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Poems

Anoche Cuando Dormía Read Poem

Last night when I was sleeping
Last night when I was sleeping
I dreamed, blessed illusion!
that a fountain flowed
inside my heart.

Say, why hidden ditch,
water, you come to me,
spring of new life
Where have I never drank from?

Last night when I was sleeping
I dreamed, blessed illusion!
that a hive had
inside my heart;
and the golden bees
they were manufacturing in it,
with old bitterness
white wax and sweet honey.

Last night when I was sleeping
I dreamed, blessed illusion!
that a hot sun was shining
inside my heart.

It was hot because it gave
heat of red home,
and it was sun because it shone
and because it made me cry.

Last night when I was sleeping
I dreamed, blessed illusion!
that it was God who had
inside my heart.

Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusión!,
que una fontana fluía
dentro de mi corazón.

Di, ¿por qué acequia escondida,
agua, vienes hasta mí,
manantial de nueva vida
de donde nunca bebí?

Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusión!,
que una colmena tenía
dentro de mi corazón;
y las doradas abejas
iban fabricando en él,
con las amarguras viejas
blanca cera y dulce miel.

Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusión!,
que un ardiente sol lucía
dentro de mi corazón.

Era ardiente porque daba
calores de rojo hogar,
y era sol porque alumbraba
y porque hacía llorar.

Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusión!,
que era Dios lo que tenía
dentro de mi corazón.

Cantares... Read Poem

You will sing.

.

.

Everything happens and everything is,
but our thing is to pass,
spend making paths,
paths over the sea.

I never chased glory
nor leave in memory
of men my song;
I love the subtle worlds,
weightless and gentle,
like soap foam.

I like to see them paint
sun and scarlet, fly
under the blue sky, tremble
suddenly and break.

.

.

I never chased glory.

Walker, are your footprints
the road and nothing else;
walker, there is no path,
path is made by walking.

When you walk, you make your way
and looking back
you see the path that never
must be stepped on again.

walker there is no way
but wakes in the sea…
Some time ago in that place
where today the forests are dressed in thorns
a poet's voice was heard shouting
"Walker there is no way,
the path is made by walking…"
Blow by blow, verse by verse…
He died the poet away from home.

Dust from a neighboring country covers him.

As they walked away they saw him cry.

"Walker there is no way,
the path is made by walking…"
Blow by blow, verse by verse…
When the finch can not sing.

When the poet is a pilgrim,
when it is useless to pray.

"Walker there is no way,
the path is made by walking…"
Blow by blow, verse by verse.

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el mar.

Nunca persequí la gloria,
ni dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo los mundos sutiles,
ingrávidos y gentiles,
como pompas de jabón.

Me gusta verlos pintarse
de sol y grana, volar
bajo el cielo azul, temblar
súbitamente y quebrarse…
Nunca perseguí la gloria.

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar…
Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…"
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…
Murió el poeta lejos del hogar.

Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.

Al alejarse le vieron llorar.

"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…"
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…
Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar.

Cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.

"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…"
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso.

El Crimen Fue En Granada Read Poem

The Crime Was In Granada
Yo
THE CRIME
He was seen walking among rifles,
down a long street,
go out into the cold field,
even with stars, of the morning.

They killed Federico
when the light appeared.

The squad of executioners
He didn't dare look at her face.

Everyone closed their eyes;
They prayed: not even God saves you!
Federico fell dead.

-blood on the forehead and lead in the guts-.

…What was the crime in Granada?

know -poor Granada!-, in its Granada.

.

.

II
THE POET AND DEATH
He was seen walking alone with Her,
without fear of his scythe.

Already the sun in tower and tower; the hammers
in anvil - anvil and anvil of the forges.

Federico spoke,
breaking death.

She was listening.

"Because yesterday in my verse, partner,
the blow of your dry palms sounded,
and you gave ice to my song, and the edge
to my tragedy of your silver sickle,
I will sing to you the meat that you do not have,
the eyes that you are missing,
your hair that the wind shook,
the red lips where they kissed you.

.

.

Today like yesterday, gypsy, my death,
how good it is with you alone,
through these airs of Granada, my Granada!"
III
He was seen walking.

.

.

Till, friends,
of stone and dream, in the Alhambra,
a burial mound for the poet,
on a fountain where the water cries,
and eternally say:
The crime was in Granada, in his Granada!
I
EL CRIMEN
Se le vio, caminando entre fusiles,
por una calle larga,
salir al campo frío,
aún con estrellas, de la madrugada.

