking ,
Slow play of lights, solitary bell ,
twilight falling in your eyes , doll,
terrestrial shell, in you the earth sings !
In you the rivers sing and my soul flees in them
as you want and where you want.
Aim my way into your bow of hope
in a frenzy and my flock of arrows.
Around me I see your waist of fog
and your silence hunts down my tormented hours
and are you with your arms of transparent stone
my kisses anchor , and my moist desire nests .
Ah your mysterious voice that love tolls and
sunset in the resonant and dying !
So deep hours of the fields I have seen
bend the pins in the mouth of the wind.
-
poem 4
It's the morning full of storm
in the heart of summer.
As white handkerchiefs of goodbye traveling clouds ,
the wind shakes its hands.
Numberless heart of the wind
beating about our love silence.
Whizzing through the trees, Orchestral and divine ,
as a language full of wars and songs .
Fast wind carrying litter theft
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.
Wind that topples wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.
Breaks and immersed volume of kisses
fought in front of the summer wind.
-
poem 5
For you to hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.
Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.
And I watch my words far .
More than mine are yours .
Van They climb on my old suffering like ivy .
They climb well on damp walls .
You are to blame for this cruel sport .
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
Everything you full , all full.
Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy ,
and are more used to my sadness than you .
Now I want you to say what I want to say
that you hear as I want you to hear .
The wind of anguish still drags .
Hurricanes of dreams still knock them sometimes
Listen to other voices in my painful voice .
Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications .
Love me , mate. Do not leave me . Follow Me.
Follow me , companion, on this wave of anguish.
But go with your love dyeing my words.
Everything you occupy , occupy everything .
I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands , smooth as grapes .
-
poem 6
I remember you as you were last fall.
You were the gray beret and the still heart .
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clasping my arms like a creeper.
collected leaves your slow and calm voice.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning .
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far :
gray beret , voice of a bird house and heart
towards which my deep longings migrated
and my happy kisses fell like coals .
Sky from a ship . Field from the hills .
Your memory is of light, of smoke, of a still pond !
Beyond your eyes blazing sunsets .
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
-
poem 7
INCLINE in afternoon shooting my sad nets
your oceanic eyes .
There are stretches and burns in the highest fire
my loneliness arms turning like a
castaway .
I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that olean as the sea at the edge of a lighthouse.
Save only darkness, my distant female ,
your eyes sometimes emerge coast of dread .
Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes .
Night birds peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you .
The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land .
-
Poema 8
Abeja blanca zumbas --ebria de miel en mi alma
y te tuerces en lentas espirales de humo.
Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos,
el que lo perdió todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.
Última amarra, cruje en ti mi ansiedad última.
En mi tierra desierta eres tú la última rosa.
Ah silenciosa!
Cierra tus ojos profundos. Allí aletea la noche.
Ah desnuda tu cuerpo de estatua temerosa.
Tienes ojos profundos donde la noche alea.
Frescos brazos de flor y regazo de rosa.
Se parecen tus senos a los caracoles blancos.
Ha venido a dormirse en tu vientre una mariposa de sombra.
Ah silenciosa!
He aquí la soledad de donde estás ausente.
Llueve. El viento del mar caza errantes gaviotas.
El agua anda descalza por las calles mojadas.
De aquel árbol se quejan, como enfermos, las hojas.
Abeja blanca, ausente, aún zumbas en mi alma.
Revives en el tiempo, delgada y silenciosa.
Ah silenciosa !
Poema 9
Ebrio de trementina y largos besos,
estival, el velero de las rosas dirijo,
torcido hacia la muerte del delgado día,
cimentado en el solido frenesí marino.
Pálido y amarrado a mi agua devorante
cruzo en el agrio olor del clima descubierto.
aún vestido de gris y sonidos amargos,
y una cimera triste de abandonada espuma.
Voy, duro de pasiones, montado en mi ola única,
lunar, solar, ardiente y frío, repentino,
dormido en la garganta de las afortunadas
islas blancas y dulces como caderas frescas.
Tiembla en la noche húmeda mi vestido de besos
locamente cargado de eléctricas gestiones,
de modo heroico dividido en sueños
y embriagadoras rosas practicándose en mí.
Aguas arriba, en medio de las olas externas,
tu paralelo cuerpo se sujeta en mis brazos
como un pez infinitamente pegado a mi alma
rápido y lento en la energía subceleste.
Poema 10
Hemos perdido aún este crepúsculo.
Nadie nos vio esta tarde con las manos unidas
mientras la noche azul caía sobre el mundo.
He visto desde mi ventana
la fiesta del poniente en los cerros lejanos.
A veces como una moneda
se encendía un pedazo de sol entre mis manos.
Yo te recordaba con el alma apretada
de esa tristeza que tú me conoces.
Entonces, dónde estabas?
Entre qué genes?
Diciendo qué palabras?
Por qué se me vendrá todo el amor de golpe
cuando me siento triste, y te siento lejana?
Cayó el libro que siempre se toma en el crepúsculo,
y como un perro herido rodó a mis pies mi capa.
Siempre, siempre te alejas en las tardes
hacia donde el crepúsculo corre borrando estatuas.
Poema 11
Casi fuera del cielo ancla entre dos montañas
la mitad de la luna.
Girante, errante noche, la cavadora de ojos.
A ver cuántas estrellas trizadas en la charca.
Hace una cruz de luto entre mis cejas, huye.
Fragua de metales azules, noches de las calladas luchas,
mi corazón da vueltas como un volante loco.
Niña venida de tan lejos, traída de tan lejos,
a veces fulgurece su mirada debajo del cielo.
Quejumbre, tempestad, remolino de furia,
cruza encima de mi corazón, sin detenerte.
Viento de los sepulcros acarrea, destroza, dispersa tu raíz soñolienta.
Desarraiga los grandes árboles al otro lado de ella.
Pero tú, clara niña, pregunta de humo, espiga.
Era la que iba formando el viento con hojas iluminadas.
Detrás de las montañas nocturnas, blanco lirio de incendio,
allá nada puedo decir! Era hecha de todas las cosas.
Ansiedad que partiste mi pecho a cuchillazos,
es hora de seguir otro camino, donde ella no sonría.
Tempestad que enterró las campanas, turbio revuelo de tormentas
para qué tocarla ahora, para qué entristecerla.
Ay seguir el camino que se aleja de todo,
donde no está atajando la angustia, la muerte, el invierno,
con sus ojos abiertos entre el rocío.
Poema 12
Para mi corazón basta tu pecho,
para tu libertad bastan mis alas.
Desde mi boca llegará hasta el cielo
lo que estaba dormido sobre tu alma.
Es en ti la ilusión de cada día.
Llegas como el rocío a las corolas.
Socavas el horizonte con tu ausencia.
Eternamente en fuga como la ola.
He dicho que cantabas en el viento
como los pinos y como los mástiles.
Como ellos eres alta y taciturna.
Y entristeces de pronto como un viaje.
Acogedora como un viejo camino.
Te pueblan ecos y voces nostálgicas.
Yo desperté y a veces emigran y huyen
pájaros que dormían en tu alma.
Poema 13
He ido marcando con cruces de fuego
el atlas blanco de tu cuerpo.
Mi boca era una araña que cruzaba escondiéndose.
En ti, detrás de ti, temerosa, sedienta.
Historias que contarte a la orilla del crepúsculo,
muñeca triste y dulce, para que no estuvieras triste.
Un cisne, un árbol, algo lejano y alegre.
El tiempo de las uvas, el tiempo maduro y frutal.
Yo que viví en un puerto desde donde te amaba.
La soledad cruzada de sueño y de silencio.
Acorralado entre el mar y la tristeza.
Callado, delirante, entre dos gondoleros inmóviles.
