UNDER LORCA’S SHADOW: Two Contemporary Spanish Poets [by Sharon Dolin]

Photo of a cave in Granada where I saw a flamenco performance, with a large photo of Lorca

[My apologies for the temporary hiatus in these posts. No wi-fi that I could discover in all of Córdoba.]

With the assistance of the local librarian in Mojácar, I have found some poetry being written in Spain today. From what I can tell, Lorca still casts a long shadow over contemporary Spanish poetry, which may not be a bad thing at all. Luis García Montero, born in Granada in 1958, has written a three-part homage to Lorca entitled “To Federico, With Violets.” Here is my translation of the second part.

                           To Federico, With Violets   

                                                II                       

                        and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

                                                                                  F. G. L.

After

the tired rush of the last trains

nothing returns. Only your face

over Broadway remains

and it is difficult, from so much solitude,

to close your eyes without doubting you exist.

Absurd

this fiery tongue that splits itself, indomitable, over our hearts,

many-shaped and wounded

that bursts and seems

the forced smile of a broken mask.

Alone

the city disguises itself in a chill

and its eyes, lined and blind,

score you

like teeth marks that forgot themselves in your shoulders.

Then

alcohol and blood denudes your lips

because night comes,

because death arrives on a folded arm

to leave you alone with your years.

Sad among the olive trees,

while Harlem leaves its windows ajar,

time is a breeze that already no one remembers.

Lorca's summer house in Granada, Huerta de San Vicente, the last place he lived before he was seized by the Civil Guard at a neighbor's house and killed

Here is a poem by another contemporary poet, José Manuel Caballero Bonald, from Gallego, I believe, whose first book appeared in 1952. I translated this poem from a volume called  Love Poetry, published in Seville in 1999. In future posts I hope to be turning to women, still a minority among poets, who are currently writing poetry in Spain.

                                    A Book, a Glass, Nothing

Every night I leave
my loneliness between books, open

the door to oracles

burn my soul with the fire

of the psalmist.

                          The contrary

desire for danger keeps me awake,

smashes the vigilant

thirst for living by my words.

Every night joined uselessly

the remains of the day, I distance myself

from the funereal time of indifference,

I consist of what I have been.

(A forgotten hand between the bed sheets

tears paper, burns up

the residue of sleep.)

                                   Oh you who are possessed

by no one, why

so many vain pages, so many

vacuous days? Look

around you—what remains? We are

alone, all absence fits between love and its cracks. Here

my stubbornness is my happiness:

a book, a glass, nothing.

Comments

[Marion miller]

Can you identify this poet please
"Verdes arboles,Rojas y Rosas ,es solo un papel inerto trateis como otre USO" it is hand written and could be signed JR or Murtagh? ( found in Andalusia)

[Sharon Dolin]

It sounds like a popular song. Sorry I can't be of more help.