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a teacher
Poems
Arlice W Davenport
Aug 2020
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”
Sporting white top hats, the Sierra Nevada mountains
**** up against the new dawn's Andalusian sky, casting
craggy shadows across the quiet calles of Grenada.
Restlessly, the darkened city churns in its sleep.
Federico Garcia Lorca strums his yellow guitar,
tuning it to a cante jondos, a deep song of duende,
dark heart of flamenco and the bullfight and his own
fatalistic poems: moans of his inexorable execution
at Franco's hellish hands. Fascism fears the poet,
the ferocious oracle of duende, who rips out the
roots of authority, the dark clods of captivity, who
vows to dive underground, digesting bitter earth
like bullets from the firing squad. They shout, Victoria!
as Garcia Lorca's listless body slides along the bloodied wall.
Duende, he once told a lecture hall, haunts death's house.
It will not appear until it spies that fiercely angled roof.
* * *
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two dark doves
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”
His mother bellows on the spirit's wind, over the hobbled
heads of the dead, in search of an inexpressible "new,"
the endless baptism of freshly created things, as Garcia Lorca
loved to lecture. Ending and refrain burn blood like glass.
Few mourners cast a spell over the public patrons gnawing
on his books, seeking some taste of destiny, identity, some
word of the eternal voice of Spain. I am no Spaniard, yet
I claim to be a poet. Garcia Lorca gifts me with his song.
Its maudlin melody marches up my spine, scorches
my eyes, which smolder under the noonday sun, spewing
ashes to ashes, igniting dust to dust. The dark memory
of the buried ruins of saddened Spain steadily seeps
through wilted wreaths tossed at Franco's feet. No
offering for the conqueror, they exude a sickly odor
of offal, of ordinary flesh rotting on shattered ribs.
Gunshot mixes with marrow, smoke fumigates the poem.
* * *
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”
No one is sleeping, yet the world will not awaken.
The slain poet merits no notice. We bow our
heads in humiliation at the philistine ways
of savage, civilized societies. All cultural wealth
but poetry suffocates in its bed. Duende sends Garcia
Lorca’s poems soaring above feeling and desire,
above the consecration of form. How many enjambments
mire in dark waters? How many stanzas lay bricks
of marble and salt? Garcia Lorca sings of hemlock and
demons, of Socrates and Descartes. But the profane
choruses of drunken sailors shatter any hope for his
new poetic style. They reject all the sweet geometry
that maps the darkened heart of southern Spain, where
Moors and Gypsies set up camp, pulling sleights of hand
on gullible gamblers, assured that Andalusia knows no
other artifice than the machine-gun-fire flights of flamenco.
* * *
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two naked doves
One was the other
and both were none
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”
Garcia Lorca lies on the floor to fence with the phantoms
of his future. His black boots shine in the saddened sun.
The fattened face of Franco appears: an anxious cry for
more water, for dousing naked doves in duende’s black pool.
Writers live and die like newly created roses. Aromas
rise from vast yearnings, inured to the penance of suffering.
Above duende's golden serpent, a crooked soldier salutes
the fruit of Fascism. Dawn's lemons dangle at the edge of time.
Only 19 years embody Garcia Lorca's high-strung calling.
An awkward teen at his writing desk, he scribbles notes
about his mellifluous malaise. Modernismo flourishes in the
shadow songs of caves. Dark doves coo. Duende never lies.
His mother wails, wrapped in her mantilla of Spanish black. Head
thrown back, heels clicking hard, she swirls against the fiery flanks
of flamenco. Prancing like an epic stallion, she nudges her anguished
son: asleep, asleep. Today, duende has entered the dark house of death.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”
Sporting white top hats, the Sierra Nevada mountains
**** up against the new dawn's Andalusian sky, casting
craggy shadows across the quiet calles of Grenada.
Restlessly, the darkened city churns in its sleep.
Federico Garcia Lorca strums his yellow guitar,
tuning it to a cante jondos, a deep song of duende,
dark heart of flamenco and the bullfight and his own
fatalistic poems: moans of his inexorable execution
at Franco's hellish hands. Fascism fears the poet,
the ferocious oracle of duende, who rips out the
roots of authority, the dark clods of captivity, who
vows to dive underground, digesting bitter earth
like bullets from the firing squad. They shout, Victoria!
as Garcia Lorca's listless body slides along the bloodied wall.