Entre los labios y la voz, algo se va muriendo.
Algo con alas de pájaro, algo de angustia y de olvido.
Así como las redes no retienen el agua.
Muñeca mía, apenas quedan gotas temblando.
Sin embargo, algo canta entre estas palabras fugaces.
Algo canta, algo sube hasta mi ávida boca.
oh poder celebrarte con todas las palabras de alegría.
Cantar, arder, huir, como un campanario en las manos de un loco.
Triste ternura mía, qué te haces de repente?
Cuando he llegado al vértice más atrevido y frío
mi corazón se cierra como una flor nocturna.
Poema 14
Juegas todos los días con la luz del universo.
Sutil visitadora, llegas en la flor y en el agua.
Eres más que esta blanca cabecita que aprieto
como un racimo entre mis manos cada día.
A nadie te pareces desde que yo te amo.
Déjame tenderte entre guirnaldas amarillas.
Quién escribe tu nombre con letras de humo entre las estrellas del sur?
Ah déjame recordarte como eras entonces cuando aún no existías.
De pronto el viento aúlla y golpea mi ventana cerrada.
El cielo es una red cuajada de peces sombríos.
Aquí vienen a dar todos los vientos, todos.
Se desviste la lluvia.
Pasan huyendo los pájaros.
El viento. El viento.
Yo solo puedo luchar contra la fuerza de los hombres.
El temporal arremolina hojas oscuras
y suelta todas las barcas que anoche amarraron al cielo.
Tú estás aquí. Ah tú no huyes
Tú me responderás hasta el último grito.
Ovíllate a mi lado como si tuvieras miedo.
Sin embargo alguna vez corrió una sombra extraña por tus ojos.
Ahora, ahora también, pequeña, me traes madreselvas,
y tienes hasta los senos perfumados.
Mientras el viento triste galopa matando mariposas
yo te amo, y mi alegría muerde tu boca de ciruela.
Cuanto te habrá dolido acostumbrarte a mí,
a mi alma sola y salvaje, a mi nombre que todos ahuyentan.
Hemos visto arder tantas veces el lucero besándonos los ojos
y sobre nuestras cabezas destorcerse los crepúsculos en abanicos girantes.
Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote.
Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado.
Hasta te creo dueña del universo.
Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues,
avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos.
Quiero hacer contigo
lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos.
Poema 15
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.
Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía;
Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.
Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.
Poema 16
(Paráfrasis a R. Tagore)
En mi cielo al crepúsculo eres como una nube
y tu color y forma son como yo los quiero
Eres mía, eres mía, mujer de labios dulces
y viven en tu vida mis infinitos sueños.
La lámpara de mi alma te sonrosa los pies,
el agrio vino mío es más dulce en tus labios:
oh segadora de mi canción de atardecer,
Cómo te sienten mía mis sueños solitarios!
Eres mía, eres mía, voy gritando en la brisa
de la tarde, y el viento arrastra mi voz viuda.
Cazadora del fondo de mis ojos, tu robo
estanca como el agua tu mirada nocturna.
En la red de mi música estás presa, amor mío,
y mis redes de música son anchas como el cielo.
Mi alma nace a la orilla de tus ojos de luto.
En tus ojos de luto comienza el país del sueño.
Poema 17
Pensando, enredando sombras en la profunda soledad.
Tú también estás lejos, ah más lejos que nadie.
Pensando, soltando pájaros, desvaneciendo imágenes, enterrando lámparas.
Campanario de brumas, qué lejos, allá arriba!
Ahogando lamentos, moliendo esperanzas sombrías, molinero taciturno,
se te viene de bruces la noche, lejos de la ciudad.
Tu presencia es ajena, extraña a mí como una cosa.
Pienso, camino largamente, mi vida antes de ti.
Mi vida antes de nadie, mi áspera vida.
El grito frente al mar, entre las piedras,
corriendo libre, loco, en el vaho del mar.
La furia triste, el grito, la soledad del mar.
Desbocado, violento, estirado hacia el cielo.
Tú, mujer, qué eras allí, qué raya, qué varilla
de ese abanico inmenso? Estabas lejos como ahora.
Incendio en el bosque! Arde en cruces azules.
Arde, arde, llamea, chispea en árboles de luz.
Se derrumba, crepita. Incendio. Incendio.
Y mi alma baila herida de virutas de fuego.
Quién llama? Qué silencio poblado de ecos?
Hora de la nostalgia, hora de la alegría, hora de la soledad.
hora mía entre todas!
Bocina en que el viento pasa cantando.
Tanta pasión de llanto anudada a mi cuerpo.
Sacudida de todas las raíces,
asalto de todas las olas!
Rodaba, alegre, triste, interminable, mi alma.
Pensando, enterrando lámparas en la profunda soledad.
Quién eres tú, quién eres?
Poema 18
Aquí te amo.
En los oscuros pinos se desenreda el viento.
Fosforece la luna sobre las aguas errantes.
Andan días iguales persiguiéndose.
Se descine la niebla en danzantes figuras.
Una gaviota de plata se descuelga del ocaso.
A veces una vela. Altas, altas estrellas.
O la cruz negra de un barco.
Solo.
A veces amanezco, y hasta mi alma esta húmeda.
Suena, resuena el mar lejano.
Este es un puerto.
Aquí te amo.
Aquí te amo y en vano te oculta el horizonte.
Te estoy amando aún entre estas frías cosas.
A veces van mis besos en esos barcos graves,
que corren por el mar hacia donde no llegan.
Ya me veo olvidado como estas viejas anclas.
son más tristes los muelles cuando atraca la tarde.
Se fatiga mi vida inútilmente hambrienta.
Amo lo que no tengo. Estás tú tan distante.
Mi hastío forcejea con los lentos crepúsculos.
Pero la noche llega y comienza a cantarme.
La luna hace girar su rodaje de sueño.
Me miran con tus ojos las estrellas más grandes.
Y como yo te amo, los pinos en el viento,
quieren cantar tu nombre con sus hojas de alambre.
Poema 19
Niña morena y ágil, el sol que hace las frutas,
el que cuaja los trigos, el que tuerce las algas,
hizo tu cuerpo alegre, tus luminosos ojos
y tu boca que tiene la sonrisa del agua.
Un sol negro y ansioso se te arrolla en las hebras
de la negra melena, cuando estiras los brazos.
Tú juegas con el sol como con un estero
y él te deja en los ojos dos oscuros remansos.
Niña morena y ágil, nada hacia ti me acerca.
Todo de ti me aleja, como del mediodía.
Eres la delirante juventud de la abeja,
la embriaguez de la ola, la fuerza de la espiga.
Mi corazón sombrío te busca, sin embargo,
y amo tu cuerpo alegre, tu voz suelta y delgada.
Mariposa morena dulce y definitiva,
como el trigal y el sol, la amapola y el agua.
Poema 20
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: “La noche esta estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos”.
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.
La Canción Desesperada
Emerge tu recuerdo de la noche en que estoy.
El río anuda al mar su lamento obstinado.
Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Es la hora de partir, oh abandonado!
Sobre mi corazón llueven frías corolas.
Oh sentina de escombros, feroz cueva de náufragos!
En ti se acumularon las guerras y los vuelos.
De ti alzaron las alas los pájaros del canto.
Todo te lo tragaste, como la lejanía.
Como el mar, como el tiempo. Todo en ti fue naufragio !
Era la alegre hora del asalto y el beso.
La hora del estupor que ardía como un faro.
Ansiedad de piloto, furia de buzo ciego,
turbia embriaguez de amor, todo en ti fue naufragio!
En la infancia de niebla mi alma alada y herida.
Descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Te ceñiste al dolor, te agarraste al deseo.
Te tumbó la tristeza, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Hice retroceder la muralla de sombra.
anduve más allá del deseo y del acto.
