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The Terrible Thing Is That The Crowd That Fills The Street Believes That The World Will Always Be The Same And That It Is Their Duty To Keep That Huge Machine Running, Day And Night, Forever. This Is What Comes Of A Protestant Morality, That I, As A (thank God) Typical Spaniard, Found Unnerving.

-Federico Garcia Lorca

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The Terrible Thing Is

Federico Garcia Lorca

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The Terrible Thing Is That The Crowd That Fills The Street Believes That The World Will Always Be The Same And That It Is Their Duty To Keep That Huge Machine Running, Day And Night, Forever. This Is What Comes Of A Protestant Morality, That I, As A (thank God) Typical Spaniard, Found Unnerving.

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The Duende....where Is The Duende? Through The Empty Archway A Wind Of The Spirit Enters, Blowing Insistently Over The Heads Of The Dead, In Search Of New Landscapes And Unknown Accents: A Wind With The Odour Of A Child's Saliva, Crushed Grass, And Medusa's Veil, Announcing The Endless Baptism Of Freshly Created Things.

The Weeping Of The Guitar Begins. The Goblets Of Dawn Are Smashed. The Weeping Of The Guitar Begins. Useless To Silence It. Impossible To Silence It. It Weeps Monotonously As Water Weeps As The Wind Weeps Over Snowfields. Impossible To Silence It. It Weeps For Distant Things. Hot Southern Sands Yearning For White Camellias. Weeps Arrow Without Target Evening Without Morning And The First Dead Bird On The Branch. Oh, Guitar! Heart Mortally Wounded By Five Swords.

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Even Money, Which Shines So Much, Spits Sometimes.

Moon Like A Large Stainedglass Window That Breaks On The Ocean.

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Hail, Mute Devil! You Are The Most Intense Animal. An Eternal Mystic Of The Fleshly Inferno.

But Hurry, Let's Entwine Ourselves As One, Our Mouth Broken, Our Soul Bitten By Love, So Time Discovers Us Safely Destroyed.

In The Garden I Will Die. In The Rosebush They Will Kill Me.

The Dancer's Trembling Heart Must Bring Everything Into Harmony, From The Tips Of Her Shoes To The Flutter Of Her Eyelashes, From The Ruffles Of Her Dress To The Incessant Play Of Her Fingers.

Green How I Love You Green. Green Wind. Green Boughs. The Ship On The Sea And The Horse On The Mountain.

Night Of Sleepless Love The Night Above. We Two. Full Moon. I Started To Weep, You Laughed. Your Scorn Was A God, My Laments Moments And Doves In A Chain. The Night Below. We Two. Crystal Of Pain. You Wept Over Great Distances. My Ache Was A Clutch Of Agonies Over Your Sickly Heart Of Sand. Dawn Married Us On The Bed, Our Mouths To The Frozen Spout Of Unstaunched Blood. The Sun Came Through The Shuttered Balcony And The Coral Of Life Opened Its Branches Over My Shrouded Heart.

New York Is A Meeting Place For Every Race In The World, But The Chinese, Armenians, Russians, And Germans Remain Foreigners. So Does Everyone Except The Blacks. There Is No Doubt But That The Blacks Exercise Great Influence In North America, And, No Matter What Anyone Says, They Are The Most Delicate, Spiritual Element In That World.

There Is Nothing More Poetic And Terrible Than The Skyscrapers' Battle With The Heavens That Cover Them.

I Want To Be A Poet, From Head To Toe, Living And Dying By Poetry.

The Snow Is Falling On The Deserted Field Of My Life, And My Hopes, Which Roam Far, Are Afraid Of Becoming Frozen Or Lost.

Every Step We Take On Earth Brings Us To A New World.

In Our Eyes The Roads Are Endless. Two Are Crossroads Of The Shadow.

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My Tongue Is Pierced With Glass.

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Everything's A Fan. Brother, Open Up Your Arms. God Is The Pivot.

Adam & Eve. The Serpent Cracked The Mirror In A Thousand Pieces, & The Apple Was His Rock.

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I Was Lucky Enough To See With My Own Eyes The Recent Stock-market Crash, Where They Lost Several Million Dollars, A Rabble Of Dead Money That Went Sliding Off Into The Sea.

The One Thing Life Has Taught Me Is That Most People Spend Their Lives Bottled Up Inside Their Houses Doing The Things They Hate.

I Put My Head Out Of My Window And See How Much The Wind’s Knife Wants To Slice It Off. On This Unseen Guillotine, I’ve Placed The Eyeless Head Of All My Desires.

The Poem, The Song, The Picture, Is Only Water Drawn From The Well Of The People, And It Should Be Given Back To Them In A Cup Of Beauty So That They May Drink - And In Drinking Understand Themselves.

What's The Furthest Corner? Because That's Where I Want To Be, Alone With The Only Thing That I Love.

