Federico Garcia Lorca, the "Nightingale of Andalusia"

 Φ. Γκ. Λόρκα: «Εγώ ποτέ δεν θα γίνω πολιτικός.
Είμαι επαναστάτης, γιατί
δεν υπάρχει αληθινός ποιητής που να μην είναι επαναστάτης»

“There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers’ battle with the heavens that cover them. Snow, rain, and mist highlight, drench, or conceal the vast towers, but those towers, hostile to mystery and blind to any sort of play, shear off the rain’s tresses and shine their three thousand swords through the soft swan of the fog.”
Federico Garcia Lorca, the "Nightingale of Andalusia"

 

Born on June 5, 1898, in Fuente Vaqueros near the city of Granada, the son of a liberal landowner, Federico García Lorca's creativity would rear its head early.
As a child, he was known to carry on conversations with inanimate objects, bestowing upon each object a personality and speaking with them as if they were living things and might speak back at any moment.

  As a child, he studied music, an activity which enhanced his natural sense of rhythm, and in his late teens, he began to write poems which he would recite in local cafés.

As a young man, Lorca studied philosophy and law at the Universtiy of Granada, but he would soon abandon his legal studies for literature, art, and the theatre.
In 1918, he published a book of prose inspired by a trip he had taken to Castile, and in 1919, he transferred to the University of Madrid where he organized theatrical performances and continued to read his poems in public.
  During this period, Lorca became associated with a group of artists who would become known as Generación del 27, including the painter Salvadore Dalí, the filmmaker Luis Bunuel, and the poet Rafael Alberti.
 read more / herehttp://www.imagi-nation.com/moonstruck/clsc67.html

Poems of
Federico Garcia Lorca

 Song of the rider
                     Córdoba.
  Far away, and lonely.

  Full moon, black pony,
   olives against my saddle.
 Though I know all the roadways
   I'll never get to Córdoba.

Through the breezes,

through the valley,
 red moon, black pony.
 Death is looking at me
  from the towers of Córdoba.

Ay, how long the road is! Ay, my brave pony! Ay, death is waiting for me, before I get to Córdoba. Córdoba. Far away, and lonely.

    Sonnet of the sweet complaint

                        Never let me lose the marvel

                    of your statue-like eyes, or the accent,

                    the solitary rose of your breath,

                    places on my cheek at night.

                        I am afraid of being on this shore,

                    a branchless trunk, and what I most regret

                    is having no flower, pulp or clay

                    for the worm of my despair.

                        If you are my hidden treasure,

                    if you are my cross, my smothered pain,

                    if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

                        never let me lose what I have gained,

                    and adorn the branches of your river

                    with leaves of my estranged autumn.

Σονέτο του γλυκού παραπόνου – Φεντερίκο Γκαρσία Λόρκα

Φοβάμαι μη χάσω το θαύμα
των αγαλμάτινων ματιών σου και τη μελωδία
που μου αποθέτει τη νύχτα στο μάγουλο
το μοναχικό ρόδο της ανάσας σου

Πονώ που είμαι σε τούτη την όχθη
κορμός δίχως κλαδιά μα πιότερο λυπάμαι
που δεν έχω τον ανθό, πόλφο ή πηλό
για το σκουλήκι του μαρτυρίου μου.

Αν είσαι εσύ ο κρυμμένος μου θησαυρός
αν είσαι εσύ ο σταυρός και ο υγρός μου πόνος,
αν ειμαι το σκυλί της αρχοντιάς σου
μη με αφήσεις να χάσω ό,τι έχω κερδίσει

και στόλισε τα νερά του ποταμού σου
με φύλλα από το φρενοκρουσμένο μου φθινόπωρο.

     Wounds of love
                      This light, this flame that devours,
                     this grey country that surrounds me,
                     this pain from a sole idea,
                     this anguish of the sky, earth and hour,

                     this lament of blood that now adorns
                     a lyre with no pulse, lubricious torch,
                     this weight of sea that breaks on me,
                     this scorpion that lives inside my breast,
                     are a garland of love, bed of the wounded,
                     where dreamlessly, I dream of your presence
                     among the ruins of my sunken breast.

                     And though I seek the summit of discretion
                     your heart grants me a valley stretched below,
                     with hemlock and passion of bitter wisdom.

Πληγές της αγάπης

Αυτό το φως, τούτη η φωτιά που κατατρώει,
τούτο το σταχτί τοπίο που με τυλίγει,
τούτος ο πόνος για μια και μόνη ιδέα,
τούτη η αγωνία τ’ουρανού,του κόσμου, της ώρας..

Τούτος ο θρήνος του αίματος που στολίζει
λύρα δίχως παλμό πια, φευγαλέο δαυλό
τούτο το βάρος της θάλασσας που με χτυπά
τούτος ο σκορπιός που μου φωλιάζει στο στήθος

Είναι στεφάνι του έρωτα,κλινάρι πληγωμένου
όπου δίχως ύπνο ονειρεύομαι την παρουσία σου
μέσα στο ρημαδιό του στήθους μου βουλιαγμένο

Και μόλο που ψάχνω την καμπύλη της φρόνησης
μου προσφέρει η καρδιά σου κοιλάδα απλωμένη
με φαρμάκι και πάθος γνώσης πικρής..

ΝΙΚΟΣ ΚΑΡΟΥΖΟΣ
ΜΟΥΛΕΤΑ
Δωρεάν η ζωή Φεδερίκο
Γκαρθία Λόρκα δωρεάν ο θάνατος.
Αυτό το άλικο πανί δεν έχει πάντοτες

αγαθή βεβαιότητα.
Είν’ ο Θεός που αμιγής εκτείνεται στο μαύρο

πλήρως απών ή ανεικόνιστος.
Όμως εσύ μυρόεσσα Ισπανία –της Ευρώπης θερμότητα–

τι δόξα πρόσθεσες απ’ τη λαλιά του

              την άσπιλη

σ’ ανελέητο ήλιο σ’ έναν ουρανό

που πυραχτώνει διαμπερής αθωότητα...

Ισπανία εσύ αυθεντία στο θάνατο!

Δωρεάν η όραση Φεδερίκο

Γκαρθία Λόρκα δωρεάν η τυφλότητα.

Song of the rider Córdoba. Far away, and lonely.

Full moon, black pony, olives against my saddle. Though I know all the roadways I’ll never get to Córdoba.

Through the breezes, through the valley, red moon, black pony. Death is looking at me from the towers of Córdoba.

Ay, how long the road is! Ay, my brave pony! Ay, death is waiting for me, before I get to Córdoba.

Córdoba. Far away, and lonely.

 Tune of first desire

                       In the green morning
                    I wanted to be a heart.
                    A heart.

                       And in the ripe evening
                    I wanted to be a nightingale.
                    A nightingale.

                       (Soul,
                    turn orange-colored.
                    Soul,
                    turn into the color of love.)

                       In the vivid morning
                    I wanted to be myself.
                    A heart.

                       And at the evening's end
                    I wanted to be my voice.
                    A nightingale.

                       Soul,
                    turn orange-colored.
                    Soul,
                    turn into the color of love.
                          

 Casa de verano de la familia de Federico García Lorca en Granada