Federico Garcia Lorca’s Views on Poetry and War, and Three Poems
From the book Federico Garcia Lorca: A Life by Ian Gibson
Lorca had come to loathe militarism at a time when the Spanish press was full of accounts of the bloody fighting on the other side of the Pyrenees and the lives of Spains’s soldiers were being squandered in the futile, never-ending war in the Moroccan protectorate against the forces of Abd el-Karim. In an essay entitled “Patriotism “, dated 1917, Lorca writes:
We ought, in the schools, to produce citizens who love peace and know the message of the Gospel. We ought to produce men who are unaware of the wretched Ferdinand the Holy, [and other kings]. We ought to inspire our children by telling them that Spain was the cradle of Don Quixote the Divine and of our many poets … last drop of our blood for her!
We must be the sons of the true fatherland: the fatherland of love and equality.
In May 1918, one of Lorca’s fans, Adriano del Valle y Rossi, who corresponded with the poet, asked him whether he supported the Germans or the French in the war. Here is a part of Lorca’s reply:
... We all have a desire not to suffer, and to be good, but which the strength of temptation and the overwhelming tragedy of our physiology take it upon themselves to destroy … I believe that we are surrounded by the souls of those who died and that it is they who prompt our sorrows and they who propel us into the kingdom inhabited by the blue-and–white virgin called Melancholy – that is to say, the kingdom of poetry (I can conceive of no poetry other than the lyrical). I entered it a long time ago now – I was ten and I fell in love. Then I became totally engulfed on talking up the unique religion of Music and clothing myself in the mantles of passion that She bestows on those who love her. Then I entered the kingdom of poetry and was anointed with love for all things. I am a decent fellow, in sum, and open my heart to everyone … Naturally, I am a great admirer of France and hate militarism with all my soul, but really all I feel is a vast yearning for Humanity. Why struggle against the flesh while the fearsome problem of the soul is uppermost? ...
I am a great Romantic, and that’s my principal pride. In a century of
Zeppelines and idiotic deaths, I weep at my piano dreaming of the Handelian
mist. I write verses very much my own, praising equally Christ and Buddha,
Muhammad and Pan.
Arbolé, Arbolé
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.
Gacela of the Dark Death
I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
I don't want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all its blood,
how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.
I'd rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for
nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn
with its snakelike nose.
I want to sleep for half a second,
a second, a minute, a century,
but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,
that I have a golden manger inside my lips,
that I am the little friend of the west wind,
that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.
When it's dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me
because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,
and pour a little hard water over my shoes
so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.
Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,
because I want to live with that shadowy child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
Romance Sonambulo
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees
around the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.
Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.
Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
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