Duende, he once told a lecture hall, haunts death's house.
It will not appear until it spies that fiercely angled roof.
* * *
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two dark doves
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”
His mother bellows on the spirit's wind, over the hobbled
heads of the dead, in search of an inexpressible "new,"
the endless baptism of freshly created things, as Garcia Lorca
loved to lecture. Ending and refrain burn blood like glass.
Few mourners cast a spell over the public patrons gnawing
on his books, seeking some taste of destiny, identity, some
word of the eternal voice of Spain. I am no Spaniard, yet
I claim to be a poet. Garcia Lorca gifts me with his song.
Its maudlin melody marches up my spine, scorches
my eyes, which smolder under the noonday sun, spewing
ashes to ashes, igniting dust to dust. The dark memory
of the buried ruins of saddened Spain steadily seeps
through wilted wreaths tossed at Franco's feet. No
offering for the conqueror, they exude a sickly odor
of offal, of ordinary flesh rotting on shattered ribs.
Gunshot mixes with marrow, smoke fumigates the poem.
* * *
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”
No one is sleeping, yet the world will not awaken.
The slain poet merits no notice. We bow our
heads in humiliation at the philistine ways
of savage, civilized societies. All cultural wealth
but poetry suffocates in its bed. Duende sends Garcia
Lorca’s poems soaring above feeling and desire,
above the consecration of form. How many enjambments
mire in dark waters? How many stanzas lay bricks
of marble and salt? Garcia Lorca sings of hemlock and
demons, of Socrates and Descartes. But the profane
choruses of drunken sailors shatter any hope for his
new poetic style. They reject all the sweet geometry
that maps the darkened heart of southern Spain, where
Moors and Gypsies set up camp, pulling sleights of hand
on gullible gamblers, assured that Andalusia knows no
other artifice than the machine-gun-fire flights of flamenco.
* * *
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two naked doves
One was the other
and both were none
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”
Garcia Lorca lies on the floor to fence with the phantoms
of his future. His black boots shine in the saddened sun.
The fattened face of Franco appears: an anxious cry for
more water, for dousing naked doves in duende’s black pool.
Writers live and die like newly created roses. Aromas
rise from vast yearnings, inured to the penance of suffering.
Above duende's golden serpent, a crooked soldier salutes
the fruit of Fascism. Dawn's lemons dangle at the edge of time.
Only 19 years embody Garcia Lorca's high-strung calling.
An awkward teen at his writing desk, he scribbles notes
about his mellifluous malaise. Modernismo flourishes in the
shadow songs of caves. Dark doves coo. Duende never lies.
His mother wails, wrapped in her mantilla of Spanish black. Head
thrown back, heels clicking hard, she swirls against the fiery flanks
of flamenco. Prancing like an epic stallion, she nudges her anguished
son: asleep, asleep. Today, duende has entered the dark house of death.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Mirza Ghalib Translations
Michael R Burch
Apr 2020
Mirza Ghalib Translations
Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869) is considered to be one of the best Urdu poets of all time. The last great poet of the Mughal Empire, Ghalib was a master of the sher (couplet) and the ghazal (a lyric poem formed from couplets). Ghalib remains popular in India, Pakistan, and among the Hindustani diaspora. He also wrote poetry in Persian.
It's Only My Heart!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s only my heart, not unfeeling stone,
so why be dismayed when it throbs with pain?
It was made to suffer ten thousand darts;
why let one more torment impede us?
Inquiry
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The miracle of your absence
is that I found myself endlessly searching for you.
Near Sainthood
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch
On the subject of mystic philosophy, Ghalib,
your words might have struck us as deeply profound
and we might have pronounced you a saint ...
Yes, if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Not the blossomings of songs nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.
You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my dark, pensive thoughts.
We congratulate ourselves that we two are different:
that this weakness has not burdened us both with inchoate grief.
Now you are here, and I find myself bowing—
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.
I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.