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We're All Like The Little Sailor. From The Harbors We Hear The Strains Of Accordions And The Murky Soapy Noises Of The Docks, From The Mountains We Receive The Dish Of Silence That The Shepherds Eat, But We Don't Hear More Than Our Own Distances. And What Distances Without End And Without Doors And Without Mountains!

As I Have Not Worried To Be Born, I Do Not Worry To Die.

A Poet Must Be A Professor Of The Five Senses And Must Open Doors Among Them.

Life Is Laughter Amid A Rosary Of Death.

The Day We Stop Resisting Our Instincts, We'll Have Learned How To Live.

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Death Laid Its Eggs In The Wound

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I'm Afraid To Be On This Shore A Trunk Without Limbs, And What I Most Regret Is Not To Have Flower, Pulp, Or Clay For The Worm Of My Suffering.

The Day Hunger Disappears, The World Will See The Greatest Spiritual Explosion Humanity Has Ever Seen.

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In Each Thing There Is An Insinuation Of Death. Stillness, Silence, Serenity Are All Apprenticeships.

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Men Like To Pleasure Us, Girl. They Like To Undo Our Plaits And Give Us Water To Drink From Their Own Mouths. That's What Makes The World Go Round.

A Dead Man In Spain Is More Alive Than A Dead Man Anywhere In The World.

My God, I Have Come With The Seeds Of Questions. I Planted Them, And They Never Flowered.

Seville Is A Tower Full Of Fine Archers.... Under The Arch Of The Sky, Across The Clear Plain, She Shoots The Constant Arrow Of Her River.

Verde Que Te Quiero Verde. Verde Viento. Verde Ramas. Green I Love You Green. Green Wind. Green Branches.

I Know There Is No Straight Road No Straight Road In This World Only A Giant Labyrinth Of Intersecting Crossroads

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The Theater Has To Impose Itself On The Public, And Not The Public On The Theater... The Word "art" Should Be Written Everywhere, In The Auditorium And In The Dressing Rooms, Before The Word "business" Gets Written There.

Only Mystery Allows Us To Live, Only Mystery.

Angel And Muse Approach From Without; The Angel Sheds Light And The Muse Gives Form (hesiod Learned Of Them). Gold Leaf Or Chiton-folds: The Poet Finds His Models In His Laurel Coppice. But The Duende, On The Other Hand, Must Come To Life In The Nethermost Recesses Of The Blood.

We're All Curious About What Might Hurt Us.

The Important Thing In Life Is To Let The Years Carry Us Along.

The Artist, And Particularly The Poet, Is Always An Anarchist In The Best Sense Of The Word. He Must Heed Only The Call That Arises Within Him From Three Strong Voices: The Voice Of Death, With All Its Foreboding, The Voice Of Love And The Voice Of Art.

Variación / Variations El Remanso De Aire Bajo La Rama Del Eco. El Remanso Del Agua Bajo Fronda De Luceros. El Remanso De Tu Boca Bajo Espesura De Besos. * The Still Waters Of The Air Under The Bough Of The Echo. The Still Waters Of The Water Under A Frond Of Stars. The Still Waters Of Your Mouth Under A Thicket Of Kisses. Translated From The Spanish By Lysander Kemp

Relish The Fresh Landscape Of My Wound, Break Rushes And Delicate Rivulets, Drink Blood Poured On Honeyed Thigh.

Old Women Can See Through Walls.

While The Poet Wrestles With The Horses On His Brain And The Sculptor Wounds His Eyes On The Hard Spark Of Alabaster, The Dancer Battles The Air Around Her, Air That Threatens At Any Moment To Destroy Her Harmony Or To Open Huge Open Empty Spaces Where Her Rhythm Will Be Annihilated.

The Only Things That The United States Has Given To The World Are Skyscrapers, Jazz, And Cocktails. That Is All. And In Cuba, In Our America, They Make Much Better Cocktails.

I Will Always Be On The Side Of Those Who Have Nothing And Who Are Not Even Allowed To Enjoy The Nothing They Have In Peace.

Not For A Moment, Beautiful Aged Walt Whitman, Have I Failed To See Your Beard Full Of Butterflies.

Ever Since I Got Married I've Been Thinking Night And Day About Whose Fault It Was, And Every Time I Think About It, Out Comes A New Fault To Eat Up The Old One; But Always There's A Fault Left.

Today In My Heart A Vague Trembling Of Stars And All Roses Are As White As My Pain.

The World Is A Shoulder Of Dark Meat (black Flesh Of An Old Mule). And The Light Is On The Other Side.

Devoutly The Teachers Point Out Huge Fumigated Domes; But Beneath The Statues There's No Love, No Love Beneath The Eyes Set In Crystal. Love Is There, In Flesh Ripped By Thirst, In The Tiny Hut Struggling Against The Flood; Love Is There, In Ditches Where Snakes Of Hunger Wrestle, In The Sad Sea That Rocks Dead Gulls, And In The Darkest Stinging Kiss Under Pillows.

In Spain, The Dead Are More Alive Than The Dead Of Any Other Country In The World.

