Garcia Lorca Quotes

But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.

I am the immense shadow of my tears

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 down by the watermelons?

Pero yo ya no soy yo Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. But now I am no longer I, nor is my house any longer my house.

In Spain the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.

I can’t listen to you. I can’t listen to your voice. It’s as though I’d drunk a bottle of anise and fallen asleep wrapped in a quilt of roses. It pulls me along – and I know I’m drowning – but I go on down.

If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows?

لماذا وُلِدتُ بين المرايا؟ اليومُ يدورُ من حولي والليلُ يصنعُ نسخاً مني في كل النجمات. . أريد العيشَ دون رؤية نفسي وسوف أحلم بأن النملَ وأن الشوك صارا أغصاني وطيوري

If I told you the whole story it would never end...What's happened to me has happened to a thousand woman.

Vendrán las iguanas vivas a morder a los hombres que no sueñan

A light which lives on what the flames devour, a grey landscape surrounding me with scorch, a crucifixion by a single wound, a sky and earth that darken by each hour, a sob of blood whose red ribbon adorns a lyre without a pulse, and oils the torch, a tide which stuns and strands me on the reef, a scorpion scrambling, stinging in my chest-- this is the wreath of love, this bed of thorns is where I dream of you stealing my rest, haunting these sunken ribs cargoed with grief. I sought the peak of prudence, but I found the hemlock-brimming valley of your heart, and my own thirst for bitter truth and art. - Stigmata of Love

ليس هناك من ليلة لا يشعر فيها المرء، بابتسامة ناس بلا وجوه،وهو يعطي قبلة

Modern poetry, for me, began not in English at all but in Spanish, in the poems of Lorca.

Verde que te quiero verde

Pero yo ire, aunque un sol de alacranes me coma la sien.

لا تحملي ذكراك. دعيها وحيدة في صدري. ارتعاش لكرز أبيض، في عذاب كانون الثاني. يفصلني عن الأموات

دوماً .. دوماً .. يابستانَ لوعتي جسدكِ يهربُ مني دوماً الدم في عروقكِ وسط فمي وفمكِ دونَ نورٍ يرقبُ موتي.

يا حب ، يا عدوي، كيف يعض جذرك المر.

في الصباح الأخضر أردت أن أكون قلباً قلباً . وفي المساءِ اليانع أردت أن أكونَ عندليباً عندليباً . ( ياروح.. كوني بلونِ البرتقال ياروح.. كوني بلونِ الحب ) . في الصباح المفعمْ أردت أن أكون أنا كالقلبْ . وفي نهايةِ المساء أردت أن يكون صوتي العندليب . ياروح.. كوني بلون البرتقال ياروح.. كوني بلون الحب

The little 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's clothes.) - The Little Mute Boy Translated by William S. Merwin

I'll go to Santiago. And the banana tree a jellyfish.

I tried sex once with a woman and it was Gala. It was overated. I tried sex once with a man and that man was the famous juggler Frederico Garcia Lorca. It was very painful.

In the rain-swept afternoon my heart discovers the tragedy of autumn raining from the trees.

I taste you in the fleshy fruit of the guayaba that melts as slowly as your kisses in my mouth – your eyes that explode in sunlight, your humid, fluid voice the soft, oceanic touch of your fingertips.

The duende....Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child's saliva, crushed grass, and medusa's veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things.

Quixote shines from Lorca and Picasso, From Dalí and El Greco, From the gloomy 'View of Toledo.' He was born before Cervantes.

Una pausa en mi escritura para ver que vuelve a ser madrugada, que sigues en el firmamento. Que no mueres, auque te maten. Federico...

There are dewdrops on the nightingale's wings, bright beads of moon distilled by hope. On the marble fountain is the kiss of water, dream of humble stars...

En la tarde lluviosa mi corazon aprende la tragedia otonal que los arboles lleuven.

أريد العودة الى الطفولة ومن الطفولة الى الظل أتذهب ايها العندليب ؟ اذهب اريد ان أعود الى الظل ومن الظل الى الزهرة أتذهب ايها الشذى ......... أريد أن اعود الى الزهرة ومن الزهرة قلب

Al gemir la santa niña, quiebra el cristal de las copas. La rueda afila cuchillos y garfios de aguda comba: brama el toro de los yunques, y Mérida se corona de nardos casi despiertos y tallos de zarzamora.

