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"navas" poems
No safer shelter than the trigger. Training and trenches teach him: **** Or get killed. So he masters the skill. He kills Mosqitoes and cockroaches. He kills Rats, cats, and chickens. One day he traps A trembling pup. Gripping a dagger, he grabs The dog’s nape and rips open its neck. Warm And sweet as wine – the blood. And for blood He craves. He strangles a suspected rebel before His pregnant wife. Not a whimper escapes from her Mouth. Her soul seethes as her eyes clasp the last gasp Of a baby lying between her legs – six months In her womb. He ends her anguish by feeding her Bullets. He hacks the neck of the moribund Husband. He hangs the head on a pole and displays it To rot on the street. And for more blood his heart Aches. He orders his men to burn the village of Las Navas And shoots everyone that runs. He chomps off The ear of a poet and cracks open her skull. Her brain, His dip. And he feasts on his skill. Until one twilight A wayward bullet snatches the trigger from his finger, Finds its nest in his chest. He marvels at how deep His blood darkens, how fast his blood clots, how tight His blood clings to life. Then he hears faint footfalls coming, Merging with the droning stream. Figures familiar to him, Bare and brown as the earth weave a web of shadows Over his body. And he waits for their hands to carry his own law Down his skull. But something heavier befalls – Gazing at the sky for the first time, stunned by the bleeding Colors of the twilight, he glimpses a pair of cupped Hands dripping life into his wound. Into his trembling lips.
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Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
emmanuel-v-dumlao
Bleeding colors of the twilight
No safer shelter than the trigger. Training and trenches teach him: **** Or get killed. So he masters the skill. He kills Mosqitoes and cockroaches. He kills Rats, cats, and chickens. One day he traps A trembling pup. Gripping a dagger, he grabs The dog’s nape and rips open its neck. Warm And sweet as wine – the blood. And for blood He craves. He strangles a suspected rebel before His pregnant wife. Not a whimper escapes from her Mouth. Her soul seethes as her eyes clasp the last gasp Of a baby lying between her legs – six months In her womb. He ends her anguish by feeding her Bullets. He hacks the neck of the moribund Husband. He hangs the head on a pole and displays it To rot on the street. And for more blood his heart Aches. He orders his men to burn the village of Las Navas And shoots everyone that runs. He chomps off The ear of a poet and cracks open her skull. Her brain, His dip. And he feasts on his skill. Until one twilight A wayward bullet snatches the trigger from his finger, Finds its nest in his chest. He marvels at how deep His blood darkens, how fast his blood clots, how tight His blood clings to life. Then he hears faint footfalls coming, Merging with the droning stream. Figures familiar to him, Bare and brown as the earth weave a web of shadows Over his body. And he waits for their hands to carry his own law Down his skull. But something heavier befalls – Gazing at the sky for the first time, stunned by the bleeding Colors of the twilight, he glimpses a pair of cupped Hands dripping life into his wound. Into his trembling lips.
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Los mozos de Monleón se fueron a arar temprano, ay, ay, para ir a la corrida, y remudar con despacio, ay, ay. Al hijo de la "Velluda", el remudo no le han dado, ay, ay. -Al toro tengo que ir aunque vaya de prestado, ay, ay. Permita Dios, si lo encuentras, que te traigan en un carro, las albarcas y el sombrero de los siniestros colgando. Se cogen los garrochones, se van las navas abajo, preguntando por el toro, y el toro ya está encerrado. A la mitad del camino, al mayoral se encontraron, -Muchachos que vais al toro: mirad que el toro es muy malo, que la leche que mamó se la di yo por mi mano. Se presentan en la plaza cuatro mozos muy gallardos, ay, ay. Manuel Sánchez llamó al toro; nunca lo hubiera llamado, ay, ay, por el pico de una albarca toda la plaza arrastrando; ay, ay. Cuando el toro lo dejó, ya lo ha dejado sangrando, ay, ay. -Amigos, que yo me muero; amigos, yo estoy muy malo; tres pañuelos tengo dentro y este que meto son cuatro. -Que llamen al confesor, pa que venga a confesarlo. Cuando el confesor llegaba Manuel Sánchez ha expirado. Al rico de Monleón le piden los bues y el carro, ay, ay, pa llevar a Manuel Sánchez, que el torito lo ha matado. ay, ay. A la puerta de la "Velluda" arrecularon el carro, ay, ay. -Aquí tenéis, vuestro hijo como lo habéis demandado. ay, ay.
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Federico García Lorca
Los mozos de monleón
Los mozos de Monleón se fueron a arar temprano, ay, ay, para ir a la corrida, y remudar con despacio, ay, ay. Al hijo de la "Velluda", el remudo no le han dado, ay, ay. -Al toro tengo que ir aunque vaya de prestado, ay, ay. Permita Dios, si lo encuentras, que te traigan en un carro, las albarcas y el sombrero de los siniestros colgando. Se cogen los garrochones, se van las navas abajo, preguntando por el toro, y el toro ya está encerrado. A la mitad del camino, al mayoral se encontraron, -Muchachos que vais al toro: mirad que el toro es muy malo, que la leche que mamó se la di yo por mi mano. Se presentan en la plaza cuatro mozos muy gallardos, ay, ay. Manuel Sánchez llamó al toro; nunca lo hubiera llamado, ay, ay, por el pico de una albarca toda la plaza arrastrando; ay, ay. Cuando el toro lo dejó, ya lo ha dejado sangrando, ay, ay. -Amigos, que yo me muero; amigos, yo estoy muy malo; tres pañuelos tengo dentro y este que meto son cuatro. -Que llamen al confesor, pa que venga a confesarlo. Cuando el confesor llegaba Manuel Sánchez ha expirado. Al rico de Monleón le piden los bues y el carro, ay, ay, pa llevar a Manuel Sánchez, que el torito lo ha matado. ay, ay. A la puerta de la "Velluda" arrecularon el carro, ay, ay. -Aquí tenéis, vuestro hijo como lo habéis demandado. ay, ay.
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