Thamar y amnon poema federico garcia lorca biography
Oh what a high plain with twenty suns above it! When the snow-sweat appeared at five in the afternoon. Ballad of the Black Sorrow The beaks of cockerels dig, searching for the dawn, when down the dark hill comes Soledad Montoya.
Saint Joseph, wounded everywhere, shrouds a young girl. Stubborn rifles crack sounding in the night. The Virgin heals children with spittle from a star. But the Civil Guard advance, sowing flames, where young and naked imagination is burnt out.
Rosa of the Camborios moans in her doorway, with her two severed breasts lying on a tray. And other girls ran chased by their tresses through air where roses of black gunpowder burst.
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When all the roofs were furrows in the earth the dawn heaved its shoulders in a vast silhouette of stone. O city of the gypsies! The Civil Guard depart through a tunnel of silence while flames surround you.
Let them find you on my forehead: Thamar and Amnon The moon turns in the sky over lands without water while the summer sows murmurs of tiger and flame. Over the roofs metal nerves jangled. Rippling air stirred with woolly bleatings. The earth offered itself full of scarred wounds, or shuddering with the fierce searings of white light.
Thamar was dreaming of birds in her throat to the sound of cold tambourines and moonlit zithers. Her nakedness in the eaves, the sharp north of a palm-tree, demands snowflakes on her belly, and hailstones on her shoulders. Thamar was singing naked on the terrace. Around her feet five frozen pigeons. Amnon, slim, precise, watched her from the tower, with thighs of foam, and quivering beard. Her bright nakedness was stretched out on the terrace with the murmur in her teeth of a newly struck arrow.
Amnon lay on his bed at half past three. The whole room suffered from his eyes filled with wings. The solid light buries villages in brown sand, or reveals the ephemeral coral of roses and dahlias. Pure captive well-water gushes silence into jars. The cobra stretches, sings in the moss of tree-trunks. Amnon moans among the coolness of bed-sheets. The ivy of a shiver clothes his burning flesh.
The threads of my blood weave frills on your skirt. The slenderness of the vine resisted buckets of sunlight. Now he grasps her by the hair, now he tears her under-things. Warm corals drawing streams on a light-coloured map. Oh, what cries were heard above the houses! What a thicket of knives and torn tunics. Slaves go up and down the saddened stairs. Thighs and pistons play under stationary clouds. Gypsy virgins scream around Thamar, others gather drops from her martyred flower. White cloths redden in the closed rooms. Murmurs of warm daybreak changing vines and fishes. Amnon, angry violator, flees on his pony.
Negroes loose arrows at him from the walls and towers. And when the four hooves become four echoes, King David cuts his harp-strings with a pair of scissors. Singing palms above the roof-tops. When the palm-tree wants to be stork, off to Santiago.
Off to Santiago with the blond head of Fonseca. Sea of paper, coins of silver, off to Santiago. Oh, rhythm of dried seeds! Oh, waist of fire, drop of wood! Harp of living tree-trunks. My coral in the twilight, off to Santiago. The ocean drowned in the sand, off to Santiago. Heat whitening, fruit rotting, off to Santiago.
Oh, Cuba, curve of sigh and clay! White camellia of air, sunlight in a veil. It rains on Santiago, in the dark night. Grass of silver and dream covers the empty moon. See the rain in the streets, the lament of stone and glass. His soul wept, tiny and wounded, under pine-needles and grasses. Water fell, hurled by the moon, clothed the naked mountain with violets. The wind threw camellias of twilight into the parched light of his sad mouth. Come, blind boys of mountain and field, come see the youth who drowned in the water.
Come shadowy folk of the valleys and peaks, before the stream takes him down to the sea. Because the stream takes him down to the sea! Dance of the Santiago Moon Look at that white gallant look at his wasted flesh! Look at his wasted flesh, black with twilight and wolves. The moon dances in the Courtyard of the Dead. Who wounds the horse of stone at the gates of sleep? Who looks in my grey windows, with an eye full of cloud?
