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Author Name: Freeleahlopez 2 Comments
Date Added: August 19, 2014 13:08:51 Average Score: (Needs 2)
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anniversary of Lorca's assassination
In Spain the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.”
― Federico García Lorca
This week marks the anniversary of the most prolific Spanish poet; Federico Garcia Lorca, who was assassinated under Franco’s regime; August 1936.

Federico Garcia Lorca-full name-Federico del Sagrado Corazon de Jesus Garcia Lorca-became fascinated by folklore music from the age of 2. His father-Don Federico Garcia Rodriguez-was a very energetic man, owning many acres of land for farming-inherited from his ex wife and father-in-law. His mother-Vicenta Lorca Romero-was a teacher and keen pianist. Due to the already growing talent of his family, Lorca loved performing puppet shows, and playing the piano.  His life was suffused by the government’s prerogative towards homosexuality and it was the discrimination he was assigned to that ultimately lead to his assassination. He was a very talented young man who loved to write. Moving to Madrid to study he associated himself with a group of artists that included: Salvador Dali and Luis Bunuel. We gain folklore imagery through Lorca's poetry. His poems speak volume of love, life and death. Federico Garcia Lorca became obsessed with death, addressing so in his poems. During his time in Madrid he and Salvador Dali became very close, but Salvador Dali had his own inner demons and removed himself away from Lorca. 

Lorca became depressed due to breaking his relationship with sculpture Emilio Aladren and the continuous distance made by Dali. During this time he agreed to provide lectures in Cuba and New York, spending 12 months in the USA between 1929 and 1930.

Whilst travelling through America, Lorca came across a small group of Spanish intellectuals residing in New York; they welcomed him with open arms. One of the Spanish intellectuals-Federico de Onis- was a Spanish Professor who taught English at Columbia University. Taking the advice from Onis, Lorca enrolled on an English class. However, his lack of interest derailed him from achieving an appraisable pass. Lorca was particularly interested in the City and socialising with his new-found friends. On his travels he visited Harlem where he frequently attended a Jazz Club; it was here that Lorca began to see the dark side of America. Lorca noticed the communication between the rich and the ethnic minority; having a close bond with social minorities-Gypsies-blacks-Jews- and any oppressed people who were degraded and excluded from the welfare society. Lorca spoke out for the poor and the disadvantage people who were afraid to. It was becoming more and more clear that behind the American curtain was a broken city that dehumanised those they saw undeserving. During his stay in America he witnessed the 1929 crash that resulted in financial misery. He wrote his emotional feelings and experiences in his book "Poeta en Nuevo York.”

In 1930 Lorca returned to Spain forming a company-La Barraca-in order to present Spanish classical drama to provincial audiences. He wrote many a plays e.g. Yerma, Blood Wedding, The house of Bernarda Alba, The Public and so forth. He used the ability of his characters to vocalise his inner thoughts and demons. He became obsessed with the way gypsies lived and he spent many times joining their company.

In August 1936, shortly after the outbreak of the Spanish civil war, Lorca was executed by a Falangist firing squad. There isn’t any evidential proof that can vouch for the real reason-if this can ever be justified- as to why he was premeditatedly assassinated; lined up in unknown territory with three other men he was shot-twice. His death resulted in him becoming an international symbol of political repression adding to his legend; a sacrificial victim. During Franco’s regime Lorca’s books were banned and burnt and his name was forbidden

So, now that I have given you limited background of his life here is my main purpose: I wanted to somehow create a page that I could dedicate to Federico Garcia Lorca, to somehow show my appreciation for who he was and what he brought to the world. So, I share with you my favourite quotes of his, photographs that shows him smiling-happy-quotes from his plays, and poems. It is not too late, if you have a favourite quote/photograph/poem/ then please contact me and let me know and I shall show it on my blog-with your name underneath-

"To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”

"Only mystery makes us live, only mystery.”

"Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death,
but genuine pain doesn’t live in the spirit,
nor in the air, nor in our lives,
nor on these terraces of billowing smoke.
The genuine pain that keeps everything awake
is a tiny, infinite burn
on the innocent eyes of other systems.”

-----This is a poem written by Allen Ginsberg 1926-1997-----

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the side streets

under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket
dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands!
Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing by down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
 poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?  

What price bananas?  Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, 
and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes,
 possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in an hour. 

Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?  The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

The author imagines himself walking through a supermarket and seeing Walt Whitman and Federico Garcia Lorca just shopping-so ordinary?-
This poem was forwarded onto me by Mason West a very intelligent friend of mine from Google+
I had not read this poem, until Mason West shared it with me. I had to share it because it is sentimental, yet there is a touch of humor-"and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?”
It is just a delightful poem!

And, the next part is taken from his play "Yerma”

JUAN. What are you doing in this place? If I could shout I’d wake up the whole village so they'd see where the good name of my house has gone to; but I have to swallow everything and keep quiet-because you're my wife.

YERMA. I too would shout, if I could, so that even the dead would rise and see the innocence that covers me.

JUAN. No, don't tell me that? I can stand everything but that. You deceive me; you trick me, and since I'm a man who works in the fields, I'm no match for your cleverness.


JUAN. You, not a word out of you!

DOLORES: strongly. Your wife has done nothing wrong.

JUAN. She's been doing it from the very day of the wedding. Looking at me with two needles, passing wakeful rights with her eyes open at my side, and fining my pillows with evil sighs.

YERMA. Be quiet!
JUAN. And I can't stand any more. Because one would have to he made of iron to put up with a woman who wants to stick her fingers into your heart and who goes out of her house at night. In search of what? Tell me? There aren't any flowers to pick in the streets.

YERMA. I won't let you say another word. Not one word more. You and your people imagine you're the only ones who look out for honor, and you don't realize my people have never had anything to conceal. Come on now Come near and smell my clothes. Come close! See if you can find an odor that's not yours, that's not from your body. Stand me naked in the middle of the square and spit on  me. Do what you want with me, since I'm your wife, but , take care not to set a man's name in my breast.

JUAN. I'm not the one who sets it there. You do it by your conduct, and the town's beginning to say so. It’s beginning to say it openly. When I come on a group, they all fall silent; when I go to weigh the flour, they all fall silent,  and even at night, in the fields, when I awaken, it seems to  me that the branches of the trees become silent too.

YERMA. I don't know why the evil winds that soil the wheat begin-but look you and see if the wheat is good?
JUAN. Nor do I know what a woman Is looking for out­  side her house at all hours.

YERMA, bursting out, embracing her husband. I'm looking  for you. I'm looking for you. it's you I look for day and night without finding a shade where to draw breath. It's your blood and help I want.

JUAN. Stay away from me.

YERMA. Don't put me away-love me?

JUAN. Get away?

YERMA. Look how I'm left alone? As if the moon searched  for herself in the sky. Look at me?
She looks at him.

JUAN, he looks at her and draws away roughly. I-et me be-once and for all!


Yerma falls to the floor.

YERMA, loudly. When I went out looking for my flowers, I ran into a wall. Ay-y-y! Ay-y-y! It's against that wall I'll break my head.

JUAN. Be quiet. Let's go.

DOLORES. Good God!

YERMA, shouting. Cursed be my father who left me his blood of a father of a hundred sons. Cursed be my blood that searches for them, knocking against walls.
JUAN. I told you to be quiet!
DOLORES. People are coming! Speak lower.

YERMA. I don't care. At least let my voice go free, now that I'm entering the darkest part of the pit.
She rises.
At least let this beautiful thing come out of my body and fill the air.
Voices are heard.

DOLORES. They're going to pass by here.

JUAN. Silence,

YERMA. That's it! That's it! Silence. Never fear.

JUAN. Let's go. Quick!

YERMA. That's it! That's it! And it's no use for me to wring my hands! It's one thing to wish with one's head...
JUAN. Be still!

YERMA, low. It's one thing to wish with one's head and another for the body- cursed be the body!-not to respond. It's written, and I'm not going to raise my arms against the sea. That's it! Let my mouth be struck dumb!

This is one of my favourite plays of Garcia’s. I chose this particular part of the play to share with you because of its intensity; of how you can feel within your own heart Yerma’s need and desperation, the feeling of some kind of loss within your soul…Garcia’s passion in this play is mesmerising. Do you agree?

I was sent this photograph and exert from G. G. Gonzalez (Thank you very much for doing so-such a charming young man he is in this wonderful photograph)

Spanish version:

Cegado el manantial de tu saliva,
hijo de la paloma,
nieto del ruiseñor y de la oliva:
serás, mientras la tierra vaya y vuelva,
esposo siempre de la siempreviva,
estiércol padre de la madreselva.

(fragmento de: "Elegía” dedicada a Lorca. 

English version

Blinded the source of your saliva, 
son of the dove, 
grandson of the nightingale and the olive 
you will be, as the earth go and return, 
husband always evergreen, 
Honeysuckle manure father. 

