- Centro Flamenco
- Paco de Lucía
NANA DE SEVILLA
Federico García Lorca
This precious little baby has no mother
Left in the street, alone and rejected…
He loved the secret gardens of Granada. He loved the wind, the olive trees…
He had said: “If I die, leave my balcony wide open…”
He had said: “I don’t want to see it…The spilled blood…I don’t want to see it!!”
He had said: “I am and will always be with those who go hungry…”
“Being from Granada helps me lean towards understanding the persecuted: the Gypsy, the Black, the Jew… the Moor, that we all, around here, carry inside ourselves.”
“ The fall of Granada in 1492, to Ferdinand and Isabella, was a disastrous event, even if in the schools they say the opposite. An admirable civilisation, wonderful art, poetry, architecture and delicacy unique in the world – all were lost, to give way to an impoverished, cowed town, a wasteland populated by the worst bourgeoisie in Spain today…”
“I am totally Spanish, and it would be impossible for me to live outside my geographical limits. But, equally, I have no time for he who is Spanish just because he was born a Spaniard. I am a brother to all men, and vehemently reject the person who sacrifices himself for an abstract, nationalist ideal because he loves his country with a blindfold over his eyes. In truth a good Chinaman is closer to me than a bad Spaniard. I express Spain in my work and feel her in the very marrow of my bones; but before that I am cosmopolitan, and a brother to all. I don’t believe in political frontiers.”
Federico García Lorca
O love of my heart, living death,
in vain I await your written word,
and think, with the withered flower:
if I must live without myself, I wish to lose you.
Air is immortal. The lifeless stone
can neither know the shadow nor avoid it.
And the inner heart doesn't need
the frozen honey flowing from the moon.
But I suffered you, tore open my veins,
tiger and dove on your waist,
caught in a duel of lilies and bites.
Fill, then, with words my madness,
or let me live in the serene,
eternal dark night of the soul.
I climed a green pine tree
In the hope of seeing my love,
I only saw the cloud of dust
Raised by the car taking him away
TANGUILLOS PART I
Los Mozos de Monleón
The four young men
Went early to their morning work
So as to have the hour later
To go and fight the bull at the afternoon ‘corrida’
The foreman warned them
“Boys, beware that bull,
a fierce and wicked beast
I know… as the milk he suckled
Was fed to him by my own hand”
Beautifully sensitive, deep-thinking artist, Lorca was also a person of great charm, grace, youth in his character and even naivety.
“Everyone saw him differently… No one could define him…” said his friend Vicente Aleixandre… “Federico has been compared to a child, an angel, a rock, or pure water… He walked magically through life, seemingly without leaning on anything… passing in front of his friend’s vision like a kind of winged genius dispensing graces, making happy a moment, then disappearing like a flash of light; you could see in Federico the all-powerful conjuror, destroyer of sadness, wizard of happiness, conjuror of the goodness of life, commander of the shadows that he simply banned from his surroundings.”
“I have never seen” said Pablo Neruda, “gathered as they were in him, grace, genius, a winged-heart and a limpid waterfall… He was a multiplier of beautifulness.”
TANGUILLOS PART II
Las Tres Hojas
My lover is held
Under the leaf of the vervain;
Today he is suffering…
Alas, what a shame
… when you defend Spain as Falangists, Requetés and soldiers defend Spain, there is a race and a people! … we have to build, and maintain a long road, and to continue to support it on all the shoulders of Spaniards; the legendary and traditional empire which the Spanish youth will forge, and they will do so, because they swear to it through their prodigal blood, because they say it in the fields of Spain, and because that is in the hearts of all Spaniards who shout "Up Spain! "
"Our brave and soldiers and regulars have shown those red cowards what real men are, and in turn their wives. This is entirely justified because these communists and anarchists preach free love. At least now they know what true men are and not faggot militiamen. They will not be spared no matter how much they kick and scream. "
Colonel Queipo De Llano
Novio de la Muerte
La Fuente Grande
Inspired by the poem El crimen fue en Granada by Antonio Machado
He was seen walking between the rifles
down a long street
out into the cold fields,
while stars were still shining at dawn.
They killed Federico
when day was breaking.
The squad of executioners
could not look him in the face.
They closed their eyes,
saying: even God can’t save you!
blood on his forehead and lead in his heart.
…All should know that the crime occurred
in Granada—poor Granada!—in his Granada…
He was seen walking alone with Her,
unafraid of her scythe.
Sunlight shone on the towers; hammers
pounded on anvil after anvil in the forges.
Federico was speaking
flattering words to Death. She was listening.
“Dear friend, since yesterday in my poems
the clapping of your dry palms was heard,
and you gave ice to my song, and the blade
of your silver scythe to my tragedy,
I will sing of the flesh you don’t possess,
of your missing eyes,
your wind-blown hair,
the red lips where they kissed you…
Just like yesterday, gypsy, my Death,
how nice to be alone with you
in these breezes of Granada, my Granada!”
He was seen walking…
Friends, for the poet
erect a monument of stone and dream
in the Alhambra,
over a fountain where the water weeps
and repeats eternally:
the crime occurred in Granada, in his Granada!