The Mistake
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All your life, O Ghalib,
You kept repeating the same mistake:
Your face was *****
But you were obsessed with cleaning the mirror!
The Infidel
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ten thousand desires: each worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, yet still I yearn for more.
Being in love, for me there was no difference between living and dying ...
and so I lived each dying breath watching you, my lovely Infidel, sighing afar.
Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love requires patience but lust is relentless;
what colors must my heart leak, before it bleeds to death?
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Life becomes even more complicated
when a man can’t think like a man ...
What irrationality makes me so dependent on her
that I rush off an hour early, then get annoyed when she's "late"?
My lover is so striking! She demands to be seen.
The mirror reflects only her image, yet still dazzles and confounds my eyes.
Love’s stings have left me the deep scar of happiness
while she hovers above me, illuminated.
She promised not to torment me, but only after I was mortally wounded.
How easily she “repents,” my lovely slayer!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s time for the world to hear Ghalib again!
May these words and their shadows like doors remain open.
Tonight the watery mirror of stars appears
while night-blooming flowers gather where beauty rests.
She who knows my desire is speaking,
or at least her lips have recently moved me.
Why is grief the fundamental element of night
when everything falls as the distant stars rise?
Tell me, how can I be happy, vast oceans from home
when mail from my beloved lies here, so recently opened?
Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!
Shared Blessings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She soon informed me that God does not belong to any one man!
Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Often we have heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I depart your paradise.
To Whom Shall I Complain?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To whom shall I complain when I am denied Good Fortune in acceptable measure?
Thus I demanded Death, but was denied even that dubious pleasure!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You should have stayed a little longer;
you left all alone, so why not linger?
We’ll meet again, you said, some day similar to this one,
as if such days can ever recur, not vanish!
You left our house as the moon abandons night's skies,
as the evening light abandons its earlier surmise.
You hated me: a wife abnormally distant, unknown;
you left me before your children were grown.
Only fools ask why old Ghalib still clings to breath
when his fate is to live desiring death.
Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Love requires patience while passion races;
must my heart bleed constantly before it expires?
Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!
Step Carefully!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Step carefully Ghalib—this world is merciless!
Here people will "adore" you to win your respect ... or your
downfall.
Drunk on Love
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She quickly informed me God belongs to no man!
Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
We have often heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I abandon your garden.
A lifetime of sighs scarcely reveals its effects,
yet how impatiently I wait for you to untangle your hair!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Every wave conceals monsters,
and yet teardrops become pearls.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’ll only wish ill on myself today,
for when I wished for good, bad came my way.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
People don’t change, it’s just that their true colors are revealed.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ten thousand desires: each one worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, and yet still I yearn for more!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Oh naïve heart, what will become of you?
Is there no relief for your pain? What will you do?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I get that Ghalib is not much,
but when a slave comes free, what’s the problem?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My face lights up whenever I see my lover;
now she thinks my illness has been cured!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
If you want to hear rhetoric flower,
hand me the wine decanter.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I tease her, but she remains tight-lipped ...
if only she'd sipped a little wine!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While you may not ignore me,
I’ll be ashes before you understand me.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Mirza Ghalib, translations, Urdu, Hindi, love, philosophy, heart, stone, sainthood
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.
Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.
When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.
Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.
Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.
I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.
At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.
Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.
Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.
La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked *******?
Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.
What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?
Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.
Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?
Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.
Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?
So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.
Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.
High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.
Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.
Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.
The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)
The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.
In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!
I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.
Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you departing, love?
Depart!
(To my deserted heart!)
Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869) is considered to be one of the best Urdu poets of all time. The last great poet of the Mughal Empire, Ghalib was a master of the sher (couplet) and the ghazal (a lyric poem formed from couplets). Ghalib remains popular in India, Pakistan, and among the Hindustani diaspora. He also wrote poetry in Persian.
It's Only My Heart!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s only my heart, not unfeeling stone,
so why be dismayed when it throbs with pain?
It was made to suffer ten thousand darts;
why let one more torment impede us?
Inquiry
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The miracle of your absence
is that I found myself endlessly searching for you.
Near Sainthood
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch
On the subject of mystic philosophy, Ghalib,
your words might have struck us as deeply profound
and we might have pronounced you a saint ...