Oh carne, carne mía, mujer que amé y perdí,
a ti en esta hora húmeda, evoco y hago canto.
Como un vaso albergaste la infinita ternura,
y el infinito olvido te trizó como a un vaso.
Era la negra, negra soledad de las islas,
y allí, mujer de amor, me acogieron tus brazos.
Era la sed y el hambre, y tú fuiste la fruta.
Era el duelo y las ruinas, y tú fuiste el milagro.
Ah mujer, no sé cómo pudiste contenerme
en la tierra de tu alma, y en la cruz de tus brazos!
Mi deseo de ti fue el más terrible y corto,
el más revuelto y ebrio, el más tirante y ávido.
Cementerio de besos, aún hay fuego en tus tumbas,
aún los racimos arden picoteados de pájaros.
Oh la boca mordida, oh los besados miembros,
oh los hambrientos dientes, oh los cuerpos trenzados.
Oh la cópula loca de esperanza y esfuerzo
en que nos anudamos y nos desesperamos.
Y la ternura, leve como el agua y la harina.
Y la palabra apenas comenzada en los labios.
Ese fue mi destino y en él viajó mi anhelo,
y en el cayó mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Oh sentina de escombros, en ti todo caía,
qué dolor no exprimiste, qué olas no te ahogaron.
De tumbo en tumbo aún llameaste y cantaste
de pie como un marino en la proa de un barco.
Aún floreciste en cantos, aún rompiste en corrientes.
Oh sentina de escombros, pozo abierto y amargo.
Pálido buzo ciego, desventurado hondero,
descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Es la hora de partir, la dura y fría hora
que la noche sujeta a todo horario.
El cinturón ruidoso del mar ciñe la costa.
Surgen frías estrellas, emigran negros pájaros.
Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Sólo la sombra trémula se retuerce en mis manos.
Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo.
Es la hora de partir. Oh abandonado.
-
Poem 8
You buzz White Bee - Honey drunk in my soul
and you twist in slow spirals of smoke.
I am the hope, the word without echoes,
who lost everything, and that everything had.
Last moors, in you creaks my last anxiety.
In my barren land you're the last rose.
Ah silent!
Close your eyes deep. There flutters night.
Ah naked statue fearful your body.
You have deep eyes where random night.
Fresh arms and lap pink flower.
Your breasts are like white snails.
It has come to rest on your belly a butterfly shadow.
Ah silent!
Here solitude where you are absent.
It rains. The sea wind errant seagulls hunting.
Water walking barefoot through the wet streets.
Complain that tree as sick leaves.
White bee, missing, you buzz you still in my soul.
Revives in time, thin and quiet.
Ah silent!
Poem 9
Drunk with Turpentine and long kisses,
summer, the boat Roses lead,
twisted towards the death of the small day
grounded in solid navy frenzy.
Pale and lashed to my ravenous water
cruise in the sour smell of the naked climate.
still dressed in gray and bitter sounds
and a sad crest of abandoned spray.
I'm hard of passions, mounted on my one wave,
lunar, solar, hot and cold, sudden,
asleep in the throat of the lucky
white islands and sweet as cool hips.
Shiver in the wet night my garment of kisses
madly full of electric currents,
heroically divided into dreams
and intoxicating roses practicing on me.
Upstream, in the middle of the outer waves,
your body parallel to my arms
like a fish infinitely stuck to my soul
fast and slow in subceleste energy.
Poem in October
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant hills.
Sometimes as a coin
a piece of sun lit up in my hands.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
sorrow that you know me.
So where were you?
Between which genes?
Saying what?
Why me all the love will come suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight,
and like a hurt dog at my feet rolled my cloak.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.
Poem 11
Almost out of the sky anchor between two mountains
half moon.
Whirling, wandering night, the digger of eyes.
See how many stars trizadas in the pond.
Mourning a cross between my eyebrows ago flees.
Forge of blue metals, nights of silent struggles
my heart is spinning like a crazy wheel.
Coming from so far girl brought from so far away,
fulgurece sometimes his eyes under heaven.
Whine, tempest, whirlwind of fury,
crosses over my heart, without stopping.
Graves brings wind, destroys, disperses your sleepy root.
Uproots large trees across it.
But you, fair girl, question of smoke, tang.
It was the wind that was forming with illuminated leaves.
Behind the nocturnal mountains, white lily fire
there's nothing I can say! It was made of all things.
Anxiety you left my chest with a knife,
it's time to take another road, where she does not smile.
Storm that buried the bells, murky swirl of storms
why play it now, what sadden.
Ay follow the path away from everything
where it is not by addressing the anxiety, death, winter,
with their eyes open in the dew.
Poem 12
To my heart just your chest,
enough for your freedom my wings.
From my mouth reach to heaven
I was sleeping above your soul.
It is you the illusion of each day.
You arrive like the dew to the corolla.
Undermine the horizon with your absence.
Eternally in flight like the wave.
I said that you sang in the wind
as pines and like the masts.
Like them you are tall and taciturn.
And suddenly saddened as a journey.
Welcoming as an old road.
You populate echoes and nostalgic voices.
I woke up and sometimes migrate and flee
birds sleeping in your soul.
Poem 13
I've been checking with crossfire
the atlas of your body.
My mouth was crossing a spider hiding.
In you, behind you fearfully thirsty.
Stories to tell to the edge of twilight,
sad and sweet doll, you were not sad.
A swan, a tree, something distant and cheerful.
The season of grapes, ripe and fruity time.
I who lived in a harbor from which I loved.
Cross sleep solitude and silence.
Cornered between sea and sadness.
Soundless, delirious, between two motionless gondoliers.
Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Something winged bird, something of anguish and oblivion.
Just as the networks do not hold water.
My wrist, just left shaking drops.
However, something sings in these fugitive words.
Something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth.
oh able to celebrate with all words of joy.
Sing, burn, flee, like a belfry in the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what you all at once?
When I reached the apex bolder and cold
my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.
Poem 14
You play every day with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and water.
You are more than this white head that bind
as a cluster in my hands every day.
Nobody seem to you since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were then that still existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish net.
Here come all the winds, everyone.
Rain undresses.
Birds go by, fleeing.
Wind. Wind.
I can only fight the force of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
You're here. Ah you do not flee
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
However once a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and have even your breasts smell.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
As you will have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my soul alone and wild, my name that sends them all running.
We have seen many times the kissing burning eyes lucero
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
I loved your body long sunny nacre.
I think to own the universe.
I'll bring the cheerful flowers mountains, bluebells,
dark hazelnuts, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.
Poem 15
I like you calm because you are absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems that your eyes had flown
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
Butterfly dream, you look like my soul
and you are like the word Melancholy;
I like you calm and you seem far away.
And you are a moaning, a butterfly cooing.
And you hear me from far away and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come with your silence.
Let me talk to you with your silence
clear as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like night, calmed, constellated.
Your silence is star, as remote and candid.
I like you calm because you are absent.
Distant and painful as if you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it is not true.
Poem 16
(Paraphrase R. Tagore)
In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and color are as I want
You're mine, you're mine, woman with sweet lips
and live your life my infinite dreams.
The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,
My sour wine is sweeter on your lips:
oh reaper of my evening song,
How lonely you to be mine dreams!
You're mine, you're mine, I'm shouting into the wind
afternoon, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depths of my eyes, your plunder
water tight as your night look.
On the net you are my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
Poem 17
Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, releasing birds, fading images, burying lamps.
Belfry of fogs, how far up there!
Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes, taciturn miller,
will you face downward night, far from the city.
Your presence is foreign, foreign to me as a thing.
I think, great tracts of my life before you.
My life before anyone, my harsh life.
