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
heart eyelashes play
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.
pain distance heart
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.
games life-is life-is-a-game
My poetry is a game. My life is a game. But I am not a game.
wall spring light
Just as the light and weightless vegetation of saltpeter floats over the old walls of houses as soon as the owner gets careless, so the literary vocation springs up in you.
mother book twilight
The mirror is the mother dew, the book of desiccated twilights, echo become flesh.
night thinking faults
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.
doors five-senses poet
A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them.
morning heart guitar
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.
labyrinth world giants
I know there is no straight road No straight road in this world Only a giant labyrinth Of intersecting crossroads
art theatre rooms
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.
art essentials melancholy
At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy.
archer sky rivers
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.
country blood fire
... 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....
struggle heart mermaid
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.