I’ll go to Santiago.
When the banana trees want to turn into jellyfish,
I’ll go to Santiago.
With the golden head of Fonseca.
I’ll go to Santiago.
And with the rose of Romeo and Juliet
I’ll go to Santiago.
Oh Cuba! Oh rhythm of dry seeds!
I’ll go to Santiago.
Oh warm waist, and a drop of wood!
I’ll go to Santiago.
Harp of living trees. Crocodile. Tobacco blossom!
I’ll go to Santiago.
I always said I would go to Santiago
in a carriage of black water.
I’ll go to Santiago.
Wind and alcohol in the wheels,
I’ll go to Santiago.
Mi coral en la tiniebla,
iré a Santiago.
El mar ahogado en la arena,
iré a Santiago.
Calor blanco, fruta muerta,
iré a Santiago.
¡ Oh bovino frescor de cañavera!
¡ Oh Cuba! ¡ Oh curva de suspiro y barro!
Iré a Santiago.
My coral in the darkness,
I’ll go to Santiago.
The ocean drowned in the sand,
I’ll go to Santiago.
White head and dead fruit,
I’ll go to Santiago.
Oh wonderful freshness of the cane fields!
Oh Cuba! Arc of sighs and mud!
I’ll go to Santiago.
from
Divan del Tamarit
1936
CASIDA DE LA ROSA
La rosa
no buscaba la aurora:
casi eterna en su ramo,
buscaba otra cosa.
La rosa,
no buscaba ni ciencia ni sombra:
confín de carne y sueño,
buscaba otra cosa.
La rosa,
no buscaba la rosa.
Inmóvil por el cielo
buscaba otra cosa.
CASIDA OF THE ROSE
The rose
was not searching for the sunrise:
almost eternal on its branch,
it was searching for something else.
The rose
was not searching for darkness or science:
borderline of flesh and dream,
it was searching for something else.
The rose
was not searching for the rose.
it was searching for something else.
CASIDA DE LAS PALOMAS OSCURAS
A Claudio Guillén
Por las ramas del laurel
van dos palomas oscuras.
La una era el sol,
la otra la luna.
“Vecinitas,” les dije,
“¿ dónde está mi sepultura?”
“En mi cola,” dijo el sol.
“En mi garganta,” dijo la luna.
Y yo que estaba caminando
con la tierra por la cintura
vi dos águilas de nieve
y una muchacha desnuda.
La una era la otra
y la muchacha era ninguna.
“Aguilitas,” les dije,
“¿ dónde está mi sepultura?”
“En mi cola,” dijo el sol.
“En mi garganta,” dijo la luna.
Por las ramas del laurel
vi dos palomas desnudas.
La una era la otra
y las dos eran ninguna.
CASIDA OF THE SHADOWY PIGEONS
To Claudio Guillén
I saw two shadowy pigeons
in the boughs of the bay-tree.
The first was the sun,
the second was the moon.
“Hey there, little sisters,” I said,
“where will I be buried?”
“Inside my tail,” the sun said.
“Inside my throat,” the moon said.
And I who was strolling along
with the earth around my waist
saw two snow eagles
and one naked girl.
The first was the second
and the girl wasn’t either.
“Hey, little eagles,” I said,
“where will I be buried?”
“Inside my tail,” the sun said.
“Inside my throat,” the moon said.
I saw two naked pigeons
in the branches of the bay-tree.
The first was the second
and both were neither.
CASIDA DEL LLANTO
He cerrado mi balcón
porque no quiero oír el llanto,
pero por detrás de los grises muros
no se oye otra cosa que el llanto.
Hay muy pocos ángeles que canten,
hay muy pocos perros que ladren,
mil violines caben en la palma de mi mano.
Pero el llanto es un perro inmenso,
el llanto es un ángel inmenso,
el llanto es un violín inmenso,
las lágrimas amordazan al viento,
y no se oye otra cosa que el llanto.
I have shut my balcony door
because I don’t want to hear the sobbing,
but from behind the grayish walls
nothing else comes out but sobbing.
Very few angels are singing,
very few dogs are barking,
a thousand violins fit into the palm of my hand.
But the sobbing is a gigantic dog,
the sobbing is a gigantic angel,
the sobbing is a gigantic violin,
tears close the wind’s jaws,
all there is to hear is sobbing.
GACELA DE LA TERRIBLE PRESENCIA
Yo quiero que el agua se quede sin cauce.
Yo quiero que el viento se quede sin valles.