The oceanfront cry among the stones,
running free, mad, in the mist of the sea.
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky.
You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan? You were far away now.
Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses.
Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.
Collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire.
And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire.
Who's calling? What silence peopled with echoes?
Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
among all my time!
Horn in the wind passes singing.
Such a passion of weeping tied to my body.
Shaking all roots,
assault of all the waves!
Rolling, happy, sad, interminable, my soul.
Thinking, burying lamps in the deep solitude.
Who are you, who are you?
Poem 18
Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
Moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
They walk the same day chasing.
Mist unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Or the black cross of a ship.
Solo.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Sounds and resounds the distant sea.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten how are you old anchors.
springs are sadder when the afternoon moors.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I have not. You're so distant.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
They look at me with your eyes the biggest stars.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind,
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.
Poem 19
Brown and agile child, the sun makes fruit,
Ripens wheats, twisting the algae,
made your beautiful body, your bright eyes
and having your mouth water smiling.
A black sun and anxious braided into strands
Black hair, when you stretch your arms.
You play with the sun as an estuary
and he leaves you in the eyes two dark pools.
Brown and agile child, nothing to you about me.
All of you away from me as noon.
You are the delirious youth of bee,
drunkenness of the wave, the force of the pin.
My somber heart seeks, however,
and I love your beautiful body, slim and loose your voice.
Sweet and short brown butterfly
as the wheat and sun, and water poppy.
Poem 20
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
Write, for instance: "The night is starry
and shiver, blue stars, far away. "
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this I held my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How to not have loved her great still eyes.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
To think that I do not. Feel that I have lost.
Hear, more immense without her immense night.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
Does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
That's it. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is lost without her.
As though to my eyes search.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are not the same.
I no longer love her, true, but how I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her hearing.
Other. She will be another. As before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
The no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short, and forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Though this be the last pain she causes me,
and these the last verses that I write for her.
The Song of Despair
Emerge your memory of the night when I am.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It's time to go, oh abandoned!
Cold rain on my heart corollas.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of Shipwrecked!
The wars and the flights accumulated you.
From you the wings of the song birds.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
Anxiety pilot, fury of blind,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire.
Sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!
I made the wall of shadow.
walked beyond desire and act.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
to you in the moist hour, I raise my song to me.
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness,
and the infinite oblivion trizó you like a glass.
It was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me.
There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the land of your soul, in the cross of your arms!
My desire for you was the most terrible and brief
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.
Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the twisted bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
that we knotted and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
That was my destiny and in it my longing traveled,
and in my longing fell, in you everything sank!
Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, what waves do not drowned.
From billow to billow you still called and sang
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a ship.
You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.
Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
holding all night schedule.
The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.
Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.
It's time to leave. Oh abandoned.
-
modern spanish gay poets
modern spanish gay poetry
-
A draft for a web-and-stage play: music, dance, poetry,
and drama.
-
García Lorca - GS
-
ian gibson a biography of lorca
ian gibson a biography of lorca - g books
-
Federico García Lorca - W
The Symphony No. 14 (Opus 135) by Dmitri Shostakovich - YT
The Symphony No. 14 (Opus 135) by Dmitri Shostakovich - W
The House of Bernarda Alba - W
federico garcía lorca poems
federico garcía lorca homoerotic poems
SAINT FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA - from ATGG
modern spanish gay poetry
-
The House of Garcia Lorca
or Variations on Symphony Number Fourteen
A draft for a web-and-stage play: music, dance, poetry,
and drama.
-
García Lorca - GS
-
ian gibson a biography of lorca
ian gibson a biography of lorca - g books
-
Federico García Lorca - W
- Composer Dmitri Shostakovich wrote the first two movements of his 14th Symphony
- based around García Lorca poems.
The Symphony No. 14 (Opus 135) by Dmitri Shostakovich - YT
The Symphony No. 14 (Opus 135) by Dmitri Shostakovich - W
The House of Bernarda Alba - W
federico garcía lorca poems
federico garcía lorca homoerotic poems
SAINT FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA - from ATGG
In the 1920s he was close friends with Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí, among many others
who later became influential artists in Spain. Despite the accolades from artists and critics,
he suffered from bouts of depression brought on largely by his inner conflict about his homosexuality.
He was tortured by the demands of being a celebrity in a homophobic society and the yearnings
of his gay soul.
During his lifetime only a handful of close friends were allowed to read the collection of
gay poems which would be published many years later as his Sonnets of Dark Love.
Here is one of them, entitled Love Sleeps in the Poet's Heart:
You'll never understand my love for you,
because you dream inside me, fast asleep.
I hide you, persecuted though you weep,
from the penetrating steel voice of truth.
Normalcy stirs both flesh and blinding star,
and pierces even my despairing heart.
Confusing reasoning has eaten out
the wings on which your spirit fiercely soared:
onlookers who gather on the garden lawn
await your body and my bitter grief,
their jumping horses made of light, green manes.
But go on sleeping now, my life, my dear.
Hear my smashed blood rebuke their violins!
See how they still must spy on us, so near!
-
García Lorca
Sonetos del Amor Oscuro
Paul Archer has translated into English Lorca's Sonetos del Amor Oscuro
Sonetos del amor oscuro (1936)
Sonnets of Dark Love
-
The art critic and journalist Juan Ramírez de Lucas
-
It was known that Lorca had a ticket to leave his homeland for Mexico as open hostility mounted
against the charismatic and openly homosexual author by Spain's right-wingers in Madrid.
But instead of leaving directly in early July, just days before Gen Francisco Franco
mounted a military coup against Spain's Second Republic, the author returned to his family
home in Granada.
It was here, a month into the conflict that he was dragged from his home by a fascist
death squad and shot, and his body thrown in an unmarked grave where it still lies to this day.
Now, a collection of papers has come to light following the death of Juan Ramirez de Lucas,
a journalist and art critic who had kept his relationship with Lorca a secret until his death,
aged 91, in 2010.
...
The archive, which was kept in a box and given to the Ramirez's sister for publication
on his death bed, includes a poem written in Lorca's hand on the inside cover of textbook
and a letter sent by the poet to his lover dated July 18, 1936, a day after war broke out.
-
who later became influential artists in Spain. Despite the accolades from artists and critics,
he suffered from bouts of depression brought on largely by his inner conflict about his homosexuality.
He was tortured by the demands of being a celebrity in a homophobic society and the yearnings
of his gay soul.
During his lifetime only a handful of close friends were allowed to read the collection of
gay poems which would be published many years later as his Sonnets of Dark Love.
Here is one of them, entitled Love Sleeps in the Poet's Heart:
You'll never understand my love for you,
because you dream inside me, fast asleep.
I hide you, persecuted though you weep,
from the penetrating steel voice of truth.
Normalcy stirs both flesh and blinding star,
and pierces even my despairing heart.
Confusing reasoning has eaten out
the wings on which your spirit fiercely soared:
onlookers who gather on the garden lawn
await your body and my bitter grief,
their jumping horses made of light, green manes.
But go on sleeping now, my life, my dear.
Hear my smashed blood rebuke their violins!
See how they still must spy on us, so near!
-
García Lorca
Sonetos del Amor Oscuro
Federico Garcia Lorca - Sonetos del amor oscuro
users.telenet.be/gaston.d.../lorca_el_amor_oscuro.html
Translate this pageSoneto gongorino, Llagas de amor, El poeta dice la verdad, Ay voz secreta del amor oscuro.
Sonetos del amor oscuro - Wikipedia, la enciclopedia libre
es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonetos_del_amor_oscuro
Translate this pageLos Sonetos del amor oscuro, o simplemente Sonetos, son una colección de sonetos escritos durante sus últimos años de vida por el poeta y dramaturgo ...
