Federico García Lorca: “Little Tree”

Little Tree

 

Translated by Isobel Wells (University of St Andrews)

 

Little tree, little tree,

Dry and green.

 

The girl is collecting olives,

young and fair of face.

The wind, seducer of towers,

takes her by the waist.

Four men on horseback pass by

atop Andalusian mares,

draped in blue and green dress,

capes long and dark of wear.

“Come to Cordoba, fair maiden.”

But the young girl does not listen.

Three young matadors pass by,

their waists so slight and slender,

adorned in the colour orange,

carrying swords of ancient silver.

“Come to Seville, fair maiden.”

But the young girl does not listen.

As the sky turns violet

in the dimly lit afternoon,

a young man passes by, carrying

roses and myrtles by the light of the moon

“Come to Granada, fair maiden.”

But the young girl does not listen.

The girl continues collecting olives,

young and fair of face,

as the grey arm of the wind

seizes her by the waist.

 

Little tree, little tree,

dry and green.

Federico García Lorca: “The Gipsy Nun”

 

The Gipsy Nun

 

Translated by Thea Mair (University of St Andrews)

 

White lime and myrtle’s silence. 

Mallows in fine sod. 

The nun sews jewel-like flowers 

on a cloth as pale as straw. 

In the spidery grey of the chandelier, 

seven spectral birds soar. 

The church, a bear, belly up,

growls on from afar.  

She sews so skillfully, with such ease! 

She longs to stitch

across that cloth

the flowers of her fantasy.

Such sunflowers and magnolias live in 

sequins and ribbons!

Such moonflowers and crocuses grace

the Mass napery!

Five grapefruits grow sweet 

in the nearby kitchen. 

The five wounds of Christ 

made new in Almería. 

Through the eyes of the nun, 

a pair of horsemen gallop. 

A last, muffled murmur

strips her of her shift and,

gazing on the clouds and mountains

of the listless distance, 

her heart of sugar

and verbena breaks.

Twenty suns crown

that erect plain!

In her fantasy she can still perceive

Those standing rivers! 

Yet she persists with her flowers

While above, on the breeze, 

The light plays high chess 

With the window’s tracery.

 

La monja gitana

 

Silencio de cal y mirto.

Malvas en las hierbas finas.

La monja borda alhelíes

sobre una tela pajiza.

Vuelan en la araña gris,

siete pájaros del prisma.

La iglesia gruñe a lo lejos

como un oso panza arriba.

¡Qué bien borda! ¡Con qué gracia!

Sobre la tela pajiza,

ella quisiera bordar

flores de su fantasía.

¡Qué girasol! ¡Qué magnolia

de lentejuelas y cintas!

¡Qué azafranes y qué lunas,

en el mantel de la misa!

Cinco toronjas se endulzan

en la cercana cocina.

Las cinco llagas de Cristo

cortadas en Almería.

Por los ojos de la monja

galopan dos caballistas.

Un rumor último y sordo

le despega la camisa,

y al mirar nubes y montes

en las yertas lejanías,

se quiebra su corazón

de azúcar y yerbaluisa.

¡Oh!, qué llanura empinada

con veinte soles arriba.

¡Qué ríos puestos de pie

vislumbra su fantasía!

Pero sigue con sus flores,

mientras que de pie, en la brisa,

la luz juega el ajedrez

alto de la celosía.

Federico García Lorca: “The Wounds of Love”

The Wounds of Love

 

Translated by Cliona Kennedy (University of St Andrews)

 

This light, this devouring fire.

This grey landscape which enshrouds me.

This sorrow centred upon one idea.

This agony of sky, of world and of time.

These tears of blood which adorn

an unplucked lyre, a lustful torch.

This weight of the sea that crushes me.

This scorpion which dwells in my heart.

They are love’s garland, the wounded’s bed.

Where awake, I dream of your presence

amidst the wreckage of my sunken heart.

Although I struggle to wisdom’s height

your heart has spread before me a valley

of hemlock, and knowledge of bitter passion.

 

Llagas de amor

 

Esta luz, este fuego que devora.

Este paisaje gris que me rodea.

Este dolor por una sola idea.

Esta angustia de cielo, mundo y hora.

Este llanto de sangre que decora

lira sin pulso ya, lúbrica tea.

Este peso del mar que me golpea.

Este alacrán que por mi pecho mora.

Son guirnalda de amor, cama de herido,

donde sin sueño, sueño tu presencia

entre las ruinas de mi pecho hundido.

Y aunque busco la cumbre de prudencia

me da tu corazón valle tendido

con cicuta y pasión de amarga ciencia.