Federico Garcia Lorca
Federico Garcia Lorca
Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca, known as Federico García Lorcawas a Spanish poet, playwright, and theatre director...
NationalitySpanish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth5 June 1898
CountrySpain
new-york lying machines
New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie. New York is Senegal with machines.
children wind baptism
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.
life laughter rosary
Life is laughter amid a rosary of death.
blood landscape drink
Relish the fresh landscape of my wound, break rushes and delicate rivulets, drink blood poured on honeyed thigh.
running believe night
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.
fall snow frozen
The snow is falling on the deserted field of my life, and my hopes, which roam far, are afraid of becoming frozen or lost.
art black automation
Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.
earth naked nudity
To see you naked is to recall the Earth.
teacher struggle eye
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.
lonely withered withered-leaves
Death, lonely death, Beneath the withered leaves.
boys white afternoon
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
moon what-matters quality
What matters most has an ultimate metallic quality of death. The chasuble and the wagon wheel, the razor and the prickly beards of shepherds, the bare moon, a fly, humid cupboards, rubble piles, the images of saints covered in lace, quicklime, and the wounding edges of the rooflines and watchtowers.
horse eye air
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.
girl men giving
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.