Yes, if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Not the blossomings of songs nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.
You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my dark, pensive thoughts.
We congratulate ourselves that we two are different:
that this weakness has not burdened us both with inchoate grief.
Now you are here, and I find myself bowing—
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.
I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.
The Mistake
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All your life, O Ghalib,
You kept repeating the same mistake:
Your face was *****
But you were obsessed with cleaning the mirror!
The Infidel
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ten thousand desires: each worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, yet still I yearn for more.
Being in love, for me there was no difference between living and dying ...
and so I lived each dying breath watching you, my lovely Infidel, sighing afar.
Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love requires patience but lust is relentless;
what colors must my heart leak, before it bleeds to death?
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Life becomes even more complicated
when a man can’t think like a man ...
What irrationality makes me so dependent on her
that I rush off an hour early, then get annoyed when she's "late"?
My lover is so striking! She demands to be seen.
The mirror reflects only her image, yet still dazzles and confounds my eyes.
Love’s stings have left me the deep scar of happiness
while she hovers above me, illuminated.
She promised not to torment me, but only after I was mortally wounded.
How easily she “repents,” my lovely slayer!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s time for the world to hear Ghalib again!
May these words and their shadows like doors remain open.
Tonight the watery mirror of stars appears
while night-blooming flowers gather where beauty rests.
She who knows my desire is speaking,
or at least her lips have recently moved me.
Why is grief the fundamental element of night
when everything falls as the distant stars rise?
Tell me, how can I be happy, vast oceans from home
when mail from my beloved lies here, so recently opened?
Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!
Shared Blessings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She soon informed me that God does not belong to any one man!
Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Often we have heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I depart your paradise.
To Whom Shall I Complain?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To whom shall I complain when I am denied Good Fortune in acceptable measure?
Thus I demanded Death, but was denied even that dubious pleasure!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You should have stayed a little longer;
you left all alone, so why not linger?
We’ll meet again, you said, some day similar to this one,
as if such days can ever recur, not vanish!
You left our house as the moon abandons night's skies,
as the evening light abandons its earlier surmise.
You hated me: a wife abnormally distant, unknown;
you left me before your children were grown.
Only fools ask why old Ghalib still clings to breath
when his fate is to live desiring death.
Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Love requires patience while passion races;
must my heart bleed constantly before it expires?
Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!
Step Carefully!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Step carefully Ghalib—this world is merciless!
Here people will "adore" you to win your respect ... or your
downfall.
Drunk on Love
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She quickly informed me God belongs to no man!
Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
We have often heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I abandon your garden.
A lifetime of sighs scarcely reveals its effects,
yet how impatiently I wait for you to untangle your hair!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Every wave conceals monsters,
and yet teardrops become pearls.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’ll only wish ill on myself today,
for when I wished for good, bad came my way.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
People don’t change, it’s just that their true colors are revealed.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ten thousand desires: each one worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, and yet still I yearn for more!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Oh naïve heart, what will become of you?
Is there no relief for your pain? What will you do?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I get that Ghalib is not much,
but when a slave comes free, what’s the problem?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My face lights up whenever I see my lover;
now she thinks my illness has been cured!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
If you want to hear rhetoric flower,
hand me the wine decanter.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I tease her, but she remains tight-lipped ...
if only she'd sipped a little wine!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While you may not ignore me,
I’ll be ashes before you understand me.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Mirza Ghalib, translations, Urdu, Hindi, love, philosophy, heart, stone, sainthood
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.
Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.
When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.
Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.
Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.
I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.
At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.
Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.
Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.
La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked *******?
Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.
What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?
Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.
Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?
Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.
Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?
So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.
Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.
High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.
Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.
Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.
The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)
The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.
In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!
I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.
Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you departing, love?
Depart!
(To my deserted heart!)
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Allama Iqbal translations
Michael R Burch
Apr 2020
Withered Roses
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What shall I call you,
but the nightingale's desire?
The morning breeze was your nativity,
an afternoon garden, your sepulchre.
My tears welled up like dew,
till in my abandoned heart your rune grew:
this memento of love,
this spray of withered roses.
Ehad-e-Tifli (“The Age of Infancy”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The earth and the heavens remained unknown to me,
My mother's ***** was my only world.