Quiero que la noche se quede sin ojos
y mi corazón sin la flor del oro;
que los bueyes hablen con las grandes hojas
y que la lombriz se muera de sombra;
que brillen los dientes de la calavera
y los amarillos inunden la seda.
Puedo ver el duelo de la noche herida
luchando enroscada con el mediodía.
Resisto un ocaso de verde veneno
y los arcos rotos donde sufre el tiempo.
Pero no ilumines tu limpio desnudo
como un negro cactus abierto en los juncos.
Déjame en un ansia de oscuros planetas,
pero no me enseñes tu cintura fresca.
GHAZAL OF THE TERRIFYING PRESENCE
I want the water to go on without its bed.
And the wind to go on without its mountain passes.
I want the night to go on without its eyes
and my heart without its golden petals;
if the oxen could only talk with the big leaves
and the angleworm would die from too much darkness;
I want the teeth in the skull to shine
and the yellowish tints to drown the silk.
I can see the night in its duel, wounded
and wrestling, tangled with noon.
I fight against a sunset of green poison,
and those broken arches where time is suffering.
But don’t let the light fall on your clear and naked body
like a cactus black and open in the reeds.
Leave me in the anguish of the darkened planets,
but do not let me see your pure waist.
GACELA DE LA MUERTE OSCURA
Quiero dormir el sueño de las manzanas,
alejarme del tumulto de los cementerios.
Quiero dormir el sueño de aquel niño
que quería cortarse el corazón en alta mar.
No quiero que me repitan que los muertos no pierden la sangre;
que la boca podrida sigue pidiendo agua.
No quiero
enterarme de los martirios que da la hierba,
ni de la luna con boca de serpiente
que trabaja antes del amanecer.
Quiero dormir un rato,
un rato, un minuto, un siglo;
pero que todos sepan que no he muerto;
que hay un establo de oro en mis labios;
que soy el pequeño amigo del viento Oeste;
que soy la sombra inmensa de mis lágrimas.
Cúbreme por la aurora con un velo,
porque me arrojará puñados de hormigas,
y moja con agua dura mis zapatos
para que resbale la pinza de su alacrán.
Porque quiero dormir el sueño de las manzanas
para aprender un llanto que me limpie de tierra;
porque quiero vivir con aquel niño oscuro
que quería cortarse el corazón en alta mar.
GHAZAL OF THE DARK DEATH
I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
I don’t want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all
its blood,
how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.
I’d rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges
for
nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn
with its snakelike nose.
I want to sleep for half a second,
a second, a minute, a century,
but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,
that I have a golden manger inside my lips,
that I am the little friend of the west wind,
that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.
When it’s dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me
because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,
and pour a little hard water over my shoes
so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.
Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,
because I want to live with that shadowy child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
Copyright © 1973, 1997 by Robert Bly
Copyright © 1967 by The Sixties Press
Spanish-language texts by Juan Ramón Jiménez © 1973 Herederos de Juan Ramón Jiménez, Madrid-España. All rights reserved throughout the world.
Some of the translations of Juan Ramón Jiménez were printed earlier in Cafe Solo, Free Lance, Florida Quarterly, Tennessee Poetry Journal, Plainsong, Unicom Journal, and Sumac. The introduction was printed first in The Nation.
Spanish-language texts by Federico García Lorca copyright © Herederos de Federico García Lorca. English-language translations by Robert Bly copyright © Robert Bly and Herederos de Federico García Lorca. All rights reserved throughout the world.
All inquiries regarding the work of Federico García Lorca should be addressed to William Peter Kosmas, 77 Rodney Court, 6/8 Maida Vale, London W9 1TJ, England. Some of the translations of Federico García Lorca were printed earlier in New Letters, in The Sixties, and The Seventies. The introduction was printed first in New Letters.
Beacon Press
www.beacon.org
Boston, Massachussetts
Beacon Press books
are published under the auspices of
the Unitarian Universalist Association of Congregations.
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lorca and Jiménez : selected poems / chosen, translated, and with a preface by Robert Bly.
p. cm.
Text in English and Spanish.
eISBN: 978-0-8070-6212-8
ISBN 0-8-070-6213-8 (pb)
1. García Lorca, Federico, 1898–1936—Translations into English. 2. Jiménez, Juan Ramón, 1898–1936—Translations into English.
I. Bly, Robert. II. García Lorca, Federico, 1898–1936. Poems. English & Spanish.
Selections. III. Jiménez, Juan Ramón, 1881–1958. Poems. English & Spanish. Selections.
PQ6613.A763A222 1997
861’.6208—dc2196–52545