(excerpt from "Elegy" dedicated to Lorca.

Federico Garcia Lorca - Ode to Salvador Dali

A rose in the high garden you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.

The modern painters in their white ateliers
Clip the square root's sterilized flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
Chills the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads firmly on the cobbled streets.
Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine perpetuates its binary beat.

An absence of forests and screens and brows
Roams across the roofs of the old houses
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.

Soldiers who know no wine and no penumbra
behead the sirens on the seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors run away.
Cadaqués, at the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.
Her fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.
On the high sea a rose is their compass.
The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,
links the great crystals of fish and moon.
A hard diadem of white brigantines
encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,
and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.
Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.
Sanitary soul, you live upon new marble.
You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.
Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.
The world is dull penumbra and disorder
in the foreground where man is found.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
reveal the perfect schema of their courses.
The current of time pools and gains order
in the numbered forms of century after century.
And conquered Death takes refuge trembling
in the tight circle of the present instant.

When you take up your palette, a bullet hole in its wing,
you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.
The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.
You call on the old light that stays on the brow,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.
You do well when you post warning flags
along the dark limit that shines in the night.
As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.
The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen
their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.
You love a matter definite and exact,
where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.
You love the architecture that builds on the absent
and admit the flag simply as a joke.
The steel compass tells its short, elastic verse.
Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.
The straight line tells of its upward struggle
and the learned crystals sing their geometries.
But also the rose of the garden where you live.
Always the rose, always, our north and south!
Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,
not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.
Pure rose, clean of artifice and rough sketches,
opening for us the slender wings of the smile.
(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)
Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains.
Always the rose!
Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,
but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.
I sing your fair struggle of Catalan lights,
your love of what might be made clear.
I sing your astronomical and tender heart,
a never-wounded deck of French cards.
I sing your restless longing for the statue,
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.
But above all I sing a common thought
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.
Not the picture you patiently trace,
but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,
the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship, painted bright as a game board.
May fingerprints of blood on gold
streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.
May stars like falconless fists shine on you,
while your painting and your life break into flower.
Don't watch the water clock with its membraned wings
or the hard scythe of the allegory.
Always in the air, dress and undress your brush
before the sea peopled with sailors and ships.


