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Best Famous Federico Garcia Lorca Poems

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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.


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.


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.


More great poems below...

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.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

The Weeping

 I have shut my windows.
I do not want to hear the weeping.
But from behind the grey walls.
Nothing is heard but the weeping.
There are few angels that sing.
There are few dogs that bark.
A thousand violins fit in the palm of the hand.
But the weeping is an immense angel.
The weeping is an immense dog.
The weeping is an immense violin.
Tears strangle the wind.
Nothing is heard but the weeping.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Adivinanza De La Guitarra

 En la redonda 
encrucijada,
seis doncellas
bailan.
Tres de carne y tres de plata.
Los sue?os de ayer las buscan pero las tiene abrazadas un Polifemo de oro.
?La guitarra!


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.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Weeping

 Weeping,
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.
)


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.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Ditty of First Desire

 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.


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
lily.
The keel of the moon breaks through purple clouds and their quivers fill with dew.
Ay, but like love the archers are blind!


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Fare Well

 If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The little boy is eating oranges.
(From my balcony I can see him.
) The reaper is harvesting the wheat.
(From my balcony I can hear him.
) If I die, leave the balcony open!


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.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Little Viennese Waltz

 In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.
Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this close-mouthed waltz.
Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz, of itself of death, and of brandy that dips its tail in the sea.
I love you, I love you, I love you, with the armchair and the book of death, down the melancholy hallway, in the iris's darkened garret, Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this broken-waisted waltz.
In Vienna there are four mirrors in which your mouth and the ehcoes play.
There is a death for piano that paints little boys blue.
There are beggars on the roof.
There are fresh garlands of tears.
Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this waltz that dies in my arms.
Because I love you, I love you, my love, in the attic where the children play, dreaming ancient lights of Hungary through the noise, the balmy afternoon, seeing sheep and irises of snow through the dark silence of your forehead Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this " I will always love you" waltz In Vienna I will dance with you in a costume with a river's head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between your legs, my soul in a photographs and lilies, and in the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love, I will have to leave violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons


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.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

The Faithless Wife

 So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.
It was on St.
James night and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out and the crickets lighted up.
In the farthest street corners I touched her sleeping breasts and they opened to me suddenly like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat sounded in my ears like a piece of silk rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foliage the trees had grown larger and a horizon of dogs barked very far from the river.
Past the blackberries, the reeds and the hawthorne underneath her cluster of hair I made a hollow in the earth I took off my tie, she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver, She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl have skin so fine, nor does glass with silver shine with such brilliance.
Her thighs slipped away from me like startled fish, half full of fire, half full of cold.
That night I ran on the best of roads mounted on a nacre mare without bridle stirrups.
As a man, I won’t repeat the things she said to me.
The light of understanding has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses I took her away from the river.
The swords of the lilies battled with the air.
I behaved like what I am, like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket, of straw-colored satin, but I did not fall in love for although she had a husband she told me she was a maiden when I took her to the river.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Gacela of Unforseen Love

 No one understood the perfume
of the dark magnolia of your womb.
Nobody knew that you tormented a hummingbird of love between your teeth.
A thousand Persian little horses fell asleep in the plaza with moon of your forehead, while through four nights I embraced your waist, enemy of the snow.
Between plaster and jasmins, your glance was a pale branch of seeds.
I sought in my heart to give you the ivory letters that say "siempre", "siempre", "siempre" : garden of my agony, your body elusive always, that blood of your veins in my mouth, your mouth already lightless for my death.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

The Little Mute Boy

 The litle boy was looking for his voice.
(The King of the crickets had it.
) In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice.
I do not want it for speaking with; I will make a ring of it so that he may wear my silence on his little finger.
In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice.
(The captive voice, far away.
Put on a cricket' clothes.
)


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Nocturnos De La Ventana

 1 

Alta va la luna.
Bajo corre el viento.
(Mis largas miradas, exploran el cielo.
) Luna sobre el agua, Luna bajo el viento.
(Mis cortas miradas, exploran el suelo.
) Las voces de dos ni?as ven?an.
Sin el esfuerzo, de la luna del agua, me fu? a la del cielo.
2 Un brazo de la noche entra por mi ventana.
Un gran brazo moreno con pulseras de agua.
Sobre un cristal azul jugaba al r?o mi alma.
Los instantes heridos por el reloj.
.
.
pasaban.
3 Asomo la cabeza por mi ventana, y veo c?mo quiere cortarla la cuchilla del viento.
En esta guillotina invisible, yo he puesto las cabezas sin ojos de todos mis deseos.
Y un olor de lim?n llen? el instante inmenso, mientras se convert?a en flor de gasa el viento.
4 Al estanque se le ha muerto hoy una ni?a de agua.
Est? fuera del estanque, sobre el suelo amortajada.
De la cabeza a sus muslos un pez la cruza, llam?ndola.
El viento le dice “ni?a” mas no puede despertarla.
El estanque tiene suelta su cabellera de algas y al aire sus grises tetas estremecidas de ranas.
Dios te salve.
Rezaremos a Nuestra Se?ora de Agua por la ni?a del estanque muerta bajo las manzanas.
Yo luego pondr? a su lado dos peque?as calabazas para que se tenga a flote, ?ay! sobre la mar salada.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Soneto

 Largo espectro de plata conmovida
el viento de la noche suspirando,
abri? con mano gris mi vieja herida
y se alej?: yo estaba deseando.
Llaga de amor que me dar? la vida perpetua sangre y pura luz brotando.
Grieta en que Filomela enmudecida tendr? bosque, dolor y nido blando.
?Ay qu? dulce rumor en mi cabeza! Me tender? junto a la flor sencilla donde flota sin alma tu belleza.
Y el agua errante se pondr? amarilla, mientras corre mi sangre en la maleza mojada y olorosa de la orilla.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Serenata

 The night soaks itself
along the shore of the river
and in Lolita's breasts
the branches die of love.
The branches die of love.
Naked the night sings above the bridges of March.
Lolita bathes her body with salt water and roses.
The branches die of love.
The night of anise and silver shines over the rooftops.
Silver of streams and mirrors Anise of your white thighs.
The branches die of love.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Gacela of the Dark Death

 I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
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 shadows 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 to earth; for I want to live with that dark child who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Paisaje

 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.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Muri? Al Amanecer

 Noche de cuatro lunas
y un solo ?rbol,
con una sola sombra
y un solo p?jaro.
Busco en mi carne las huellas de tus labios.
El manantial besa al viento sin tocarlo.
Llevo el No que me diste, en la palma de la mano, como un lim?n de cera casi blanco.
Noche de cuatro lunas y un solo ?rbol, En la punta de una aguja, est? mi amor ?girando!


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Balada Amarilla IV

 Sobre el cielo
de las margaritas ando.
Yo imagino esta tarde que soy santo.
Me pusieron la luna en las manos.
Yo la puse otra vez en los espacios y el Se?or me premi? con la rosa y el halo.
Sobre el cielo de las margaritas ando.
Y ahora voy por este campo a librar a las ni?as de galanes malos y dar monedas de oro a todos los muchachos.
Sobre el cielo de las margaritas ando.