Mataron a Federico
cuando la luz asomaba.

El pelotón de verdugos
no osó mirarle la cara.

Todos cerraron los ojos;
rezaron: ¡ni Dios te salva!
Muerto cayó Federico.

-sangre en la frente y plomo en las entrañas-.

…Que fue en Granada el crimen
sabed -¡pobre Granada!-, en su Granada…
II
EL POETA Y LA MUERTE
Se le vio caminar solo con Ella,
sin miedo a su guadaña.

Ya el sol en torre y torre; los martillos
en yunque - yunque y yunque de las fraguas.

Hablaba Federico,
requebrando a la muerte.

Ella escuchaba.

"Porque ayer en mi verso, compañera,
sonaba el golpe de tus secas palmas,
y diste el hielo a mi cantar, y el filo
a mi tragedia de tu hoz de plata,
te cantaré la carne que no tienes,
los ojos que te faltan,
tus cabellos que el viento sacudía,
los rojos labios donde te besaban…
Hoy como ayer, gitana, muerte mía,
qué bien contigo a solas,
por estos aires de Granada, ¡mi Granada!"
III
Se le vio caminar.

.

Labrad, amigos,
de piedra y sueño, en el Alhambra,
un túmulo al poeta,
sobre una fuente donde llore el agua,
y eternamente diga:
el crimen fue en Granada, ¡en su Granada!

El Viajero Read Poem

The traveler
He's in the family room, gloomy,
and between us, the dear brother
that in the childish dream of a clear day
We saw them leave for a faraway country.

Today he already has silver temples,
a gray lock on the narrow forehead;
and the cold restlessness of their looks
reveals a soul almost completely absent.

The autumnal tops shed their leaves
of the musty and old park.

The afternoon, behind the humid windows,
it is painted, and at the bottom of the mirror.

Brother's face lights up
gently.

Flowery disappointments
golden in the afternoon that declines?

yearning New life in New Years?

Will he regret his lost youth?

The poor wolf remained far away dead.

The white youth never lived
Are you afraid, what should you sing at your door?

Do you smile at the golden sun
from the land of a dream not found;
and sees his ship split the sonorous sea,
of wind and light the white inflated sail?

He has seen the autumn leaves,
yellow, roll, the smelly ones
eucalyptus branches, rose bushes
that show their white roses again.

.

.

And this pain that longs or mistrusts
the tremor of a tear represses,
and a rest of virile hypocrisy
It is printed on the pale countenance.

Serious portrait on light wall
still.

We digress.

In the sadness of home it hits
the ticking of the clock.

We all remain silent.

They are good people who live,
They work, they pass and they dream,
and one day like so many,
They rest underground.

Está en la sala familiar, sombría,
y entre nosotros, el querido hermano
que en el sueño infantil de un claro día
vimos partir hacia un país lejano.

Hoy tiene ya las sienes plateadas,
un gris mechón sobre la angosta frente;
y la fría inquietud de sus miradas
revela un alma casi toda ausente.

Deshójanse las copas otoñales
del parque mustio y viejo.

La tarde, tras los húmedos cristales,
se pinta, y en el fondo del espejo.

El rostro del hermano se ilumina
suavemente.

¿Floridos desengaños
dorados por la tarde que declina?

¿Ansias de vida nueva en nuevos años?

¿Lamentará la juventud perdida?

Lejos quedó —la pobre loba— muerta.

¿La blanca juventud nunca vivida
teme, que ha de cantar ante su puerta?

¿Sonríe al sol de oro
de la tierra de un sueño no encontrada;
y ve su nave hender el mar sonoro,
de viento y luz la blanca vela hinchada?

Él ha visto las hojas otoñales,
amarillas, rodar, las olorosas
ramas del eucalipto, los rosales
que enseñan otra vez sus blancas rosas…
Y este dolor que añora o desconfía
el temblor de una lágrima reprime,
y un resto de viril hipocresía
en el semblante pálido se imprime.

Serio retrato en la pared clarea
todavía.

Nosotros divagamos.

En la tristeza del hogar golpea
el tic-tac del reloj.

Todos callamos.

Son buenas gentes que viven,
laboran, pasan y sueñan,
y un día como tantos,
descansan bajo la tierra.