Let me die in my bed dreaming the flower of gold. Ay, daughter, the air in the sky has suddenly turned me white!
Federico García Lorca
Who groans with that groan of an ox, huge and malcontent? Yes, the moon, the moon, crowned with yellow gorse, that dances, dances, dances, in the Courtyard of the Dead! The Goring and the Death At five in the afternoon. It was just five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon.
A basket of lime made ready at five in the afternoon. The rest was death and only death at five in the afternoon. The wind blew the cotton wool away at five in the afternoon. And oxide scattered nickel and glass at five in the afternoon. Now the dove and the leopard fight at five in the afternoon. And a thigh with a desolate horn at five in the afternoon.ROMANCERO GITANO - FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA
The bass-pipe sound began at five in the afternoon. The bells of arsenic, the smoke at five in the afternoon. Silent crowds on corners at five in the afternoon.
Romance de la pena negra
And only the bull with risen heart! When the snow-sweat appeared at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. At just five in the afternoon. A coffin on wheels for his bed at five in the afternoon. Bones and flutes sound in his ear at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull bellows on his brow at five in the afternoon. The room glows with agony at five in the afternoon. Now out of distance gangrene comes at five in the afternoon. Trumpets of lilies for the green groin at five in the afternoon. Wounds burning like suns at five in the afternoon, and the people smashing windows at five in the afternoon.
Ay, what a fearful five in the afternoon! It was five on every clock!
It was five of a dark afternoon! The moon wide open, mare of still clouds, and the grey bullring of dream with osiers in the barriers. How the memory burns me. Inform the jasmines with their tiny whiteness!
The heifer of the ancient world licked her saddened tongue over a snout-full of blood spilled on the sand, and the bulls of Guisando, part death, and part stone, bellowed like two centuries weary of pawing the ground. Ignacio climbs the tiers with all his death on his shoulders. He was seeking the dawn, and the dawn was not there. He seeks his perfect profile and sleep disorients him. He was seeking his lovely body and met his gushing blood. Who calls me to appear? His eyes did not shut when he saw the horns nearby, though the terrifying mothers lifted up their heads.
And sweeping the herds came a breeze of secret voices, ranchers of the pale mist, calling to the bulls of the sky. There was never a prince of Seville to compare with him, nor a sword like his sword, nor a heart so true. His marvellous strength like a river of lions and like a marble torso the profile of his judgment. The air of an Andalusian Rome gilded his head, while his laughter was a tuberose of wit and intellect. How great a bullfighter in the arena! How fine a mountaineer in the sierra!
How gentle with ears of wheat! How fierce with the spurs! How tender with the dew! How dazzling at the fair! Above the roof tops metal nerves were sounding. Curly gusts of air came with the bleating of wool.
Earth offers herself seething with scars, or shivering with sharp cauteries of white lights. Tamar dreamed - birds in her throat - to the sound of cold tambourines and moon zithers. Her nakedness in the roof angle - sharp polestar of palm - asks of her belly snow and hail of her spine. Tamar sang naked on the terrace. Around her feet five doves of ice. Amnon, slim and sharp, looked at her from the tower, his groin full of foam, of tremors his face. His bright nakedness stretched on the terrace, between his teeth the murmur of an arrow that has struck.
Amnon was looking at the round low moon, and he saw in the moon the hard hard breasts of his sister. Amnon at half past three lay down on the bed. The whole room was a torment under his wing-brimming gaze. Burnished sand, massive light buries villages under it, or reveals a fleeting coral of rose and dahlia.
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A poet, playwright, artist, musician and lecturer, he wrote groundbreaking plays such as 'Blood Wedding' and 'Yerma'. His support of the Spanish Republic in the s led to his execution in Filmography by Job Trailers and Videos. Welcome to the Jungle. Fast, loose and lyrical: Cool people - not so much film-related.