Zeleno, volim te, zeleno. Zelen vetar, zelene grane. Brod na moru i konj u planini. Opasana senkom ona sanja na verandi, zelene puti, kose zelene, sa očima od hladnog srebra. Zeleno, volim te, zeleno! Pod lunom Cigankom stvari pilje u nju a ona ih ne vidi. Zeleno, volim te, zeleno! Velike zvezde od inja dolaze sa ribom senke što otvara put zori. Smokva trlja vetar korom svojih grana, a breg, mačak lupež, ježi svoje ljute agave. Ali ko će doći? I odakle? Ona čeka na balkonu, zelene puti, kose zelene, sanjajuci gorko more. -Kume, daću ti konja za kuću, sedlo za njeno ogledalo, nož za njen ogrtač. Kume, dolazim krvareći iz Kabrinih klanaca. -Kad bih mogao, mladiću, lako bi se nagodili. Ali ja više nisam ja niti je moj dom više moj. Kume, hoću da umrem pristojno u svojoj postelji od čelika i, ako je moguce, sa holandskim čaršavima... Zar ne vidiš moju ranu od grudi do grla? -Trista crnih ruža pokrivaju tvoj beli grudnjak. Krv ti vri i miriše oko pojasa. Ali ja više nisam ja niti je moj dom više moj. -Pusti me bar na visoke verande, pusti me da se popnem! Pusti me na zelene verande. Verandice mesečeve, gde kaplje voda. Već se penju dva kuma na visoke verande. Ostavljajući trag krvi. Ostavljajući trag suza. Drhtali su krovovi, fenjerčići od lima. Hiljadu staklenih defova ranjavalo je zoru. Zeleno, volim te, zeleno! Zelen vetar, zelene grane. Dva kuma su se popela. Širok vetar ostavljao je u ustima čudan ukus žuči, mentola i bosiljka. -Kume, gde je, reci mi, gde je tvoje gorko devojče? -Koliko puta te je čekala sveža lica, crne kose, na toj zelenoj verandi. Nad ogledalom bunara Ciganka se njiha. Zelene puti, kose zelene, sa očima od hladnog srebra. Mesečev stalaktit od leda drži je nad vodom. Noć je postala intimna kao mali trg. Pijani su žandari lupali na vrata. Zeleno, volim te, zeleno! Zelene vetar, zelene grane. Brod na moru i konj u planini. - ROMANSA MESECARKA

E é justo? E é possível que uma coisa tão pequena como uma pistola ou uma navalha possa dar cabo de um homem, que é um touro? Nao vou me calar nunca. Os meses passam e o desespero me perfura os olhos e pica até nas pontas do cabelo.

Nietzscheja sem prežvečil in prebavil v treh dneh. Po tem velikem zalogaju mi je ostala samo še ena podrobnost osebnosti tega filozofa, še zadnji oreh, ki ga je bilo treba streti: njegovi brki! Federico Garcia Lorca, ki je bil očaran nad Hitlerjevimi brki, je pozneje izjavil, da "so brki tragična konstanta moškega obraza". Celo z brki sem nameraval preseči Nietzscheja! Moji že ne bodo zamorjeni, katastrofični, obteženi z wagnerjansko glasbo in meglo. Ne! Moji bodo zašiljeni, imperialistični, ultraracianalistični in usmerjeni k nebu, kot vertikalni misticizem, kot španski vertikalni sindikati.

De todas as pessoas que conheci, Federico vem em primeiro lugar. Não falo nem de seu teatro nem de sua poesia, falo dele. A obra-prima era ele. Parece inclusive difícil imaginar alguém comparável. Quer ao piano imitando Chopin, quer improvisando uma pantomima, um esquete teatral, era irresistível. Podia ler qualquer coisa, a beleza sempre jorrava de seus lábios. Ele tinha a paixão, a alegria, a juventude. Era uma labareda. Quando o conheci, na Residência dos Estudantes, eu era um atleta provinciano bem tacanho. Pela força da nossa amizade, ele me transformou, me fez conhecer outro mundo. Devo a ele mais do que consigo dizer. Seus restos mortais nunca foram encontrados. Lendas circularam sobre sua morte, e Dalí – de um jeito bem ignóbil – chegou a falar em crime homossexual, o que é totalmente absurdo. Na realidade, Federico morreu porque era poeta. Nessa época, do outro lado, ouvia-se gritar: “Morte à inteligência!

...My voice is stained with bloody light, and I see irises dry up at its touch; in my song I wear the finery of a white-faced clown. Love, sweet Love, hides under a spider. The sun, another spider, hides me under legs of gold. I will not find my fortune, for I am like Love himself, whose arrows are tears, and whose quiver is the heart...