Mundo de Fieras y Héroes
UNAMUNO | ‘Razón y derecho’
Miguel de Unamuno: “You await my words. You know me well, and know that I am incapable of remaining silent. Sometimes, saying nothing amounts to lying, because silence can be interpreted as acquiescence.”
“ But I’ve just heard the necrophile, senseless cry “Long live Death!” and I, who have spent my life penning paradoxes which have angered certain individuals who did not understand them, must say to you that I find this ridiculous paradox repulsive. General Millán-Astray is an invalid. This must be stated clearly. He is an invalid of war. So too was Cervantes. Unfortunately in Spain there are currently so many wounded. And, if God does not helps us, there will soon be many more. It torments me to think that General Millán-Astray could dictate the basis of the collective psychology. A wounded man who does not possess the spiritual greatness of Cervantes is likely to find a terrible satisfaction in seeing how the number of wounded around him multiplies.
Millán-Astray (shouts angrily): "Death to traitorous intellectuality” “Long live Death”
Unamuno (without wavering, continues): “This is the temple of intelligence, and I am its highest priest. You are desecrating this sacred terrain. You will conquer, because you possess the necessary brute force. But you will not convince. To convince you must persuade, and to persuade you will need something you lack: the cause and the rights in this fight. I feel it is pointless to ask you to think of Spain. I have spoken.”
You will ask: And where are the lilacs?
And the metaphysical blanket of poppies?
And the rain that often struck
your words filling them
with holes and birds?
I am going to tell you all that is happening to me.
I lived in a quarter
of Madrid, with bells,
with clocks, with trees.
From there one could see
the lean face of Spain
like an ocean of leather.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because it was bursting
everywhere with geraniums: it was
a fine house
with dogs and children.
Raúl, do you remember?
Do you remember, Rafael?
Federico, do you remember,
under the earth,
do you remember my house with balconies where
June light smothered flowers in your mouth?
was great shouting, salty goods,
heaps of throbbing bread
markets of my Argüelles quarter with its statue
like a pale inkwell among the haddock:
the olive oil reached the ladles,
a deep throbbing
of feet and hands filled the streets,
metres, litres, sharp
essence of life,
fish piled up,
patterns of roofs with cold sun on which
the vane grows weary,
frenzied fine ivory of the potatoes,
tomatoes stretching to the sea.
And one morning all was aflame
and one morning the fires
came out of the earth
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with airplanes and with Moors,
bandits with rings and duchesses,
bandits with black-robed friars blessing
came through the air to kill children,
and through the streets the blood of children
ran simply, like children’s blood.
Jackals that the jackal would spurn,
stones that the dry thistle would bite spitting,
vipers that vipers would abhor!
Facing you I have seen the blood
of Spain rise up
to drown you in a single wave
of pride and knives!
look at my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
but from each dead house comes burning metal
instead of flowers,
but from each hollow of Spain
Spain comes forth,
but from each dead child comes a gun with eyes,
but from each crime are born bullets
that will one day seek out in you
where the heart lies.
You will ask: why does your poetry
not speak to us of sleep, of the leaves,
of the great volcanoes of your native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets,
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!
ALCAZAR DE TOLEDO | Amor y sacrificio
In Toledo, capital of the ancient kings, the republican militia rule the city. The rebel colonel, Moscardó has barricaded himself in the Alcázar fortress with 1300 soldiers, 500 women and 50 children. The leader of the militia telephones colonel Moscardó.
“If the Alcázar does not surrender, we will shoot your son. Speak with him if you wish.”
“What is happening, son?”
“They are saying that they will shoot me if the Alcázar does not surrender.”
“Entrust your soul to God, my son, shout ‘Long live Spain!’, and die like a hero.”
“Goodbye father. I send you a hug.”
The Alcázar does not surrender.
Inspired by the poem Alerta by Antonio Machado
This is the day to be alert, a day
of complete awareness of the war
every day of the year. Woe to the sleeper,
to the one who closes his eyes, or is blind!
It is not enough to awaken at dawn:
One must search the horizon. Be alert!
Those who bathe your youthful bodies
in the cold waters of the pond
and bare your breasts before the cold
mountain wind, be alert!
Be alert, sportsmen and warriors,
today is a crucial day for your Spain.
Strengthen your arms,
stretch your legs,
awaken your muscles to the fight,
while your red blood shouts: Be alert!
Be alert, a healthy body is holy,
the game is sacred when the vigilant soul
learns of the cruel infamy
that pierces the breast, be alert, be alert!
Be alert, friends, because times are bad,
the sky is darkening, the sea is churning;
be alert to the rudder,
to the oars and to the sails,
captain and sailors, everyone stand up on deck,
be alert, be alert!
At the crossways of the roads
cruel enemies wait for us:
betrayal is hiding inside the house;
outside the house greed is lurking.
The gate to the seaports was sold off,
and the gusts of wind in the mountains,
and the soil that is worked,
and the sand of the playing field,
and veins of hard iron in the rocks;
only the ground where we die is ours.
Be alert to the rising sun,
to the bloody birthing of our ancient mother.
With the bow pointed toward the morrow
one must keep watch. Be alert, be alert, be
(Antonio Machado | Translated by Armand F Baker)