Sol, sun, eguzki

FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA 

Federico Garcia Lorca was born on the 5th of June, 1898 at Fuentevaqueros,
near Granada in Spain.

The work of Federico Garcia Lorca, Spain's greatest modern poet, has long been
admire for its emotional intensity and metaphorical brilliance. Few poets take us
more directly and memorably to what Lorca described as "the dark root of the
scream," the terrain of the "duende", where inspiration delivers a new poetic
reality and "intelligence" discovers it limitations.

The Generation of 1927

In the 1920s, the regenerating winds of aesthetic avant-guardism blew across Europe with vigour. Outstanding Spanish personalities such as Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dali and Luis Buñuel figures largely in the movement. The work of the former was intimately tied to his Spanish roots and an excessive and baroque temperament, full of contrasts which seemed to characterize Spanish art. It was Picasso, who, with the Cubist style, wrote the first page of 20th century painting. Admirers of this painter from Malaga can appreciate his Guernica, the portrait depicting the horror of the Nazi bombing of this Basque town during the Civil War, in the Museo de Arte Reina Sofia in Madrid.

In Barcelona, art-lovers can visit Avino Street, the symbolic cradle of Cubism embodied in Las Senoritas de Avignon. There is also the splendid Picasso Museum in the centre of the Gothic quarter, which houses a number of works of his youth, as well as many engravings and the series of paintings inspired by Las Meninas of Velazquez.

Madrid was the birthplace of the Cubist, Juan Gris, who succeeded in reducing the objects he painted to their chromatic mass and elemental geometric properties. And Catalunya can claim parentage of Juan Miro,the master of surrealism, who was profoundly poetic and original, with his infantile style betraying wise vision. A large part of his work is exhibited in the Miro Foundation in Barcelona, which is houses in a superb building designed by the architec Josep Luis Sert.

Also associated with surrealism is Salvador Dali, an exceptional artist, who liked to provoke bourgeois sensibility with shocking and calculate gestures. Dali had lived with Luis Bunuel and Federico Garcia Lorca in the 1920s at the Student Residence (Residencia de Estudiantes) in Madrid. This institution enormously important for its intellectual ambiance and great artistic fertility of its lodgers, persists today as a thriving cultural centre and the site of the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas. It was there that the group of poets known as the Generation of '27 was born.

For the first time since the beginning of the 17th century, a group of preeminent lyric talents coincided in Spain: Jorge Guillen, Pedro Salinas, Federico Garcia Lorca, Rafael Alberti, the Nobel Prize winner Vicente Aleixandre, Luis Cernuda, Damaso Alonso, Gerardo Diego,... Culturally speaking, the Generation of '27 represented a unique moment in which the prevailing impressions were of the carefree attitude of the avantguard, the illusion of modernist art and the optimism of the old Continent between the wars. In Spain, this ambiance flourished ephemerally in the heady atmosphere created by the proclamation of the Second Republic. Young artists were entranced with the world of cinema, the 'lights of the city', the rupture with the bourgeoisie, the art of realism and the illusion of a political and aesthetic revolution.

Several years later, all of them suffered the tremendous lacerations of the Civil War. Federico Garcia Lorca was assassinated by the Nationalists and his dramatic death symbolized that of an entire creative Generation. Rafael Alberti, Luis Cernuda, Pedro Salinas, Jorge Guillen, Rosa Chacel and Maria Zambrano were forced to go into exile. Their poetry, which had brought to Spanish lyricism the ideal of perfection in 'pure poetry', became more temporal, more reflective. (From: Si España)

 

Camino

Cien jinetes enlutados,

¿donde irán,

por el cielo yacente

del naranjal?

Ni a Córdoba ni a Sevilla

llegarán.

Ni a Granada la que suspira

por el mar.

Esos caballos soñolientos

los llevarán,

al laberinto de las cruces

donde tiembla el cantar.

con siete ayes clavados,

¿donde iran

los cien jinetes andaluces

del naranjal?

LAS SEIS CUERDAS

La guitarra,

hace llorar a los sueños.

El sollozo de las almas

perdidas,

se escapa por su boca

redonda.

Y como la tarántula

teje una gran estrella

para cazar suspiros,

que flotan en su negro

aljibe de madera.

ROMANCE DE LA LUNA LUNA

La luna vino a la fragua

con su polison de nardos.

El niño la mira, mira.

El niño la esta mirando.

En el aire conmovido

mueve la luna sus brazos

y enseña, lúbrica y pura,

sus senos de duro estaño.

-Huye luna, luna, luna.

Si vinieran los gitanos,

harian con tu corazón

collares y anillos blancos.

-Niño, déjame que baile.

Cuando vengan los gitanos,

te encontrarán sobre el yunque

con los ojillos cerrados.

-Huye, luna, luna, luna,

que ya siento los caballos.

-Niño, déjame, no pises

mi blancor almidonado

El jinete se acercaba

tocando el tambor del llano.

Detro de la fragua el niño

tiene los ojos cerrados.

Por el olivar venian,

bronce y sueño, los gitanos.

Las cabezas levantadas

y los ojos entornados.

Como canta la zumaya,

ay, como canta en el arbol!

Por el cielo va la luna

con un niño de la mano.

Dentro de la fragua lloran,

dando gritos, los gitanos.

El aire la vela, vela.

El aire la está velando.

CUATRO BALADAS AMARILLAS

En lo alto de aquel monte

hay un arbolito verde.

Pastor que vas,

pastor que vienes.

Olivares soñolientos

bajan al llano caliente.

Pastor que vas,

Pastor que vienes.

Ni ovejas blancas ni perro

ni cayado ni amor tienes.

Pastor que vas,

Como una sombra de oro,

en el trigal te disuelves.

pastor que vienes.

II

La tierra estaba

amarilla.

Orillo, orillo,

pastorcillo.

Ni luna blanca

ni estrella lucían.

Orillo, orillo,

pastorcillo.

Vendimiadora morena

corta el llanto de la viña.

Orillo, orillo,

pastorcillo

III

Dos bueyes rojos

en el campo de oro.

Los bueyes tienen ritmo

de campanas antiguas

y ojos de pájaro.

Son para las mañanas

de niebla, y sin embargo

horalda la naranja

del aire, en el verano.

Viejos desde que nacen

no tienen amo

y recuerdan las alas

de sus costados.

Los bueyes

siempre van suspirando

por los campos de Ruth

en busca del vado,

del eterno vado,

borrachos de luceros

a rumiarse sus llantos.

Dos bueyes rojos.

en el campo de oro.

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 Señor me premió

con la rosa y el halo.

Sobre el cielo

de las margaritas ando.

Y ahora voy

por este campo

a librar a las niñas

de galanes malos

y dar monedas de oro

a todos los muchachos.

Sobre el cielo

de las margaritas ando.

 

Federico Garcia Lorca

Claudia Verano DaMetz

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