Ovo je prolog… Knjiga je pjesama kao umrla jesen: Stihovi su lišće crno na zemlji bijeloj. … A pjesnik razumije sve što je nerazumljivo i stvari što se mrze on drugama zove. Njemu je znano da su sve staze nemoguće i zbog toga noću po njima tiho hoda. … Poezija je gorčina, nebeski med što teče iz nevidljiva saća što ga stvaraju duše. Ljupke knjige stihova zvijezde su što prolaze kroz nijemu tišinu u kraljevstvo Ničega, ispisujući po nebu svoje strofe od srebra.

Poetry was a discipline grounded in experience that drew its life and worth from a source much greater than oneself, and as it realized its potential to touch others in their innermost being, what [Kathleen] Fraser has termed their "yearning side," it could be a profoundly communal act. Poetry, when it succeeded, did so in ways that were not quantifiable, and did not look much like worldly success, but that might be summed up as the joy on the face of a girl in a dingy classroom who finds a kindred spirit in a poem by Garcia Lorca.

Je la pris près de la rivière Car je la croyais sans mari Tandis qu'elle était adultère Ce fut la Saint Jacques la nuit Par rendez vous et compromis Quand s'éteignirent les lumiéres Et s'allumèrent les cri-cri Au coin des dernières enceintes Je touchai ses seins endormis Sa poitrine pour moi s'ouvrit Comme des branches de jacinthes Et dans mes oreilles l'empois De ses jupes amidonnées Crissait comme soie arrachée Par dix couteaux à la fois Les cimes d'arbres sans lumière Grandissaient au bord du chemin Et tout un horizon de chiens Aboyaient loin de la rivière Quand nous avons franchi les ronces Les épines et les ajoncs Sous elle son chignon s'enfonce Et fait untrou dans le limon Quand ma cravate fut otée Elle retira son jupon Puis quand j'otai mon ceinturon Quatre corsages d'affilée Ni le nard ni les escargots N'eurent jamais la peau si fine Ni sous la lune les cristaux N'ont de lueur plus cristalline Ses cuisses s'enfuyaient sous moi Comme des truites effrayées L'une moitié toute embrasée L'autre moitié pleine de froid Cette nuit me vit galoper De ma plus belle chevauchée Sur une pouliche nacrée Sans bride et sans étriers ......

¡Cigarra! ¡Dichosa tú!, que sobre el lecho de tierra mueres borracha de luz. Tú sabes de las campiñas el secreto de la vida, y el cuento del hada vieja que nacer hierba sentía en ti quedóse guardado. ¡Cigarra! ¡Dichosa tú!, pues mueres bajo la sangre de un corazón todo azul. La luz es Dios que desciende, y el sol brecha por donde se filtra. [...]

Look at the stars, look at the moon streaked in the water, look at the Picasso face in the sky that breathes the words of Lorca on the cheeks of the crossed ones who long to touch, too confused to wander.

A dandy," wrote Charles Baudelaire, "must be looking in his mirror at all times, waking and sleeping." Dali could easily have become the living proof of Baudelaire's dictum. But the literal mirror was not enough for him. Dali needed mirrors of many kinds: his pictures, his admirers, newspapers and magazines and television. And even that still left him unsatisfied. So one Christmas he took a walk in the streets of New York carrying a bell. He would ring it whenever he felt people were not paying enough attention to him. "The thought of not being recognised was unbearable." True to himself to the bitter end, he delighted in following Catalonian television's bulletins on his state of health during his last days alive (in Quiron hospital in Barcelona); he wanted to hear people talking about him, and he also wanted to know whether his health would revive or whether he would be dying soon. At the age of six he wanted to be a female cook - he specified the gender. At seven he wanted to be Napoleon. "Ever since, my ambition has been continually on the increase, as has my megalomania: now all I want to be is Salvador Dali. But the closer I get to my goal, the further Salvador Dali drifts away from me." He painted his first picture in 1910 at the age of six. At ten he discovered Impressionist art, and at fourteen the Pompiers (a 19th century group of academic genre painters, among them Meissonier, Detaille and Moreau). By 1927 he was Dali, and the poet and playwright Federico Garcia Lorca, a friend of his youth, wrote an 'Ode to Salvador Dali.' Years later Dali claimed that Lorca had been very attracted to him and had tride to sodomize him, but had not quite managed it. Dali's thirst for scandal was unquenchable. His parents had named him Salvador "because he was the chosen one who was come to save painting from the" deadly menace of abstract art, academic Surrealism, Dadaism, and any kind of anarchic "ism" whatsoever." If he had lived during the Renaissance, his genius would have been recognized at an earlier stage and indeed considered normal. But in the twentieth century, which Dali damned as stupid, he was thought provocative, a thorn in the flesh. To this day there are many who misunderstand the provocativeness and label him insane. But Dali repeatedly declared: "... the sole difference between me and a madman is the fact that I am not mad!" Dali also said: "The difference between the Surrealists and me is that I am a Surrealist" - which is perfectly true. And he also claimed: "I have the universal curiosity of Renaissance men, and my mental jaws are constantly at work.