Fields Of Soria Read Poem

Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc
round Soria, shadowed oaks,
stone dry-lands, naked mountains,
white roads and river poplars,
twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,
today I feel, for you,
in my hearts depths, sadness,
sadness of love! Fields of Soria,
where it seems the stones have dreams,
you go with me! Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks.

Guadarrama Read Poem

Guadarrama, is it you, old friend,
mountains white and gray
that I used to see painted against the blue
those afternoons of the old days in Madrid?

Up your deep ravines
and past your bristling peaks
a thousand Guadarramas and a thousand suns
come riding with me, riding to your heart.

Has My Heart Gone To Sleep? Read Poem

Has my heart gone to sleep?

Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?

No, my heart is not asleep.

It is awake, wide awake.

Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.

He Andado Muchos Caminos Read Poem

I have walked many roads
I have walked many roads
I have opened many paths;
I have sailed a hundred seas
and moored on a hundred shores.

Everywhere I have seen
caravans of sadness,
proud and melancholy
black shadow drunks.

And pedantons to the cloth
who look, shut up and think
what do they know, why don't they drink
the wine of the taverns.

bad people walking
and the earth is stinking.

.

.

And everywhere I've seen
people who dance or play,
when they can, and they work
its four palms of land.

Never, if they arrive at a site
They ask where they are going.

When they walk, they ride
on the back of an old mule.

And they don't know the rush
not even on holidays.

Where there is wine, they drink wine,
where there is no wine, fresh water.

He andado muchos caminos
he abierto muchas veredas;
he navegado en cien mares
y atracado en cien riberas.

En todas partes he visto
caravanas de tristeza,
soberbios y melancólicos
borrachos de sombra negra.

Y pedantones al paño
que miran, callan y piensan
que saben, porque no beben
el vino de las tabernas.

Mala gente que camina
y va apestando la tierra…
Y en todas partes e visto
gentes que danzan o juegan,
cuando pueden, y laboran
sus cuatro palmos de tierra.

Nunca, si llegan a un sitio
preguntan a donde llegan.

Cuando caminan, cabalgan
a lomos de mula vieja.

Y no conocen la prisa
ni aun en los días de fiesta.

Donde hay vino, beben vino,
donde no hay vino, agua fresca.

I Did Not Dream... Read Poem

I did not dream of ever gaining
the great-great fame and of embedding
my song into the hearts of fans;
I like all that is wholly airy,
all that is weightless, all that's fairy
like soap bubbles' friendly clans.

I like when they, so gay and selfish,
drink sun and carmine, get a flight
to skies and then, as in a fright,
shudder and break and promptly vanish.

Inventario Galante Read Poem

Gallant Inventory
Your eyes remind me
summer nights,
black moonless nights,
shore of the salt sea,
and the sparkling of stars
of the black and low sky.

Your eyes remind me
summer nights.

And your brown flesh,
the burnt wheat,
and the sigh of fire
of the mature fields.

Your sister is fair and weak
like languid reeds,
like sad willows,
like glaucous linens.

Your sister is a star
in the distant blue.

.

.

And it is dawn and cold aura
on the poor poplars
that tremble on the shores
of the humble and gentle river.

Your sister is a star
in the distant blue.

Of your dark grace
of your gypsy dream,
of your shadow look
I want to fill my glass.

I'll get drunk one night
of black and low sky,
to sing with you,
shore of the salt sea,
a song that leaves
ashes on the lips.

.

.

From your shadow look
I want to fill my glass.

For your pretty sister
I will pluck the branches
of new flowers
to the white almond trees
in a quiet and sad
dawn of March.

I will water them with water
of the clear streams,
I will tie them with greens
backwater jonquils…
For your pretty sister
I will make a white twig.

Tus ojos me recuerdan
las noches de verano,
negras noches sin luna,
orilla al mar salado,
y el chispear de estrellas
del cielo negro y bajo.

Tus ojos me recuerdan
las noches de verano.

Y tu morena carne,
los trigos requemados,
y el suspirar de fuego
de los maduros campos.

Tu hermana es clara y débil
como los juncos lánguidos,
como los sauces tristes,
como los linos glaucos.

Tu hermana es un lucero
en el azul lejano…
Y es alba y aura fría
sobre llos pobres álamos
que en las orillas tiemblan
del río humilde y manso.