Paul Archer has translated into English Lorca's Sonetos del Amor Oscuro
Sonetos del amor oscuro (1936)
Sonnets of Dark Love
Sonnets of Dark Love - Paularcher.net
www.paularcher.net/translations/.../sonnets_of_dark_love/index.html
Sonnets of Dark Love. Paul Archer has translated into English Lorca's Sonetos del Amor Oscuro, Sonnets of Dark Love. Please click on the titles further down ...
Name of Federico García Lorca's lover emerges after 70 years ...
May 10, 2012 - The poem is dated in May 1935, at the same time as Lorca was writing his famous sonnets of dark love. Author Manuel Francisco Reina, who ...
the Marlboro Review - Sonnets of Dark Love, Federico Garcia Lorca ...
webdelsol.com/Marlboro_Review/lorca.html
Gongoran Sonnet in which the Poet Sends a Dove to His Beloved. I send this dove from Tuna to you. With its endearing eyes and whitest feathers it spreads ...
Sonnets of Dark Love — David Coonan
www.david-coonan.com/sonnets-of-dark-love/
Sonnets of Dark Love is a commission from the US chamber music collective Vivre Musicale, with funds provided by the Arts Council of Ireland.
Sonnets of Dark Love | In the Dark - WordPress.com
telescoper.wordpress.com/tag/sonnets-of-dark-love/
Aug 28, 2012 - Posts about Sonnets of Dark Love written by telescoper.- [PDF]
The Language of Desire in Lorca's Sonnets of Dark Love
www.unc.edu/depts/our/students/fellowship_supp/surf/.../sanford12.pdf
The Sonnets of Dark Love were among the last projects on which the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca was working when he was assassinated in 1936, ...
-
The art critic and journalist Juan Ramírez de Lucas
-
It was known that Lorca had a ticket to leave his homeland for Mexico as open hostility mounted
against the charismatic and openly homosexual author by Spain's right-wingers in Madrid.
But instead of leaving directly in early July, just days before Gen Francisco Franco
mounted a military coup against Spain's Second Republic, the author returned to his family
home in Granada.
It was here, a month into the conflict that he was dragged from his home by a fascist
death squad and shot, and his body thrown in an unmarked grave where it still lies to this day.
Now, a collection of papers has come to light following the death of Juan Ramirez de Lucas,
a journalist and art critic who had kept his relationship with Lorca a secret until his death,
aged 91, in 2010.
...
The archive, which was kept in a box and given to the Ramirez's sister for publication
on his death bed, includes a poem written in Lorca's hand on the inside cover of textbook
and a letter sent by the poet to his lover dated July 18, 1936, a day after war broke out.
-
Uploaded on Nov 7, 2011
Dmitri Shostakovich (1906-1975)
Symphony No.14 in G minor, op.135
Valery Gergiev
Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra
Berwaldhallen, Stockholm, 24 8/2010
Symphony No.14 in G minor, op.135
Valery Gergiev
Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra
Berwaldhallen, Stockholm, 24 8/2010
-
Uploaded on Dec 12, 2011
00:00 - I. De profundis- Adagio
M.N.: Interpretation:
05:11 - II. Malaguena- Allegretto
07:39 - III. Lorelei- Allegro molto
16:21 - IV. The Suicide- Adagio
23:31 - V. On Watch- Allegretto
26:34 - VI. Madam, Look!- Adagio
28:39 - VII. At the Sante Jail- Adagio
38:22 - VIII. The Zaporozhian Cossack's Answer To The Sultan Of Constantinople- Allegro
40:23 - IX. O Delvig, Delvig!- Andante
44:53 - X. The Poet's Death- Largo
50:34 - XI. Conclusion- Moderato
M.N.: Interpretation:
05:11 - II. Malaguena- Allegretto
07:39 - III. Lorelei- Allegro molto
16:21 - IV. The Suicide- Adagio
23:31 - V. On Watch- Allegretto
26:34 - VI. Madam, Look!- Adagio
28:39 - VII. At the Sante Jail- Adagio
38:22 - VIII. The Zaporozhian Cossack's Answer To The Sultan Of Constantinople- Allegro
40:23 - IX. O Delvig, Delvig!- Andante
44:53 - X. The Poet's Death- Largo
50:34 - XI. Conclusion- Moderato
-
Symphony No. 14 (Shostakovich)
Symphony No. 14 (Shostakovich) - W
mussorgsky songs and dances of death - YT
Mussorgsky: Songs and Dances of Death
-
De profundis
De Profundis - W
Psalm 130 - W
Traditional Latin translation, used in compositions when in Latin, translated from the Septuagint Greek:
[Canticum graduum]
De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine;
Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuæ intendentes
in vocem deprecationis meæ.
Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine, Domine, quis sustinebit?
Quia apud te propitiatio est; et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine.
Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus:
Speravit anima mea in Domino.
A custodia matutina usque ad noctem, speret Israël in Domino.
Quia apud Dominum misericordia, et copiosa apud eum redemptio.
Et ipse redimet Israël ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus.
-
The title "De Profundis" was used as the title of a poem by Spanish author
Federico García Lorca in his Poema del cante jondo.
-
Poema del cante jondo
Federico, García, Lorca, Poema del cante jondo. - Tinet
usuaris.tinet.cat/picl/libros/glorca/gl002200.htm
Translate this pagePoema de la saeta. Gráfico de la Petenera. Dos muchachas. Viñetas flamencas. Tres ciudades. Seis caprichos. Escena del teniente coronel de la Guardia Civil.
Cante jondo - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cante_jondo
The result was the memorable series of flamenco performances held at the Alhambra during June. Lorca had evidently used the title Poema del Cante Jondo for ...
Federico García Lorca - Poema del cante jondo (1921)
Índice
Baladilla e los tres ríos.
Poema de la seguiriya gitana.
Poema de la soleá
Poema de la saeta.
Gráfico de la Petenera.
Dos muchachas.
Viñetas flamencas.
Tres ciudades.
Seis caprichos.
Escena del teniente coronel de la Guardia Civil.
Diálogo del Amargo.
-
A Salvador Quintero
El río Guadalquivir
va entre naranjos y olivos
Los dos ríos de Granada
bajan de la nieve al trigo.
¡Ay, amor,
que se fue y no vino!
El río Guadalquivir
tiene las barbas granates.
Los dos ríos de Granada
uno llanto y otro sangre.
¡Ay, amor,
que se fue por el aire!
Para los barcos de vela,
Sevilla tiene un camino;
por el agua de Granada
sólo reman los suspiros.
¡Ay, amor,
que se fue y no vino!
Guadalquivir, alta torre
y viento en los naranjales.
Dauro y Genil, torrecillas
muertas sobre los estanques.
¡Ay, amor,
que se fue por el aire!
¡Quién dirá que el agua lleva
un fuego fatuo de gritos!
¡Ay, amor,
que se fue y no vino!
Lleva azahar, lleva olivas,
Andalucía, a tus mares.
¡Ay, amor,
que se fue por el aire!
-
Gráfico de la Petenera
A Eugenio Montes
Campana
Bordón
En la torre
amarilla,
dobla una campana.
Sobre el viento
amarillo,
se abren las campanadas.
En la torre
amarilla,
cesa la campana.
El viento con el polvo,
hace proras de plata.
...oooOOOooo...
Camino
Cien jinetes enlutados,
¿dónde irán,
por el cielo yacente
del naranjal?
Ni a Córdoba ni a Sevilla
llegarán.
Ni a Granada la que suspira
por el mar.
Esos caballos soñolientos
los llevarán,
al laberinto de las cruces
donde tiembla el cantar.
Con siete ayes clavados,
¿dónde irán,
los cien jinetes andaluces
del naranjal?
...oooOOOooo...
Las seis cuerdas
La guitarra,
hace llorar a los sueños.
