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Best Famous Federico Garcia Lorca Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Federico Garcia Lorca poems. This is a select list of the best famous Federico Garcia Lorca poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Federico Garcia Lorca poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Federico Garcia Lorca poems.

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Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

Ballad of the Moon

 The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares.
The boy is staring hard.
In the shaken air the moon moves her amrs, and shows lubricious and pure, her breasts of hard tin.
"Moon, moon, moon, run! If the gypsies come, they will use your heart to make white necklaces and rings.
" "Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come, they'll find you on the anvil with your lively eyes closed tight.
"Moon, moon, moon, run! I can feelheir horses come.
" "Let me be, my little one, don't step on me, all starched and white!" Closer comes the the horseman, drumming on the plain.
The boy is in the forge; his eyes are closed.
Through the olive grove come the gypsies, dream and bronze, their heads held high, their hooded eyes.
Oh, how the night owl calls, calling, calling from its tree! The moon is climbing through the sky with the child by the hand.
They are crying in the forge, all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
The air is veiwing all, views all.
The air is at the viewing.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

City That Does Not Sleep

 In the sky there is nobody asleep.
Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream, and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth.
Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse who has moaned for three years because of a dry countryside on his knee; and that boy they buried this morning cried so much it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream.
Careful! Careful! Careful! We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist; flesh exists.
Kisses tie our mouths in a thicket of new veins, and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.
One day the horses will live in the saloons and the enraged ants will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.
Another day we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful! The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm, and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge, or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe, we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting, where the bear's teeth are waiting, where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting, and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky.
Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes, a whip, boys, a whip! Let there be a landscape of open eyes and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world.
No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night, open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

Train Ride

 After rain, through afterglow, the unfolding fan
of railway landscape sidled onthe pivot
of a larger arc into the green of evening;
I remembered that noon I saw a gradual bud
still white; though dead in its warm bloom;
always the enemy is the foe at home.
And I wondered what surgery could recover our lost, long stride of indolence and leisure which is labor in reverse; what physic recall the smile not of lips, but of eyes as of the sea bemused.
We, when we disperse from common sleep to several tasks, we gather to despair; we, who assembled once for hopes from common toil to dreams or sickish and hurting or triumphal rapture; always our enemy is our foe at home.
We, deafened with far scattered city rattles to the hubbub of forest birds (never having "had time" to grieve or to hear through vivid sleep the sea knock on its cracked and hollow stones) so that the stars, almost, and birds comply, and the garden-wet; the trees retire; We are a scared patrol, fearing the guns behind; always the enemy is the foe at home.
What wonder that we fear our own eyes' look and fidget to be at home alone, and pitifully put of age by some change in brushing the hair and stumble to our ends like smothered runners at their tape; We follow our shreds of fame into an ambush.
Then (as while the stars herd to the great trough the blind, in the always-only-outward of their dismantled archways, awake at the smell of warmed stone or the sound of reeds, lifting from the dim into the segment of green dawn) always our enemy is our foe at home, more certainly than through spoken words or from grief- twisted writing on paper, unblotted by tears the thought came: There is no physic for the world's ill, nor surgery; it must (hot smell of tar on wet salt air) burn in fever forever, an incense pierced with arrows, whose name is Love and another name Rebellion (the twinge, the gulf, split seconds, the very raindrops, render, and instancy of Love).
All Poetry to this not-to-be-looked-upon sun of Passion is the moon's cupped light; all Politics to this moon, a moon's reflected cupped light, like the moon of Rome, after the deep well of Grecian light sank low; always the enemy is the foe at home.
But these three are friends whose arms twine without words; as, in still air, the great grove leans to wind, past and to come.

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Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

Before the Dawn

 But like love
the archers
are blind

Upon the green night,
the piercing saetas
leave traces of warm
The keel of the moon breaks through purple clouds and their quivers fill with dew.
Ay, but like love the archers are blind!