Her embraces communicated life's joys
While I babbled meaningless sounds.
During my infancy if someone alarmed me
The clank of the door chain consoled me.
At night I observed the moon,
Following its flight through distant clouds.
By day I pondered earth’s terrain
Only to be surprised by convenient explanations.
My eyes ingested light, my lips sought speech,
I was curiosity incarnate.
Excerpt from Rumuz-e bikhudi (“The Mysteries of Selflessness”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like a candle fending off the night,
I consumed myself, melting into tears.
I spent myself, to create more light,
More beauty and joy for my peers.
Longing
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Lord, I’ve grown tired of human assemblies!
I long to avoid conflict! My heart craves peace!
I desperately desire the silence of a small mountainside hut!
Life Advice
by Allama Iqbāl
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This passive nature will not allow you to survive;
If you want to live, raise a storm!
Destiny
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Isn't it futile to complain about God's will,
When indeed you are your own destiny?
O, Colorful Rose!
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You are not troubled with solving enigmas,
O, beautiful Rose! Nor do you express sublime feelings.
You ornament the assembly, and yet still flower apart.
(Alas, I’m not permitted such distance.)
Here in my garden, I conduct the symphony of longing
While your life is devoid of passionate warmth.
Why should I pluck you from your lonely perch?
(I am not deluded by mere appearances.)
O, colorful Rose! This hand is not your abuser!
(I am no callous flower picker.)
I am no intern to analyze you with dissecting eyes.
Like a lover, I see you with nightingale's eyes.
Despite your eloquent tongues, you prefer silence.
What secrets, O Rose, lie concealed within your *****?
Like me you're a bloom from the garden of Ñër.
We’re both far from our original Edens!
You are complete, content, but I’m a scattered fragrance,
Pierced by love’s sword in my errant quest.
This turmoil within might be a means of fulfillment,
This torment, a source of illumination.
My frailty might be the beginning of strength,
My envy mirror Jamshid’s cup of divination.
My constant vigil might light a world-illuminating candle
And teach this steed, the human intellect, to gallop.
Bright Rose
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You cannot loosen the heart's knot;
perhaps you have no heart,
no share in the chaos
of this garden, where I yearn (for what?)
yet harvest no roses.
Of what use to me is wisdom?
Having abandoned Eden,
you are at peace, while I remain anxious,
disconsolate in my terror.
Perhaps Jamshid's empty cup
foretold the future, but may wine
never satisfy my desire
till I find you in the mirror.
Jamshid's empty cup: Jamshid saw the reflection of future events in a wine cup.
Coal to Diamond
by Allama Iqbal, after Nietzsche
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am corrupt, less than dust
while your brilliance out-blazes the brightest mirror.
My darkness defiles the chafing-dish
before my cremation; a miner's boot
crushes my cranium; I end up soot.
Do you acknowledge my life's bleak essence?
Condensations of smoke, black clouds stillborn from a single spark,
while you with your starlike nature triumphantly adorn monarchs,
gleam of the king's crown, the scepter's centerpiece.
"Please, kin-friend, be wise," the diamond replied,
"Assume a gemlike dignity! Carbon must harden
before it can fill a ***** with radiance. Burn
because you yield warmth. Brighten the darkness.
Be adamant as stone, be diamond."
Iqbal’s poem was written after a passage in Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols in which a kitchen coal and diamond discuss hardness versus softness.
Keywords/Tags: Urdu, Hindi, translation, English, rose, roses, withered roses, nightingale, desire, breeze, garden, nativity, cradle, infancy, heart, tears, dew, rain, rainfall, longing, conflict, tumult, peace, life, life advice, live, nature, survive, survival, storm, destiny, God, God's will, silence
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.
Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.
When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.
Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.
Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.
I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.
At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.
Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.
Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.
La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked *******?
Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.
What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?
Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.
Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?
Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.
Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?
So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.
Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.
High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.
Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.
Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.
The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)
The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.
In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!
I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.
Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you departing, love?
Depart!
(To my deserted heart!)
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What shall I call you,
but the nightingale's desire?
The morning breeze was your nativity,
an afternoon garden, your sepulchre.