Tracy K. Smith, in her essay “Survival in Two Worlds at Once: Federico Garcia Lorca and Duende” argues that we poets can’t assume that the goblin will roost in our art. If there’s duende in our poems, it’s a happy accident, a result of living in such a way that makes the goblin curious enough to visit. She loves the concept of duende, she says, because it supposes that we don’t write poems to win the reader’s approval: we write poems in order to engage in the perilous yet necessary struggle to inhabit ourselves—our real selves, the ones we barely recognize—more completely. It is then that the duende beckons, promising to impart “something newly created, like a miracle,” then it winks inscrutably and begins its game of feint and dodge, lunge and parry, goad and shirk. . . . You’ll get your miracle, but only if you can decipher the music of the battle, only if you’re willing to take risk after risk. If we write poems that face our unique struggles, attempting to find “our real selves,” duende might grant us a “miracle”: that is, the poem. Duende, it seems, doesn’t care who the artist is or what they believe, but only that the work reeks of human struggle. Of feelings exposed. Of the “bare, forked animal” smeared in blood and mud.

The day that hunger is eradicated from the Earth there will be the greatest spiritual explosion the world has ever known. Humanity cannot imagine the joy that will burst into the world on the day of that great revolution.” (Frederico Garcia Lorca)

Els Quatre Gats was just a five-minute walk from our house and one of my favourite haunts. My parents had met there in 1932, and I attributed my one-way ticket into this world in part to the old cafe's charms. Stone dragons guarded a lamplit facade. Inside, voices seemed to echo with shadows of other times. Accountants, dreamers, and would-be geniuses shared tables with the spectres of Pablo Picasso, Isaac Albeniz, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Salvador Dali. There any poor devil could pass for a historical figure for the price of a small coffee.

A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying I am Frederico Garcia Lorca risen from the dead–

Mano mėgiamiausi poetai? Karalius Dovydas, Karalius Saliamonas, Ekleziastas; Lamartine, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Lautreamont, Valéry, Marie Noël, Jouve; Angelus Silesius, Goethe, Hölderlin, Nietzsche, George, Hofmannsthal, Rilke, Traki, Langgasser; Leopardi, Campana, Montale; San Juan de la Cruz, Garcia Lorca, Blake, Keats, Hopkins, Yeats; Donelaitis, Maironis, Putinas, Aistis (pirmos 4 knygos). Bet mano preferencijos nuolat kinta Mano mėgiamiausi tapytojai? Piero della Francesca, Benozzo Gozzoli, Botticelli, Tiziano, Piero di Cosimo, Magnasco; Claude Lorrain, Georges de la Tour, Watteau, Fragonard, Chardin, Manet, Renoir, Soutine, Duffy, Chagall, Sérafine; Brueghel (Senasis), Memling, Hobbema, Vermeer; Dürer, Lucas Cranach (Senasis), Kokoschka; Gainsborough, Palmer; El Greco, Velazquez, Goya, Dali; Galdikas, Samuolis, Vizgirda, Valeška, Gudaitis.

The work of Hafiz became known to the West largely through the passion of Goethe. His enthusiasm deeply affected Ralph Waldo Emerson, who then translated Hafiz in the nineteenth century. Emerson said of Hafiz, 'Hafiz is a poet for poets,; and Goethe remarked, 'Hafiz has no peer.'Hafiz's poems were also admired by such diverse notables as Nietzsche and Arthur Conan Doyle, whose wonderful character Sherlock Holmes quotes Hafiz; Garcia Lorca praised him, the famous composer Johannes Brahs was so touched by his verse he put several lines into compositions, and even Queen Victoria was said to have consulted the works of Hafiz in times of need. The range of Hafiz's verse in indeed stunning. He says, 'I am a hole in a flute that the Christ's breath moves through--listen to this music.' In another poem Hafiz playfully sings, 'Look at the smile on the earth's lips this morning, she laid again with me last night.