Oda a Salvador Dali

Federico García Lorca (1898 – 1936)
Una rosa en el alto jardín que tu deseas.
Una rueda en la pura sintaxis del acero.
Desnuda la montaña de niebla impresionista.
Los grises oteando sus balaustradas últimas.
Los pintores modernos, en sus blancos estudios,
cortan la flor aséptica de la raíz cuadrada.
En las aguas del Sena un iceberg de mármol
enfría las ventanas y disipa las yedras.
El hombre pisa fuerte las calles enlosadas.
Los cristales esquivan la magia del reflejo.
El Gobierno ha cerrado las tiendas de perfume.
La máquina eterniza sus compases binarios.
Una ausencia de bosques, biombos y entrecejos
yerra por los tejados de las casas antiguas.
El aire pulimenta su prisma sobre el mar
y el horizonte sube como un gran acueducto.
Marineros que ignoran el vino y la penumbra
decapitan sirenas en los mares de plomo.
La Noche, negra estatua de la prudencia, tiene
el espejo redondo de la luna en su mano.
Un deseo de formas y límites nos gana.
Viene el hombre que mira con el metro amarillo.
Venus es una blanca naturaleza muerta
y los coleccionistas de mariposas huyen.
Cadaqués, en el fiel del agua y la colina,
eleva escalinatas y oculta caracolas.
Las flautas de madera pacifican el aire.
Un viejo dios silvestre da frutas a los niños.
Sus pescadores duermen, sin ensueño, en la arena.
En alta mar les sirve de brújula una rosa.
El horizonte virgen de pañuelos heridos
junta los grandes vidrios del pez y de la luna.
Una dura corona de blancos bergantines
ciñe frentes amargas y cabellos de arena.
Las sirenas convencen, pero no sugestionan,
y salen si mostramos un vaso de agua dulce.
¡Oh Salvador Dalí, de voz aceitunada!
No elogio tu imperfecto pincel adolescente
ni tu color que ronda la color de tu tiempo,
pero alabo tus ansias de eterno limitado.
Alma higiénica, vives sobre mármoles nuevos.
Huyes la oscura selva de formas increíbles.
Tu fantasía llega donde llegan tus manos,
y gozas el soneto del mar en tu ventana.
El mundo tiene sordas penumbras y desorden,
en los primeros términos que el humano frecuenta.
Pero ya las estrellas ocultando paisajes,
señalan el esquema perfecto de sus órbitas.
La corriente del tiempo se remansa y ordena
en las formas numéricas de un siglo y otro siglo.
Y la Muerte vencida se refugia temblando
en el círculo estrecho del minuto presente.
Al coger tu paleta, con un tiro en un ala,
pides la luz que anima la copa del olivo.
Ancha luz de Minerva, constructora de andamios,
donde no cabe el sueño ni su flora inexacta.
Pides la luz antigua que se queda en la frente,
sin bajar a la boca ni al corazón del hombre.
Luz que temen las vides entrañables de Baco
y la fuerza sin orden que lleva el agua curva.
Haces bien en poner banderines de aviso,
en el límite oscuro que relumbra de noche.
Como pintor no quieres que te ablande la forma
el algodón cambiante de una nube imprevista.
El pez en la pecera y el pájaro en la jaula.
No quieres inventarlos en el mar o en el viento.
Estilizas o copias después de haber mirado
con honestas pupilas sus cuerpecillos ágiles.
Amas una materia definida y exacta
donde el hongo no pueda poner su campamento.
Amas la arquitectura que construye en lo ausente
y admites la bandera como una simple broma.
Dice el compás de acero su corto verso elástico.
Desconocidas islas desmienten ya la esfera.
Dice la línea recta su vertical esfuerzo
y los sabios cristales cantan sus geometrías.
Pero también la rosa del jardín donde vives.
¡Siempre la rosa, siempre, norte y sur de nosotros!
Tranquila y concentrada como una estatua ciega,
ignorante de esfuerzos soterrados que causa.
Rosa pura que limpia de artificios y croquis
y nos abre las alas tenues de la sonrisa.
(Mariposa clavada que medita su vuelo.)
Rosa del equilibrio sin dolores buscados.
¡Siempre la rosa!
¡Oh Salvador Dalí de voz aceitunada!
Digo lo que me dicen tu persona y tus cuadros.
No alabo tu imperfecto pincel adolescente,
pero canto la firme dirección de tus flechas.
Canto tu bello esfuerzo de luces catalanas,
tu amor a lo que tiene explicación posible.
Canto tu corazón astronómico y tierno,
de baraja francesa y sin ninguna herida.
Canto el ansia de estatua que persigues sin tregua
el miedo a la emoción que te aguarda en la calle.
Canto la sirenita de la mar que te canta
montada en bicicleta de corales y conchas.
Pero ante todo canto un común pensamiento
que nos une en las horas oscuras y doradas.
No es el Arte la luz que nos ciega los ojos.
Es primero el amor, la amistad o la esgrima.
Es primero que el cuadro que paciente dibujas
el seno de Teresa, la de cutis insomne,
el apretado bucle de Matilde la ingrata,
nuestra amistad pintada como un juego de oca.
Huellas dactilográficas de sangre sobre el oro
rayen el corazón de Cataluña eterna.
Estrellas como puños sin halcón te relumbren,
mientras que tu pintura y tu vida florecen.
No mires la clepsidra con alas membranosas,
ni la dura guadaña de las alegorías.
Viste y desnuda siempre tu pincel en el aire,
frente a la mar poblada con barcos y marinos.
What is your opinion of this poem?

And the last poem I wish to share with you is his most famous poem of them all.

Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias

1. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the  cotton wool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At five o'clock in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

So, here are just some of my favourite poems/quotes of Federico Garcia Lorca.

I did not want to place too much information regarding Lorca due to my current research. It is going to take a very long time because there are many leads, many directions….

I hope I have done this page worthy, for you, and for Lorca himself!
Author's Notes:
I am sharing this dedication on my c-p. I have written many subjects on Spanish History/Culture-message me for my email address for me to send you the link if you wish to read more!
Report Offensive Poem.

'anniversary of Lorca's assassination' Copyright © leahlopez
Copyright is property of the above author or group. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.
Click here if you feel this poem is in violation of a copyright.
Click here to send this poem to someone!

Comment By: PremiumDan J. Mazurek on January 25, 2017 02:09:26 PM Report

Leonard Cohen recently past away.

love how you shared all of this knowledge

a book in itself to learn of a poet from yesterday Poets are Gods gifts to remember a time lost in humanity

thank you

 your very creative as well



Comment By: Freenoah count on June 15, 2015 04:43:51 PM Report

Leonard Cohen named his daughter Lorca, in honor and respect for Federico.  This page does justice to all. 



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