Little Black Horse. Where Are You Taking Your Dead Rider?

Death, Lonely Death, Beneath The Withered Leaves.

Withered Leaves

I've Often Lost Myself, In Order To Find The Burn That Keeps Everything Awake

The Terrible Thing Is That The Crowd That Fills The Street Believes That The World Will Always Be The Same And That It Is Their Duty To Keep That Huge Machine Running, Day And Night, Forever. This Is What Comes Of A Protestant Morality, That I, As A (thank God) Typical Spaniard, Found Unnerving.

The Wounds Were Burning Like Suns At Five In The Afternoon, And The Crowd Broke The Windows At Five In The Afternoon. Ah, That Fatal Five In The Afternoon! It Was Five By All The Clocks! It Was Five In The Shade Of The Afternoon!

My Head Is Full Of Fire And Grief And My Tongue Runs Wild, Pierced With Shards Of Glass.

There Is Nothing More Poetic And Terrible Than The Skyscrapers' Battle With The Heavens That Cover Them. Snow, Rain, And Mist Highlight, Drench, Or Conceal The Vast Towers, But Those Towers, Hostile To Mystery And Blind To Any Sort Of Play, Shear Off The Rain's Tresses And Shine Their Three Thousand Swords Through The Soft Swan Of The Fog.

There's No Doubt That I Really Have A Feeling For The Theater. These Past Few Days It Has Occurred To Me To Do A Comedy Whose Chief Characters Are Photographic Enlargements. Those People We See In Doorways. Newlyweds, Sergeants, Dead Girls, An Anonymous Crowd Full Of Mustaches And Wrinkles. It Should Be Terrible. If I Focus It Well, It Will Possess Pathos Without Consolation. In The Midst Of Those People I Will Place An Authentic Fairy.

At Five In The Afternoon. It Was Exactly Five In The Afternoon. A Boy Brought The White Sheet At Five In The Afternoon. A Frail Of Lime Ready Prepared At Five In The Afternoon. The Rest Was Death, And Death Alone

Understand One Single Day Fully, So You Can Love Every Night.

Hour Of Stars (1920) The Round Silence Of Night, One Note On The Stave Of The Infinite. Ripe With Lost Poems, I Step Naked Into The Street. The Blackness Riddled By The Singing Of Crickets: Sound, That Dead Will-o'-the-wisp, That Musical Light Perceived By The Spirit. A Thousand Butterfly Skeletons Sleep Within My Walls. A Wild Crowd Of Young Breezes Over The River.

I'll Always Be Happy If They'd Leave Me Alone In That Delightful And Unknown Furthest Corner, Apart From Struggles, Putrefactions And Nonsense; The Ultimate Corner Of Sugar And Toast, Where The Mermaids Catch The Branches Of The Willows And The Heart Opens To A Flute's Sharpness.

I Was Lucky Enough To See With My Own Eyes The Recent Stock-market Crash, Where They Lost Several Million Dollars, A Rabble Of Dead Money That Went Sliding Off Into The Sea. Never As Then, Amid Suicides, Hysteria, And Groups Of Fainting People, Have I Felt The Sensation Of Real Death, Death Without Hope, Death That Is Nothing But Rottenness, For The Spectacle Was Terrifying But Devoid Of Greatness... I Felt Something Like A Divine Urge To Bombard That Whole Canyon Of Shadow, Where Ambulances Collected Suicides Whose Hands Were Full Of Rings.

Green How I Want You Green. Green Wind. Green Branches.

Fire Is Fed By Fire. The Same Small Flame Destroys Two Stalks Of Wheat At Once.

The Terrible, Cold, Cruel Part Is Wall Street. Rivers Of Gold Flow There From All Over The Earth, And Death Comes With It. There, As Nowhere Else, You Feel A Total Absence Of The Spirit: Herds Of Men Who Cannot Count Past Three, Herds More Who Cannot Get Past Six, Scorn For Pure Science And Demoniacal Respect For The Present. And The Terrible Thing Is That The Crowd That Fills The Street Believes That The World Will Always Be The Same And That It Is Their Duty To Keep That Huge Machine Running, Day And Night, Forever.

What You Wouldn't Have Suspected Lives & Trembles In The Air. Those Treasures Of The Day You Keep Just Out Of Reach. These Come & Go In Truckloads But No One Stops To See Them.

The Gitano Is The Most Distinguished, Profound And Aristocratic Element In My Country, The One That Most Represents Its Way Of Being And Best Preserves The Fire, The Blood And The Alphabet Of Andalusian And Universal Truth.

Woodcutter. Cut My Shadow From Me. Free Me From The Torment Of Being Without Fruit. Why Was I Born Among Mirrors? Day Goes Round And Round Me. The Night Copies Me In All Its Stars. I Want To Live Without My Reflection. And Then Let Me Dream That Ants And Thistledown Are My Leaves And My Parrots.

Besides Black Art, There Is Only Automation And Mechanization.

...i Am The Immense Shadow Of My Tears

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