Tu hermana es un lucero
en el azul lejano.

De tu morena gracia
de tu soñar gitano,
de tu mirar de sombra
quiero llenar mi vaso.

Me embriagaré una noche
de cielo negro y bajo,
para cantar contigo,
orilla al mar salado,
una canción que deje
cenizas en los labios…
De tu mirar de sombra
quiero llenar mi vaso.

Para tu linda hermana
arrancaré los ramos
de florecillas nuevas
a los almendros blancos
en un tranquilo y triste
alborear de marzo.

Los regaré con agua
de los arroyos claros,
los ataré con verdes
junquillos del remanso…
Para tu linda hermana
yo haré un ramito blanco.

La Saeta Read Poem

"The arrow"
A popular voice said:
Who lends me a ladder
to climb the wood
to remove the nails
to Jesus the Nazarene?

Oh, the arrow, the singing
to the Christ of the Gypsies
always with blood on the hands
always to unlock.

Song of the Andalusian people
that all the springs
he's asking for stairs
to climb the cross.

Sing of my land
that flowers
to the Jesus of agony
and it is the faith of my elders
Oh, it's not you my singing
I can not sing, I do not want
to this Jesus of the wood
but to the one who walked in the sea!
- The original in spanish:
Dijo una voz popular:
Quién me presta una escalera
para subir al madero
para quitarle los clavos
a Jesús el Nazareno?

Oh, la saeta, el cantar
al Cristo de los gitanos
siempre con sangre en las manos
siempre por desenclavar.

Cantar del pueblo andaluz
que todas las primaveras
anda pidiendo escaleras
para subir a la cruz.

Cantar de la tierra mía
que echa flores
al Jesús de la agonía
y es la fe de mis mayores
!Oh, no eres tú mi cantar
no puedo cantar, ni quiero
a este Jesús del madero
sino al que anduvo en la mar!.

Last Night As I Was Sleeping Read Poem

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.

And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

Passageways Read Poem

Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?

Who painted the purple mountains
and the saffron, sunset sky?

The hermitage, the beehives,
the cleft of the river
the endless rolling water deep in rocks,
the pale-green of new fields,
all of it, even the white and pink
under the almond trees!

Recuerdo Infantil (& translation) Read Poem

Childhood Memory (& translation)
A cold, brown afternoon
of winter.

The schoolboys
they study.

Monotony
of rain behind the glass.

It's the class.

On a poster
Cain is represented
fugitive, and Abel dead,
next to a carmine stain.

With loud and hollow bell
thunders the teacher, an old man
poorly dressed, lean and dry,
who carries a book in his hand.

And a whole children's choir
he sings the lesson:
"a thousand times a hundred, a hundred thousand;
a thousand times a thousand, a million.

"
A cold, brown afternoon
of winter.

The schoolboys
they study.

Monotony
of the rain on the windows.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Childhood Memory
A cold, drear afternoon
of winter.

schoolboys
at study.

Monotony
of rain on windows.

In class.

On a poster
Cain is presented
a fugitive, and Abel dead,
next to a carmine stain.

Along with loud and hollow bell
thunders a teacher, an old man
poorly dressed, lean and dry, carrying a book in his hand.

And a children's choir, singing
"One thousand times one hundred,
one hundred thousand; a thousand
times a thousand, a million.

"
A cold, drear afternoon
of winter.

schoolboys
at study.

Monotony
of rain on windows.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Una tarde parda y fría
de invierno.

Los colegiales
estudian.

Monotonía
de lluvia tras los cristales.

Es la clase.

En un cartel
se representa a Caín
fugitivo, y muerto Abel,
junto a una mancha carmín.

Con timbre sonoro y hueco
truena el maestro, un anciano
mal vestido, enjuto y seco,
que lleva un libro en la mano.

Y todo un coro infantil
va cantando la lección:
"mil veces ciento, cien mil;
mil veces mil, un millón.

"
Una tarde parda y fría
de invierno.

Los colegiales
estudian.

Monotonía
de la lluvia en los cristales.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Childhood Memory
A cold, drear afternoon
of winter.

Schoolboys
at study.

Monotony
of rain on windows.

In class.

On a poster
Cain is presented
a fugitive, and Abel dead,
next to a carmine stain.

Along with loud and hollow bell
thunders a teacher, an old man
poorly dressed, lean and dry, carrying a book in his hand.

