The Prisoner
Through the indecisive
branches
went a girl
who was life.
Through the indecisive
branches.
She reflected daylight,
with a tiny mirror,
which was the splendour,
of her unclouded forehead.
Through the indecisive
branches.
In the dark of night,
lost, she wandered,
weeping the dew,
of this imprisoned time.
Through the indecisive
branches.
Song
The girl with the lovely face,
goes, gathering olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
takes her by the waist.
Four riders go by
on Andalusian ponies,
in azure and emerald suits,
in long cloaks of shadow.
‘Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!’
The girl does not listen.
Three young bullfighters go by,
slim-waisted in suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
‘Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!’
The girl does not listen.
When the twilight purples,
with the daylight’s dying,
a young man goes by, holding
roses, and myrtle of moonlight.
‘Come to Granada, my sweetheart!’
But the girl does not listen.
The girl, with the lovely face,
goes on gathering olives,
while the wind’s grey arms
go circling her waist.
Through the indecisive
branches
went a girl
who was life.
Through the indecisive
branches.
She reflected daylight,
with a tiny mirror,
which was the splendour,
of her unclouded forehead.
Through the indecisive
branches.
In the dark of night,
lost, she wandered,
weeping the dew,
of this imprisoned time.
Through the indecisive
branches.
SongThe girl with the lovely face,
goes, gathering olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
takes her by the waist.
Four riders go by
on Andalusian ponies,
in azure and emerald suits,
in long cloaks of shadow.
‘Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!’
The girl does not listen.
Three young bullfighters go by,
slim-waisted in suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
‘Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!’
The girl does not listen.
When the twilight purples,
with the daylight’s dying,
a young man goes by, holding
roses, and myrtle of moonlight.
‘Come to Granada, my sweetheart!’
But the girl does not listen.
The girl, with the lovely face,
goes on gathering olives,
while the wind’s grey arms
go circling her waist.
I admit to not knowing literature as much as I should, but I've always 'connected' to several Latin American and/or Spanish writers like Marquez, Paz, and Borges, etc. Both works are beautiful, and I like the presentation... excellent photo too! I connected most with 'Song'!
ReplyDeleteI am not too familiar with Spanish/Latin American literature myself. I like Marquez and Coelho. Llorca is a bit different from what I am used to but I really did connect with both these poems. Thanks for your comments Markus!
ReplyDeleteOoooooh! Simply lovely poetry. I'm speechless!
ReplyDeleteI know of Lorca from his music.
ReplyDeleteHis poems were set to music by the old flamenco artists.
Check out in particular "Nina de los Peines".
The most important thing was the spirit of being truly alive, something the Spanish call "La Duende"...http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duende_(art)
A famous Lorca song is the four muleteers, translation below.
But I'm not sure who's singing.
LOS CUATRO MULEROS
De los cuatro muleros
que van al campo,
el de la mula torda,
moreno y alto.
De los cuatro muleros
que van al agua,
el de la mula torda
me roba el alma.
De los cuatro muleros
que van al río,
el de la mula torda
es mi marío.
¿A qué buscas la lumbre
la calle arriba,
si de tu cara sale
la brasa viva?
THE FOUR MULETEERS (very literal translation)
From the four muleteers
going to the forest,
the one with the dappled mule,
dark hair and tall.
From the four muleteers
going to the water,
the one with the dappled mule,
steals my soul.
From the four muleteers
going to the river,
the one with the dappled mule,
he is my husband.
Why do you look for fire?
up the street,
if from your face comes out
life ember?
Much better singer:Nina de los Peines, but a different song.
ReplyDeleteWow, loved both of these videos, thanks so much for taking the time to post them here! I have always loved flamenco, the passion in it is unreal. Namaste and Metta to you!
ReplyDelete