El sollozo de las almas
perdidas,
se escapa por su boca
redonda.
Y como la tarántula
teje una gran estrella
para cazar suspiros,
que flotan en su negro
aljibe de madera.
...oooOOOooo...
Danza
En el huerto de la Petenera
En la noche del huerto
seis gitanas
vestidas de blanco
bailan.
En la noche del huerto,
coronadas
con rosas de papel
y biznagas.
En la noche del huerto
sus dientes de nácar,
escriben la sombra
quemada.
Y en la noche del huerto
sus sombras se alargan,
y llegan hasta el cielo
moradas.
...oooOOOooo...
Muerte de la Petenera
En la casa blanca muere
la perdición de los hombres.
Cien jacas caracolean.
Sus jinetes están muertos.
Bajo las estremecidas
estrellas de los velones,
su falda de moaré tiembla
entre sus muslos de cobre.
Cien jacas caracolean.
Sus jinetes están muertos.
Largas sombras afiladas
vienen del turbio horizonte,
y el bordón de una guitarra
se rompe.
Cien jacas caracolean.
Sus jinetes están muertos.
...oooOOOooo...
Falseta
¡Ay, petenera gitana!
¡Yayay petenera!
Tu entierro no tuvo niñas
buenas.
Niñas que le dan a Cristo muerto
sus guedejas,
y llevan blancas mantillas
en las ferias.
Tu entierro fue de gente
siniestra.
Gente con el corazón
en la cabeza,
que te siguió llorando
por las callejas.
¡Ay, petenera gitana!
¡Yayay petenera!
...oooOOOooo...
De "profundis"
Los cien enamorados
duermen para siempre
bajo la tierra seca.
Andalucía tiene
largos caminos rojos.
Córdoba, olivos verdes
donde poner cien cruces,
que los recuerden.
Los cien enamorados
duermen para siempre.
...oooOOOooo...
-
Interpretation:
Sacred Band of Thebes - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
-
Clamor
En las torres
amarillas,
doblan las campanas.
Sobre los vientos
amarillos,
se abren las campanadas.
Por un camino va
la muerte, coronada,
de azahares marchitos.
Canta y canta
una canción
en su vihuela blanca,
y canta y canta y canta.
En las torres amarillas,
cesan las campanas.
El viento con el polvo,
hace proras de plata.
...oooOOOooo..
Spain Flamenco Music - YT
Spain Flamenco Music and Garcia Lorca - YT
En el Café de Chinitas - Garcia Lorca - YT
Uploaded on Sep 27, 2009
The title Café de Chinitas means Chinese Café. In the mid 1800s, Café de Chinitas was a classic singing coffee shop in the city of Malaga in Southern Spain. It was a typical Café Cantante (flamenco tablao or nightclub) where people could see artists perform. These were the first clubs to feature flamenco outside of the intimate gypsy family gatherings. Historians call the Café Cantante the Golden Age of flamenco song, dance and music.
Federico Garcia Lorca described the inside of the café as an Andaluz patio made of pebbles, strewn with wooden tables and chairs. Built with Moorish arches and columns, the balconies were lined along the lateral walls and huge mirrors were hung around the establishment. Historians surmise that the name Café de Chinitas was given because there was extensive commerce with the orient (primarily the Philippines, part of the Spanish empire) during this era. Many Asian women, commonly known as chinitas used to regularly attend the cafe so the name became Café de Chinitas. Today Café de Chinitas is immortalized as a traditional Petenera song form with lyrics by Federico Garcia Lorca. There is also a famous flamenco tablao in Madrid with the same name.
The Song by Federico Garcia Lorca (1898 1936)
Café de Chinitas is a song written by poet, writer and musician Federico Garcia Lorca (1898 1936) which was influenced by the popular songs of his time. Café de Chinitas along with songs like Zorongo, Anda Jaleo and Los Cuatro Muleros were used by the Republicans during the Spanish Civil War as rallying songs for the their cause. Federico Garcia Lorca spins a tale of a rivalry between two brothers at the Café de Chinitas.
En el Café de Chinitas
Dijo Paquiro a su hermano
Soy mas valiente que tu,
Mas torrero y mas gitano.
Hablaron las malas lenguas
De un torero de cartel
Y de un toro blanco y negro
Que nadie podia con él.
Saco Paquiro el reloj,
Y dijo de esta manera:
Este toro ha de morir
Antes de las cuatro y media.
Al dar las cuatro en la calle
Se salieron del Café,
Y era Paquiro en la calle
Un torero de cartel.
Federico Garcia Lorca described the inside of the café as an Andaluz patio made of pebbles, strewn with wooden tables and chairs. Built with Moorish arches and columns, the balconies were lined along the lateral walls and huge mirrors were hung around the establishment. Historians surmise that the name Café de Chinitas was given because there was extensive commerce with the orient (primarily the Philippines, part of the Spanish empire) during this era. Many Asian women, commonly known as chinitas used to regularly attend the cafe so the name became Café de Chinitas. Today Café de Chinitas is immortalized as a traditional Petenera song form with lyrics by Federico Garcia Lorca. There is also a famous flamenco tablao in Madrid with the same name.
The Song by Federico Garcia Lorca (1898 1936)
Café de Chinitas is a song written by poet, writer and musician Federico Garcia Lorca (1898 1936) which was influenced by the popular songs of his time. Café de Chinitas along with songs like Zorongo, Anda Jaleo and Los Cuatro Muleros were used by the Republicans during the Spanish Civil War as rallying songs for the their cause. Federico Garcia Lorca spins a tale of a rivalry between two brothers at the Café de Chinitas.
En el Café de Chinitas
Dijo Paquiro a su hermano
Soy mas valiente que tu,
Mas torrero y mas gitano.
Hablaron las malas lenguas
De un torero de cartel
Y de un toro blanco y negro
Que nadie podia con él.
Saco Paquiro el reloj,
Y dijo de esta manera:
Este toro ha de morir
Antes de las cuatro y media.
Al dar las cuatro en la calle
Se salieron del Café,
Y era Paquiro en la calle
Un torero de cartel.
-
Lorca and Stalin | Lorka and Stalin
Individual, Class and Nation in Spain 1936-39
In Stalin, Willi Münzenberg and the seduction of the Intellectuals — part of the recent literature on the period — the American writer Stephen Koch explains the international dimension of the Spanish Civil War. Stalin wanted to reach an agreement with Hitler, whose military might he feared. In order to do that, he wanted to use Spain as a bargaining chip. In fact, to appease Hitler, he sacrificed his own supporters in Spain. Inside the USSR itself, he was decapitating his General Staff (who were anti-German) during the purges of the Great Terror. This was to show Hitler that the USSR wasn’t a threat and might even be an ally. The Great Terror also allowed Stalin to exterminate any possible threat to his total power. The gamble in Spain seemed to work. In 1939, Hitler and Stalin signed the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact which allowed Germany and Russia to invade Poland without mutual fears. 10 That started WW2 in September but it didn’t stop Hitler from invading Russia in 1941! The Spanish Civil War ended in April 1939, with Franco’s total and unconditional victory.
Stalin and poets
Stalin and Spanish civil war | Lorca and KGB
Garcia Lorca and NKVD
Dolores Ibárruri - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dolores_Ibárruri
Around this time, Federico García Lorca, La Pasionaria and friends were chatting ...Orlov and the NKVD orchestrated the war that between May 3–8 broke out in ...
-
Midnight in Madrid - Google Books Result
books.google.com/books?isbn=0310563100Noel Hynd - 2009 - FictionProbably the most famous victim was the poet Federico García Lorca. ... Other actions on the Republican side were committed by the NKVD, the Soviet secret ...