My tears welled up like dew,
till in my abandoned heart your rune grew:
this memento of love,
this spray of withered roses.
Ehad-e-Tifli (“The Age of Infancy”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The earth and the heavens remained unknown to me,
My mother's ***** was my only world.
Her embraces communicated life's joys
While I babbled meaningless sounds.
During my infancy if someone alarmed me
The clank of the door chain consoled me.
At night I observed the moon,
Following its flight through distant clouds.
By day I pondered earth’s terrain
Only to be surprised by convenient explanations.
My eyes ingested light, my lips sought speech,
I was curiosity incarnate.
Excerpt from Rumuz-e bikhudi (“The Mysteries of Selflessness”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like a candle fending off the night,
I consumed myself, melting into tears.
I spent myself, to create more light,
More beauty and joy for my peers.
Longing
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Lord, I’ve grown tired of human assemblies!
I long to avoid conflict! My heart craves peace!
I desperately desire the silence of a small mountainside hut!
Life Advice
by Allama Iqbāl
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This passive nature will not allow you to survive;
If you want to live, raise a storm!
Destiny
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Isn't it futile to complain about God's will,
When indeed you are your own destiny?
O, Colorful Rose!
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You are not troubled with solving enigmas,
O, beautiful Rose! Nor do you express sublime feelings.
You ornament the assembly, and yet still flower apart.
(Alas, I’m not permitted such distance.)
Here in my garden, I conduct the symphony of longing
While your life is devoid of passionate warmth.
Why should I pluck you from your lonely perch?
(I am not deluded by mere appearances.)
O, colorful Rose! This hand is not your abuser!
(I am no callous flower picker.)
I am no intern to analyze you with dissecting eyes.
Like a lover, I see you with nightingale's eyes.
Despite your eloquent tongues, you prefer silence.
What secrets, O Rose, lie concealed within your *****?
Like me you're a bloom from the garden of Ñër.
We’re both far from our original Edens!
You are complete, content, but I’m a scattered fragrance,
Pierced by love’s sword in my errant quest.
This turmoil within might be a means of fulfillment,
This torment, a source of illumination.
My frailty might be the beginning of strength,
My envy mirror Jamshid’s cup of divination.
My constant vigil might light a world-illuminating candle
And teach this steed, the human intellect, to gallop.
Bright Rose
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You cannot loosen the heart's knot;
perhaps you have no heart,
no share in the chaos
of this garden, where I yearn (for what?)
yet harvest no roses.
Of what use to me is wisdom?
Having abandoned Eden,
you are at peace, while I remain anxious,
disconsolate in my terror.
Perhaps Jamshid's empty cup
foretold the future, but may wine
never satisfy my desire
till I find you in the mirror.
Jamshid's empty cup: Jamshid saw the reflection of future events in a wine cup.
Coal to Diamond
by Allama Iqbal, after Nietzsche
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am corrupt, less than dust
while your brilliance out-blazes the brightest mirror.
My darkness defiles the chafing-dish
before my cremation; a miner's boot
crushes my cranium; I end up soot.
Do you acknowledge my life's bleak essence?
Condensations of smoke, black clouds stillborn from a single spark,
while you with your starlike nature triumphantly adorn monarchs,
gleam of the king's crown, the scepter's centerpiece.
"Please, kin-friend, be wise," the diamond replied,
"Assume a gemlike dignity! Carbon must harden
before it can fill a ***** with radiance. Burn
because you yield warmth. Brighten the darkness.
Be adamant as stone, be diamond."
Iqbal’s poem was written after a passage in Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols in which a kitchen coal and diamond discuss hardness versus softness.
Keywords/Tags: Urdu, Hindi, translation, English, rose, roses, withered roses, nightingale, desire, breeze, garden, nativity, cradle, infancy, heart, tears, dew, rain, rainfall, longing, conflict, tumult, peace, life, life advice, live, nature, survive, survival, storm, destiny, God, God's will, silence
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.
Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.
When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.
Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.
Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.
I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.
At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.
Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.
Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.
La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked *******?
Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.
What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?
Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.
Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?
Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.
Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?
So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.
Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.
High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.
Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.
Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.
The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)
The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.
In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!
I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.
Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you departing, love?
Depart!
(To my deserted heart!)