What Is Found There

For Fernando Vela

Under the multiplications,
a drop of duck’s blood;
under the divisions,
a drop of a sailor’s blood;
under the additions, a river of tender blood.
A river that sings and flows
past bedrooms in the boroughs-
and it’s money, cement or wind
in New York’s counterfeit dawn.
I know the mountains do exist.
And without wisdom’s eyeglasses,
too. But I didn’t come to see the sky.
I’m here to see the clouded blood,
the blood that sweeps machines over waterfalls
and the soul toward the cobra’s tongue.
Every day in New York, they slaughter,
four million ducks,
five million hogs,
two thousand pigeons to accommodate the tastes of the dying,
one million cows,
one million roosters
that smash the skies into pieces.

It’s better to sob while honing the blade
or kill dogs on the delirious hunts
than to resist at dawn
the endless milk trains,
the endless blood trains
and the trains of roses, manacled
by the dealers in perfume. Read more…

Federico García Lorca

I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.

I don’t want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don’t want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent’s mouth
that labors before dawn.

I want to sleep awhile, awhile,
a minute, a century;
but all must know that I have not died;
that there is a stable of gold in my lips;
that I am the small friend of the West wind;
that I am the immense shadow of my tears.

Cover me at dawn with a veil,
because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me,
and wet with hard water my shoes
so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.

For I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to learn a lament that will cleanse me of the earth;
for I want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.

No quiero que me repitan que los muertos no pierden la sangre;
que la boca podrida sigue pidiendo agua.
No quiero enterarme de los martirios que da la hierba,
ni de la luna con boca de serpiente
que trabaja antes del amanecer.

Quiero dormir un rato,
un rato, un minuto, un siglo;
pero que todos sepan que no he muerto;
que hay un establo de oro en mis labios;
que soy el pequeño amigo del viento Oeste;
que soy la sombra inmensa de mis lágrimas.

Cúbreme por la aurora con un velo,
porque me arrojará puñados de hormigas,
y moja con agua dura mis zapatos
para que resbale la pinza de su alacrán.

Porque quiero dormir el sueño de las manzanas
para aprender un llanto que me limpie de tierra;
porque quiero vivir con aquel niño oscuro
que quería cortarse el corazón en alta mar.

Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca (1955), p. 165
Translation by Stephen Spender and J. L. Gili
steerforth.wordpress.com/2007/04/01/gacela-of-dark-death/

Federico García Lorca

The New York dawn has
four columns of filth
and a hurricane of black pigeons
that paddle in the putrid waters.

The New York dawn grieves
along the immense stairways,
seeking amidst the sharp edges
spice-plants of fine-drawn anguish.

The dawn comes and no one receives it in his mouth,
for no morning or hope is possible there.
Now and then mad swarms of nickels and dimes
puncture and devour abandoned children.

The first to come out understand in their bones
that there will be no paradise nor loves stripped of leaves:
they know they are going to the filth of figures and laws,
to artless games, to fruitless sweat.

The light is buried under chains and noises
in the ugly threat of rootless science.
Through the suburbs sleepless people stagger,
as though just delivered from a shipwreck of blood.

La aurora de Nueva York gime
por las inmensas escaleras
buscando entre las aristas
nardos de angustia dibujada.

La aurora llega y nadie la recibe en su boca
porque allí no hay mañana ni esperanza posible.
A veces las monedas en enjambres furiosos
taladran y devoran abandonados niños.

Los primeros que salen comprenden con sus huesos
que no habrá paraísos ni amores deshojados;
saben que van al cieno de números y leyes,
a los juegos sin arte, a sudores sin fruto.

La luz es sepultada por cadenas y ruidos
en impúdico reto de ciencia sin raíces.
Por los barrios hay gentes que vacilan insomnes
como recién salidas de un naufragio de sangre.

The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca (1955), p. 122
Based on translations by Robert Bly, and Stephen Spender/J. L. Gili
www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180659

Federico García Lorca

The New York dawn has
four columns of filth
and a hurricane of black doves
that putter in the putrid waters.

The New York dawn groans
up the immense stairways,
searching along the sharp edges
for spice-plants of fine-drawn anguish.

The dawn comes and no one receives it in his mouth,
for there neither tomorrow nor hope is possible.
Only now and then mad swarms of furious coins
sting and devour the abandoned children.

The first to leave their houses know in their bones
there’ll be no paradise nor amours stripped of leaves:
they know they are going to the filth of figures and laws,
to artless games, to fruitless work.

The light is buried under chains and noises
in the ugly threat of rootless science.
Through the suburbs people stagger without sleep,
as though recently rescued from a shipwreck of blood.

Read more…

Federico García Lorca