Stalin and the Spanish Civil War - Gutenberg-e Home
www.gutenberg-e.org/kod01/
table of contents, search, links, print, references, help. bar. options, field. bar. fill, title, fill. chapters, fill. chapters, copyright.
Soviet Union and the Spanish Civil War - Spartacus Educational
www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/SPrussia.htm
Soviet Union and the Spanish Civil War. In the early 1930s Joseph Stalin was deeply concerned about the spread of fascism in Europe. To counteract the ...
How Stalin destroyed revolution in Spain
www.lausti.com/articles/Spain/civilwar.html
Jan 31, 2002 - How Stalin destroyed revolution in Spain. By Tapani Lausti. The legacy of the Spanish Civil War has recently re-entered public debate in two ...
Spanish Civil War - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish_Civil_War
The Spanish Civil War (Spanish: Guerra Civil Española) was fought from 17 July .....Though General Secretary Joseph Stalin had signed the Non-Intervention ...
ACLS Humanities E-Book: Stalin and the Spanish Civil War
quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=acls;cc=acls;view=toc;...
2: Soviet Diplomacy and the Spanish Civil War. [Intro]. I: Soviet Diplomats and the Non-Intervention Committee. II: Stalin's Diplomats in the Republic. III: The ...
openDemocracy, 31.1.2002How Stalin destroyed revolution in Spain
By Tapani Lausti
The legacy of the Spanish Civil War has recently re-entered public debate in two ways. It was used to argue for the urgency of outside intervention in the Balkans before it was too late. The theory behind this argument was that if the Western democracies had intervened on the side of the Spanish Republic, it might have been possible to forestall Franco’s victory and at least slow down the forward march of fascism.
The other reason why the Spanish events of 1936-39 are being re-examined is the availability of Moscow archives which throw some new light on the Soviet Union’s intervention in the civil war. The material is analysed in Spain Betrayed : The Soviet Union in the Spanish Civil War, edited by Ronald Radosh, Mary R. Habeck and Grigory Sevostianov (Yale University Press 2001).
Spain Betrayed vindicates the view of those who believed that the Soviet Union’s “help” in effect only helped to make the Republic’s defeat inevitable. The editors of the book write that “the price the Republicans paid for the Soviet aid was the very factor which led to the Republic’s eventual demise. In exchange for military aid, Stalin demanded the transformation of the Republic into a prototype for the so-called People’s Democracies of postwar Eastern and Central Europe.”
The archives prove what many had suspected, namely “that Stalin sought from the very beginning to control events in Spain and to manage or prevent the spread of actual social revolution”. The material thus gives credence to those who have long argued – from Gerald Brenan, George Orwell and Vernon Richards in the 1930s, to Murray Bookchin and Noam Chomsky in the 1960s and later – that the communists’ authoritarianism and counter-revolutionary politics destroyed the will of the Spanish peasants and workers to fight on. The opposing view has held that the social revolution and the anarchists’ role in it only interfered with the urgency of waging a traditional military campaign against Franco’s forces.
The editors use as an example the differing analyses of Paul Preston and Burnett Bolloten. While both have dismissed the idea that the Soviet Union’s aim was to hasten the Republic’s victory, they have disagreed about the internal politics of the Republic. Preston has dismissed the idea that the Stalinist suffocation of the revolution in Spain led to Franco’s victory. Bolloten, on the other hand, witnessed an authentic social revolution and examined the struggle between the anarchists and the POUM on one hand and the middle class/communist camp on the other within the Republican zone. According to Bolloten, the communists’ aim was to expand their power gradually and gain influence over the army, police and political apparatus.
The Moscow archives give ample evidence – if more evidence were needed – of the anti-revolutionary and repressive policies of Stalin’s representatives in Spain. Comintern advisers’ hostility to a social revolution was manifest in the alarm they felt about Spain moving towards a society favoured by anarcho-syndicalists. “Experiments in socializing and collectivizing” were seen as “criminal” and disastrous to the war effort and the Soviet influence in it. The editors of Spain Betrayed write that “the communists had determined to destroy the anarchists from the very beginning of the war, before their opponents had articulated, let alone put into effect, their wartime policies”. The NKVD went to great lengths to destroy all left-wing opponents of Stalin in Spain.
In the end Spanish communists did gain control over the Republic’s armed forces. But, as Radosh and Habeck note, the army dominated by communists could not convince the people that it could win the fight. In his final dispatch for 1937, even Palmiro Togliatti – the Comintern adviser – had to acknowledge the growing despair felt by members of the Spanish working class.
Spain Betrayed throws some light – although nothing dramatically new – on Moscow’s thinking about the international situation and the possibility of an intervention by Western democracies. The editors note the differences between various historians as to what Stalin’s real social aims in Spain were, but the documents show that “in addition to the desire to defeat the rebellion first and then worry about further developing the revolution, the Comintern advocated this tactic as the only way to obtain help from Britain, France, and the United States”.
Here the communists and their Soviet supporters were in an impossible situation. While denying the reality of a social revolution in order not to alarm Western democracies, the communists’ own growing influence made many people on the Republican side complain that due to the influence of the communists on the government, the democratic countries no longer had any sympathy for the Spanish Republic. Both communists and their critics ignored the fact that the governments of Western democracies had been hostile to the Spanish government even before the civil war. They certainly weren’t prepared to help the Republic while much of the country was in revolutionary turmoil.
Radosh and Habeck note that Soviet politicians’ and diplomats’ limited understanding of Western political and diplomatic processes made them believe that “if the Republicans were able to inflict a defeat on Franco, Chamberlain and the British would be forced to reconsider their decision not to intervene”. Spain Betrayed does not delve deeper into this question but Bolloten, among others, has pointed out that it is impossible to understand Britain and France’s attitude without realising the deep fear of Russia and communism among the elites of these countries. (See Burnett Bolloten, The Spanish Civil War : Revolution and Counterrevolution, The University of North Carolina Press, 1991). Others have pointed out that the majority of the British establishment supported Franco in 1936. Even if strategically it had made sense to challenge Italy and Germany in the Western Mediterranean, “class sentiment and property sense would have seemed to blind their strategic sense”, as government advisor Basil Liddell Hart expressed his disappointment in the British elite’s attitude. (See Clement Leibovitz & Alvin Finkel, The Chamberlain-Hitler Collusion, Merlin Press, 1997.)
So what lessons can we learn from Western non-intervention policy during the Spanish Civil War? One conclusion has been that even if the Republicans had been able to buy arms from Western democracies, the balance of forces inside the anti-Franco forces would have made victory impossible. On the other hand, Gerald Howson has pointed out that “the material strengths of the two sides were balanced so unequally against the Republicans that a great deal of what has been published about the history of the Spanish Civil War in general and of various battles in particular will have to be rewritten”. (See Gerald Howson, Arms for Spain : The Untold Story of the Spanish Civil War, John Murray, 1998)
Whatever the final conclusion of future historians on this matter (if such conclusion is possible at all), on a general level one could say that governments base their intervention decisions on their own – real or imagined – interests, not on truly humanitarian considerations.
This conclusion seems to apply to both the Spanish Civil War and the Balkans conflicts of our time. Also, in both cases, many Western intellectuals tended to adopt a version of events detached from the experience of local people. In the Spanish case, they felt in the main hostile towards the spontaneous social revolution, initiated by ordinary factory workers and peasants. Western intelligentsia put their trust in the Republican government, even when the popular revolution was being crushed by counter-revolution. In the Balkans, Western liberals helped to push their governments into military action and ignored evidence according to which outside intervention at every stage made things worse.
