Archive for the ‘Federico Garcia Lorca’ Tag
Live Music (November 30, 2005) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The Guitar
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.
— Federico García Lorca
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August 19th, 1936 — Federico García Lorca dies. Andalusian poet/dramatist/artist. Murdered by Franco’s fascists.
Accused of subversive activity, however evidence today suggests that it was a hate crime in response to his homosexuality.
His writings remained censored until Franco died in 1975. Despite this, Lorca became one of the
most widely read writers in the world.
Gacela of the Dark Death
I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries,
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas?
I don’t want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don’t want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent’s mouth
that labors before dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
awhile, a minute, a century;
but all must know that i have not died;
that there is a stable of gold in my lips;
that i am the small friend of the West wing;
that i am the intense shadow of my tears.
Cover me at dawn with a veil.
because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me.
and wet with hard water my shoes
so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.
For i want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to learn a lament that will cleanse me of the earth;
for i want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
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Taking the Ferry To Copacabana the Main Bolivian Town On the shore of Lake Titicaca — Image by kenne
The Return
I’m coming back
for my wings.
O let me come back!
I want to die where
it’s dawn!
I want to die where
it’s yesterday!
I’m coming back
for my wings.
O let me get back!
I want to die where
it’s origin.
I want to die
out of sight
of the sea.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
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Life and Death in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
First/Last Meditation
Time
is in night’s colors.
Quiet night.
Over enormous moons,
eternity
is set at twelve.
Time’s gone to sleep
forever
in his tower.
All clocks
deceive us.
Time at last has
horizons.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
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Desert Foggy Morning (January 14, 2015) Image by kenne
It is light made song
of romantic illusions.
It is soft yet firm,
full of sky and gentle.
It is mist and rose
of eternal morning.
— From ‘Morning’ by Federico Garcia Lorca
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Sonoran Winter Sunset — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Crossroad
On, what sorrow to have
poems off in the distance
of passion, and a brain
all stained with ink!
Oh, what sorrow not to have
the happy man’s fantastical
shirt—a tanned skin,
the sun’s carpet.
(Flocks of letters
wheel round my eyes.)
Oh, what sorrow the ancient
sorrow of poetry,
this sticky sorrow
so far from clean water!
Oh, sorrow of sorrowing
to sip at the vein of lyric!
Oh, sorrow of dried-up fountains
and mills without flour!
Oh, what sorrow to have
no sorrow, to spend life
on the colorless grass
of the hesitant lane!
Oh, the deepest sorrow:
the sorrow of joy, a plow
Cutting furrows for us
where weeping bears fruit!
(The cold moon rises
over a paper mountain.)
Oh, sorrow of truth!
Oh, sorrow of the lie!
— Federico Garcia Lorca
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Oak Creek Bridge North of Sedona, Arizona — Photo-Artistry by kenne
And Then
The labyrinths
that time creates
vanish.
(Only the desert
remains.)
The heart,
fountain of desire,
vanishes.
(Only the desert
remains.)
The illusion
of dawn and kisses
vanish.
Only the desert
remains.
Undulating desert.
The illusion
of dawn and kisses
vanish.
Only the desert
remains.
Undulating desert.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
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The Six Strings
The guitar
makes dreams weep.
The sobs of lost
souls
escape through it’s round
mouth.
And like the tarantula
it weaves Large star
to trap the sighs
floating in it black
wooden cistern.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
Image by kenne
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“Death” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
His eyes did not close
When he saw the horns near,
But the terrible mothers
Lifted their heads.
And across the ranches
Went a breath of secret voices
By which the herdsmen of the pallid mist
Called to their heavenly bulls.
— from Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias by Federico García Lorca
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Seashell Still Life — Image by kenne
Seaside Prints
The sea
wants to blow
its lid.
Coral giants
have with
their shoulders.
And in their gold caverns
the sirens
try out a song
that the water can sleep to.
Do you see its gullet
& scales?
In front of the sea
raise your lances.
— Federico García Lorca
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The last Sabino Canyon Volunteer Naturalist (SCVN) Lizard took place on October 12th.
It was a perfect fall morning for a lizard walk. However,
some lizards may have not agreed since the number of sightings were low.
Still, it was a beautiful morning for a nature walk.
Naturalists Tom Skinner and Fred Heath welcome the walkers in front of the Sabino Canyon Visitor Center.
Everyone gathers near lizard spotter off the trail,
a common side-blotched lizard.
Naturalists Bill and Lousie Kaufman share information on the common side-bloched lizard.
— Images by kenne
In the parched path
I have seen the good lizard
(one drop of crocodile)
meditating.
With his green frock-coat
of an abbot of the devil,
his correct bearing
and his stiff collar,
he has the sad air
of an old professor.
Those faded eyes
of a broken artist,
how they watch the afternoon
in dismay!
-- from "The Old Lizard" by Federic Garcia Lorca
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Copacabana, Bolivia On Lake Titicaca — Image by kenne
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 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 the color of love.
— Federico García Lorca
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Cattle Skulls, Nogales, Sonora– Photo-Artistry by kenne
As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.
— Federico García Lorca
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“Boy Painting In The Woods” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“I’ve often lost myself,
in order to find the burn
that keeps everything awake”
― Federico García-Lorca
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Two-Tailed Swallowtail Butterfly — Grunge Art by kenne
Landscape Seen with the Nose
A cold tremor
burnt out of flesh by
the roosters
Drops a cloud on the prairie.
In the house
someone’s burning
The chaff.
The plows will come
with the down.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
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Becoming is Superior to Being 