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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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Federico Garcia Lorca | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Lament For Ignacio Sanchez Mejias

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 cottonwool 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! 2.
The Spilled Blood I will not see it! Tell the moon to come, for I do not want to see the blood of Ignacio on the sand.
I will not see it! The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds, and the grey bull ring of dreams with willows in the barreras.
I will not see it! Let my memory kindle! Warm the jasmines of such minute whiteness! I will not see it! The cow of the ancient world passed har sad tongue over a snout of blood spilled on the sand, and the bulls of Guisando, partly death and partly stone, bellowed like two centuries sated with threading the earth.
I will not see it! Ignacio goes up the tiers with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile and the dream bewilders him He sought for his beautiful body and encountered his opened blood Do not ask me to see it! I do not want to hear it spurt each time with less strength: that spurt that illuminates the tiers of seats, and spills over the cordury and the leather of a thirsty multiude.
Who shouts that I should come near! Do not ask me to see it! His eyes did not close when he saw the horns near, but the terrible mothers lifted their heads.
And across the ranches, an air of secret voices rose, shouting to celestial bulls, herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla who could compare to him, nor sword like his sword nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions was his marvellous strength, and like a marble toroso his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome gilded his head where his smile was a spikenard of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring! What a good peasant in the sierra! How gentle with the sheaves! How hard with the spurs! How tender with the dew! How dazzling the fiesta! How tremendous with the final banderillas of darkness! But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass open with sure fingers the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing; singing along marshes and meadows, sliden on frozen horns, faltering soulles in the mist stoumbling over a thousand hoofs like a long, dark, sad tongue, to form a pool of agony close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain! Oh, black bull of sorrow! Oh, hard blood of Ignacio! Oh, nightingale of his veins! No.
I will not see it! No chalice can contain it, no swallows can drink it, no frost of light can cool it, nor song nor deluge og white lilies, no glass can cover mit with silver.
I will not see it! 3.
The Laid Out Body Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.
I have seen grey showers move towards the waves raising their tender riddle arms, to avoid being caught by lying stone which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.
For stone gathers seed and clouds, skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra: but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire, only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.
Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished.
What is happening! Contemplate his face: death has covered him with pale sulphur and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.
All is finished.
The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest, and Love, soaked through with tears of snow, warms itself on the peak of the herd.
What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away, with a pure shape which had nightingales and we see it being filled with depthless holes.
Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true! Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner, nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes to see his body without a chance of rest.
Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers; those men of sonorous skeleton who sing with a mouth full of sun and flint.
Here I want to see them.
Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out for this captain stripped down by death.
I want them to show me a lament like a river wich will have sweet mists and deep shores, to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself without hearing the double planting of the bulls.
Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull, loses itself in the night without song of fishes and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.
I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies! 4.
Absent Soul The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree, nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you because you have dead forever.
The shoulder of the stone does not know you nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you because you have died forever The autumn will come with small white snails, misty grapes and clustered hills, but no one will look into your eyes because you have died forever.
Because you have died for ever, like all the dead of the earth, like all the dead who are forgotten in a heap of lifeless dogs.
Nobady knows you.
But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.
It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan, and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.
Written by Federico Garcia Lorca | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.