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

La Casada Infiel

 Y que yo me la llev? al r?o
creyendo que era mozuela,
pero ten?a marido.
Fue la noche de Santiago y casi por compromiso.
Se apagaron los faroles y se encendieron los grillos.
En las ?ltimas esquinas toqu? sus pechos dormidos, y se me abrieron de pronto como ramos de jacintos.
El almid?n de su enagua me sonaba en el o?do, como una pieza de seda rasgada por diez cuchillos.
Sin luz de plata en sus copas los ?rboles han crecido, y un horizonte de perros ladra muy lejos del r?o.
Pasadas la zarzamoras, los juncos y los espinos, bajo su mata de pelo hice un hoyo sobre el limo.
Yo me quit? la corbata.
Ella se quit? el vestido.
Yo el cintur?n de rev?lver.
Ella sus cuatro corpi?os.
Ni nardos ni caracolas tienen el cutis tan fino, ni los critales con luna relumbran con ese brillo.
Sus muslos se me escapaban como peces sorprendidos, la mitad llenos de lumbre, la mitad llenos de fr?o.
Aquella noche corr? el mejor de los caminos, montado en potra de n?car sin bridas y sin estribos.
No quiero decir, por hombre, las cosas que ella me dijo.
La luz del entendimiento me hace ser muy comedido.
Sucia de besos y arena yo me la llev? al r?o.
Con el aire se bat?an las espadas de los lirios.
Me port? como quien soy.
Como un gitano leg?timo.
La regal? un costurero grande de raso pajizo, y no quise enamorarme porque teniendo marido me dijo que era mozuela cuando la llevaba al r?o.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

The Gypsy and the Wind

 Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing from her rhythmic tambourine, falls where the sea whips and sings, his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks the sentinels are weeping; they guard the tall white towers of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water for their pleasure erect little castles of conch shells and arbors of greening pine.
Playing her parchment moon Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises, the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells, watching the girl as he plays with tongues of celestial bells on an invisible bagpipe.
Gypsy, let me lift your skirt and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers the blue rose of your womb.
Precosia throws the tambourine and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her with his breathing and burning sword.
The sea darkens and roars, while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound, and a muted gong of the snow.
Precosia, run, Precosia! Or the green wind will catch you! Precosia, run, Precosia! And look how fast he comes! A satyr of low-born stars with their long and glistening tongues.
Precosia, filled with fear, now makes her way to that house beyond the tall green pines where the English consul lives.
Alarmed by the anguished cries, three riflemen come running, their black capes tightly drawn, and berets down over their brow.
The Englishman gives the gypsy a glass of tepid milk and a shot of Holland gin which Precosia does not drink.
And while she tells them, weeping, of her strange adventure, the wind furiously gnashes against the slate roof tiles.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

La Guitarra

 Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.
Es in?til callarla.
Es imposible callarla.
Llora mon?tona como llora el agua, como llora el viento sobre la nevada.
Es imposible callarla.
Llora por cosas lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco, la tarde sin ma?ana, y el primer p?jaro muerto sobre la rama.
?Oh guitarra! Coraz?n malherido por cinco espadas.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

Romance De La Luna

 La luna vino a la fragua
con su polis?n de nardos.
El ni?o la mira mira.
El ni?o la est? mirando.
En el aire conmovido mueve la luna sus brazos y ense?a, l?brica y pura, sus senos de duro esta?o.
Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos, har?an con tu coraz?n collares y anillos blancos.
Ni?o, d?jame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos, te encontrar?n sobre el yunque con los ojillos cerrados.
Huye luna, luna, luna, que ya siento sus caballos.
N?no, d?jame, no pises mi blancor almidonado.
El jinete se acercaba tocando el tambor del llano Dentro de la fragua el ni?o, tiene los ojos cerrados.
Por el olivar ven?an, bronce y sue?o, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas y los ojos entornados.
?C?mo canta la zumaya, ay c?mo canta en el ?rbol! Por el cielo va la luna con un ni?o de la mano.
Dentro de la fragua lloran, dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la est? velando.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

Arbol? Arbol? . . .

 Tree, tree
dry and green.
The girl with the pretty face is out picking olives.
The wind, playboy of towers, grabs her around the waist.
Four riders passed by on Andalusian ponies, with blue and green jackets and big, dark capes.
"Come to Cordoba, muchacha.
" The girl won't listen to them.
Three young bullfighters passed, slender in the waist, with jackets the color of oranges and swords of ancient silver.
"Come to Sevilla, muchacha.
" The girl won't listen to them.
When the afternoon had turned dark brown, with scattered light, a young man passed by, wearing roses and myrtle of the moon.
"Come to Granada, inuchacha.
" And the girl won't listen to him.
The girl with the pretty face keeps on picking olives with the grey arm of the wind wrapped around her waist.
Tree, tree dry and green.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |


 El campo
de olivos
se abre y se cierra
como un abanico.
Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fr?os.
Tiembla junco y penumbra a la orilla del r?o.
Se riza el aire gris.
Los olivos, est?n cargados de gritos.
Una bandada de p?jaros cautivos, que mueven sus largu?simas colas en lo sombr?o.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |


I go down the street
Grotesque, without solution
With the sadness of Cyrano
And Quixote.
Redeeming Infinite impossiblities With the rhythm of the clock.
(The captive voice, far away.
Put on a cricket' clothes.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

Landscape of a Pissing Multitude

 The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves: they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kept to themselves- dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds, the sharp parasol that punctures a recently flattened toad, beneath silence with a thousand ears and tiny mouths of water in the canyons that resist the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things, and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints, obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin, or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers, because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and freeze you from behind the trees.
It's useless to look for the bend where night loses its way and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no torn clothes, no shells, and no tears, because even the tiny banquet of a spider is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner, nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police.
The foghorns of the ocean liners! Facades of urine, of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers! We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots, open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss, landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples, so that uncontrollable light will arrive to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses- the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat- and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to piss around a moan or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

Muerte De Anto?ito El Camborio

 Voces de muerte sonaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
Voces antiguas que cercan voz de clavel varonil.
Les clav? sobre las botas mordiscos de jabal?.
En la lucha daba saltos jabonados de delf?n.
Ba?o con sangre enemiga su corbata carmes?, pero eran cuatro pu?ales y tuvo que sucumbir.
Cuando las estrellas clavan rejones al agua gris, cuando los erales sue?an ver?nicas de alhel?, voces de muerte sonaron cerca del Guadalquivir.
Antonio Torres Heredia, Camborio de dura crin, moreno de verde luna, voz de clavel varonil: ?qui?n te ha quitado la vida cerca del Guadalquivir? Mis cuatro primos Heredias hijos de Benamej?.
Lo que en otros no envidiaban, ya lo envidiaban en m?.
Zapatos color corinto, medallones de marfil, y este cutis amasado con aceituna y jazm?n.
?Ay Anto?ito el Camborio, digno de una Emperatriz! Acu?rate de la Virgen porque te vas a morir.
?Ay Federico Garc?a, llama a la Guardia Civil! Ya mi talle se ha quebrado como ca?a de ma?z.
Tres golpes de sangre tuvo y se muri? de perfil.
Viva moneda que nunca se volver? a repetir.
Un ?ngel marchoso pone su cabeza en un coj?n.
Otros de rubor cansado, encendieron un candil.
Y cuando los cuatro primos llegan a Benamej?, voces de muerte cesaron cerca del Guadalquivir.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

Preciosa Y El Aire

 Su luna de pergamino
Preciosa tocando viene
por un anfibio sendero
de cristales y laureles.
El silencio sin estrellas, huyendo del sonsonete, cae donde el mar bate y canta su noche llena de peces.
En los picos de la sierra los carabineros duermen guardando las blancas torres donde viven los ingleses.
Y los gitanos del agua levantan por distraerse, glorietas de caracolas y ramas de pino verde.
Su luna de pergamino Preciosa tocando viene.
Al verla se ha levantado el viento que nunca duerme.
San Cristobal?n desnudo, lleno de lenguas celestes, mira a la ni?a tocando una dulce gaita ausente.
Ni?a, deja que levante tu vestido para verte.
Abre en mi dedos antiguos la rosa azul de tu vientre.
Preciosa tira el pandero y corre sin detenerse.
El viento-hombr?n la persigue con una espada caliente.
Frunce su rumor el mar.
Los olivos palidecen.
Cantan las flautas de umbr?a y el liso gong de la nieve.
?Preciosa, corre, Preciosa, que te coge el viento verde! Preciosa, corre, Preciosa! ?M?ralo por donde viene! S?tiro de estrellas bajas con sus lenguas relucientes.
Preciosa, llena de miedo, entra en la casa que tiene, m?s arriba de los pinos, el c?nsul de los ingleses.
Asustados por los gritos tres carabineros viene, sus negras capas ce?idas y los gorros en las sienes.
El ingl?s da a la gitana un vaso de tibia leche, y una copa de ginebra que Preciosa no se bebe.
Y mientras cuenta, llorando su aventura a aquella gente, en las tejas de pizarra el viento, furioso, muerde.

Written by Federico Garcia Lorca |

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 dampened 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.