5 June of 1898. most read Spanish poet of all times, Federico Garcia Lorca. For someone who is more prose than verse, more novels and stories than poems, however, I am passionate about Lorca. The beauty, the strength, the essence, the feeling and the power of his word they reach the most sublime levels of poetry in the beautiful Spanish language. So one more year I celebrate his birthday, this time with 5 of his sonnets.
Everything has been written about Federico García Lorca. Unnecessary and any word or reminder of his life and work so studied by so many specialists. I simply write literary articles here where I share or enjoy what I read or know. And there are authors who are already above any review to your figure. Lorca is one of them, one of which only needs to be felt rather than read. So let's not delay the pleasure of that reading any longer.
5 sonnets
These are the 5 chosen to evoke his memory: Gongorine sonnet, Love sores, Night of sleepless love, Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint y I want to cry my grief and I tell you...
Gongorine sonnet
This pigeon from the Turia that I send you,
with sweet eyes and white feathers,
on laurel of Greece pour and add
slow flame of love when I'm stopping.
Her candid virtue, her soft neck,
in double slime of hot foam,
with a shiver of frost, pearl and mist
the absence of your mouth is marking.
Run your hand over its whiteness
and you will see what a snowy melody
spread in flakes on your beauty.
So my heart night and day
prisoner in the prison of dark love,
he cries without seeing his melancholy.
***
Love sores
This light, this devouring fire.
This grey scenary surrounds me.
This pain for just an idea.
This anguish of heaven, world and time.
This cry of blood that decorates
lyre without a pulse now, lubricious tea.
This weight of the sea that hits me.
This scorpion that dwells on my chest.
They are garlands of love, the bed of the wounded,
where without sleep, I dream of your presence
among the ruins of my sunken chest.
And although I seek the summit of prudence
your heart gives me the valley
with hemlock and passion of bitter science.
***
Night of sleepless love
Night up the two with a full moon,
I started crying and you laughed.
Your disdain was a god, my complaints
moments and pigeons in a chain.
Night down the two. Crystal of sorrow,
you wept for deep distances.
My pain was a group of agonies
on your weak heart of sand.
The dawn united us on the bed,
their mouths on the icy jet
of endless blood that spills.
And the sun came through the closed balcony
and the coral of life opened its branch
over my shrouded heart.
***
Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint
I'm afraid to lose the wonder
of your statue eyes, and the accent
that at night puts me on the cheek
the lonely rose of your breath.
I'm sorry to be on this shore
trunk without branches; and what I feel the most
is not having the flower, pulp or clay,
for the worm of my suffering.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross and my wet pain,
if I am the dog of your lordship,
don't let me lose what I have gained
and decorate the waters of your river
with leaves of my alienated autumn.
***
I want to cry my grief and I tell you ...
I want to cry my grief and I tell you
so that you love me and cry for me
in a night of nightingales,
with a dagger, with kisses and with you.
I want to kill the only witness
for the murder of my flowers
and turn my tears and my sweats
in an eternal heap of hard wheat.
May the skein never end
I love you, you love me, always on fire
with decrepit sun and old moon.
What you don't give me and I don't ask you
It will be for death, which does not leave
nor shadow for the shuddering flesh.
Excellent initiative… It would be very helpful if they also do it with contemporary authors.
Select poems and show them, to know them and if it is appropriate to buy their books.
Best regards.
Daffodils
It comforts the publication of poetry in this century that devastates everything, especially sonnets, in my opinion poetry par excellence. It is good that this fraction of the literary world has not been lost. Sometimes memory is not guilty of these errors, but the loss of the exquisite, which is much more regrettable.