Dr. Biljana Vankovska, among others, has written about the “the catastrophic meddling by the ‘international community’” which first helped to slide Bosnia into war, then helped to destabilise Kosovo and finally deprived Macedonia from “a real chance to turn towards its own society and [re-define] its problems and perspectives”. Vankovska notes bitterly that “[n]obody really cared about the ‘locals’, the ‘natives’ – allegedly, everything has been done in their best interest, in a way the West saw it, of course”. (“The Macedonian Agreement Restoring EU and NATO credibility rather than making peace”, The Transnational Foundation for Peace and Future Research).
See also:
- The Spanish Civil War in historical context by Stephen Schwartz, Critique 32-33
Lorca and Franco
The dossier on the murder, compiled at Franco's request and referred to by Gibson and others,
has yet to surface. The first published account of an attempt to locate Lorca's grave can be
found in British traveller and Hispanist Gerald Brenan's book 'The Face of Spain'.[38]
Despite early attempts such as Brenan's in 1949, the site remained undiscovered
throughout the Franquist era.
Lorca and Hemingway
Hemingway and Spanish civil war
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Federico García Lorca - YT
Uploaded on Mar 19, 2009
Promotional video clip for tribute LP "Poets In New York" (1986). Leonard Cohen performs Take This Waltz, his song based on his own translation of Garcia Lorca's Pequeño vals vienés.
The Leonard Cohen Files says: "The video was filmed in Spain, in the city of Granada, famous for the Alhambra Castle. Leonard Cohen is shown in the house of Federico Garcia Lorca. 6 min, color."
Note: This is 1986 version of the song, produced for the Spanish tribute album "Poets In New York". Later, Cohen released the same track on his 1988 album I'm Your Man, adding Raffi Hakopian's violin and Jennifer Warnes' vocals in overlayers. So don't be alarmed if you don't hear Warnes' duetting on some verses and no violin at all.
According to some sources, this wasn't real video clip, but promotional clip which originally was the part of TV programme accompanying "Poets in New York" LP. Strangely enough, there's another version at YouTube, recorded from TV Espana, two minutes longer, re-edited and re-cut - some extra shots show Cohen playing the piano, walking through Garcia Lorca's house museum etc.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PV97_R... My version is 4 minutes, while The Leonard Cohen Files says it should be six minutes. Nevertheless, my version is obviously also complete clip, and I took it from the home-made DVDR which was shown on Leonard Cohen Event organised by The LC Files, while the DVDR's contents came from press kit tapes sent by Mr. Cohen, so...
The Leonard Cohen Files says: "The video was filmed in Spain, in the city of Granada, famous for the Alhambra Castle. Leonard Cohen is shown in the house of Federico Garcia Lorca. 6 min, color."
Note: This is 1986 version of the song, produced for the Spanish tribute album "Poets In New York". Later, Cohen released the same track on his 1988 album I'm Your Man, adding Raffi Hakopian's violin and Jennifer Warnes' vocals in overlayers. So don't be alarmed if you don't hear Warnes' duetting on some verses and no violin at all.
According to some sources, this wasn't real video clip, but promotional clip which originally was the part of TV programme accompanying "Poets in New York" LP. Strangely enough, there's another version at YouTube, recorded from TV Espana, two minutes longer, re-edited and re-cut - some extra shots show Cohen playing the piano, walking through Garcia Lorca's house museum etc.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PV97_R... My version is 4 minutes, while The Leonard Cohen Files says it should be six minutes. Nevertheless, my version is obviously also complete clip, and I took it from the home-made DVDR which was shown on Leonard Cohen Event organised by The LC Files, while the DVDR's contents came from press kit tapes sent by Mr. Cohen, so...
Poet in New York - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poet_in_New_York
Poet in New York is one of the most important works of Spanish author Federico García Lorca. It is a body of poems composed during the visit of the poet to ...
Poet in New York
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Poet in New York is one of the most important works of Spanish author Federico García Lorca. It is a body of poems composed during the visit of the poet to Columbia University in New York in the years 1929/1930. During his stay the stockmarket crashed in October 1929, an event which profoundly affected his poetic vision.
Poets In New York
Garcia Lorca's house museum
The Huerta de San Vicente, commonly called the Federico Garcia Lorca House Museum in English, is the former summer home of the famous Spanish poet and dramatist. The house, located in Granada, now serves as a museum and memorial to the great writer. The grounds of the house-museum include two hectares of land on which are two houses with the original artworks and furnishings. The house is a prime example of how a Spanish home would be decorated during the early 20th century and contains several specific elements that Garcia Lorca had in his every day life. In addition to the original house and furnishings, visitors might be interested to review temporary and permanent exhibits that include a valuable collection of drawing, manuscripts, and original photographs of Federico Garcia Lorca and his family. Read more
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Uploaded on Sep 12, 2008
Dedicado a mi hijo Manuel, en su 22 cumpleaños, el 22/08/2008.
Interpretado por: Camarón de la Isla, Paco de Lucía y Tomatito.
Poema de Federico García Lorca.
La luna vino a la fragua
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira mira.
El niño la está mirando.
En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.
Huye, luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.
Niño, déjame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.
Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.
Niño, déjame, no pises
mi blancor almidonado.
El jinete se acercaba
tocando el tambor del llano.
Dentro de la fragua el niño,
tiene sus ojos cerrados.
Por el olivar venían,
bronce y sueño, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas
y los ojos entornados.
Cómo canta la zumaya,
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un niño de la mano.
Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.
Interpretado por: Camarón de la Isla, Paco de Lucía y Tomatito.
Poema de Federico García Lorca.
La luna vino a la fragua
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira mira.
El niño la está mirando.
En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.
Huye, luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.
Niño, déjame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.
Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.
Niño, déjame, no pises
mi blancor almidonado.
El jinete se acercaba
tocando el tambor del llano.
Dentro de la fragua el niño,
tiene sus ojos cerrados.
Por el olivar venían,
bronce y sueño, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas
y los ojos entornados.
Cómo canta la zumaya,
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un niño de la mano.
Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.
-
Uploaded on Sep 12 , 2008
Dedicated to my son Manuel , in his 22 birthday, 22/08/2008 .
Played by : Camarón de la Isla , Paco de Lucia and Tomatito.
Poem by Federico Garcia Lorca.
Google Translation:
Google Translation:
The moon came into the forge
nard with her bustle .
The boy look look .
The child is watching .
In the shaken air
the moon moves her arms
and teaches , lubricious and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.
Flee , moon , moon, moon.
If the gypsies come ,
would to your heart
white rings and necklaces .
Boy , let me dance.
When the gypsies come
'll find you on the anvil
with little eyes closed .
Escape moon, moon, moon
I already feel their horses.
Boy , let me , do not step
my starched whiteness .
The rider approached
drumming on the plain.
Inside the forge the child ,
has her eyes closed .
Through the olive grove came ,
dream and bronze , Gypsies .
Heads lifted
and narrowed eyes.
How zumaya sings ,
Oh, how she sings on the tree!
For heaven 's the moon
a child's hand .
Inside the forge cry,
shouting , Gypsies .
The air candle , candle.
The air is watching .
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Uploaded on Jan 12, 2008
aqui os delito para disfrute de vuestros oidos con uno de los mejores cantes de flamenco cantdo por uno de los mejores...Disfrutarlo!!
Romance de la luna - Camarón de la Isla
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aqui os delito para disfrute de vuestros oidos con uno de los mejores cantes de flamenco cantdo por uno de los mejores...Disfrutarlo!!
Romance de la luna - Camarón de la Isla
Uploaded on Mar 10, 2010
Music video by Leonard Cohen performing Dance Me To The End Of Love. YouTube view counts pre-VEVO: 1,365,277 (C) 1984 Sony Music Entertainment Inc.
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Uploaded on Sep 18, 2009
Madeleine Peyroux - Dance Me To The End of Love
Careless Love
_______________________________________
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Careless Love
_______________________________________
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
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