And a children's choir, singing
"One thousand times one hundred,
one hundred thousand; a thousand
times a thousand, a million.

"
A cold, drear afternoon
of winter.

Schoolboys
at study.

Monotony
of rain on windows.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(The above Spanish poem can be found in "Roots and Wings: Poetry from Spain, 1900 - 1975", and is presented here for educational, i.

e.

non commercial, purposes only.

The translation is by Jackie Joseph © June 2020) ~ ~ ~

Songs Of The High Country Read Poem

Soria, in blue mountains,
on the fields of violet,
how often I’ve dreamed of you
on the plain of flowers,
where the Guadalquiviŕ runs
past golden orange-trees
to the sea.

The Wind, One Brilliant Day Read Poem

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

"In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.

"
"I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.

"
"Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.

"
the wind left.

And I wept.

And I said to myself:
"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

"

To JośE MarίA Palacio Read Poem

Palacio, good friend,
is spring there
showing itself on branches of black poplars
by the roads and river?

On the steeps
of the high Duero, spring is late,
but so soft and lovely when it comes!
Are there a few new leaves
on the old elms?

The acacias must still be bare,
and the mountain peaks snow-filled.

Oh the massed pinks and whites
of Moncayo, massed up there,
beauty, in the sky of Aragon!
Are there brambles flowering,
among the grey stones,
and white daisies,
in the thin grass?

On the belltowers
the storks will be landing now.

The wheat must be green
and the brown mules working sown furrows,
the people seeding late crops,
in April rain.

There’ll be bees,
drunk on rosemary and thyme.

Are the plum trees in flower?

Violets still?

There must be hunters about, stealthy,
their decoys under long capes.

Palacio, good friend,
are there nightingales by the river?

When the first lilies,
and the first roses, open,
on a blue evening, climb to Espino,
high Espino, where she is in the earth.

To José Maria Palacio Read Poem

Palacio, good friend,
is spring
already dressing branches of the black poplars
by the river and the roads?

On the steppe
by the deep Duero, spring is late,
yet so lovely and soft when it comes!
Do the old elms have
a few new leaves?

The acacias must still be bare
and the sierra mountains with snow.

O white and pink mass of Moncayo,
there, so handsome in the Aragon sky!
Are brambles in flower
among the gray rocks,
and white daisies
in the slender grass?

In those belfries
the storks must be arriving.

The green wheatfields
and brown mules in the seeded furrows,
and with april rains the farmers
who plant the late lands.

Now bees
are sipping rosemary and thyme.

Are the plums in bloom?

Violets left?

Furtive hunters, with partridge
decoys under their long capes
cannot be missing.

Palacio, good friend,
are nightingales already on the riverbanks?

With the first lilies
and first roses in the orchards,
on a blue afternoon, climb to the cemetery
of Espino, high Espino, where she is in her earth.

Yo Voy Soñando Caminos Read Poem

I'm Dreaming Paths
I'm dreaming paths
pm.

The hills
golden, the green pines,
the dusty oaks!…
Where will the path go?

I'm singing, traveler
along the trail.

.

.

-The afternoon is falling-.

"In my heart I had
the thorn of a passion;
I managed to rip it off one day;
I no longer feel the heart.

"
And the whole field for a moment
he remains, dumb and gloomy,
meditating.

the wind sounds
in the poplars of the river.

The afternoon gets darker;
and the road that winds
and faintly whitens,
it blurs and disappears.

My singing returns to mourn;
"Sharp golden thorn,
who could feel you
nailed to the heart.

"
Yo voy soñando caminos
de la tarde.

¡Las colinas
doradas, los verdes pinos,
las polvorientas encinas!…
¿Adónde el camino irá?

Yo voy cantando, viajero
a lo largo del sendero…
-La tarde cayendo está-.

"En el corazón tenía
la espina de una pasión;
logré arrancármela un día;
ya no siento el corazón.

"
Y todo el campo un momento
se queda, mudo y sombrío,
meditando.

Suena el viento
en los álamos del río.

La tarde más se oscurece;
y el camino que serpea
y débilmente blanquea,
se enturbia y desaparece.

Mi cantar vuelve a plañir;
"Aguda espina dorada,
quién te pudiera sentir
en el corazón clavada.

"

[Traveler, your footprints] Read Poem

Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.

Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.

As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.

Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship's wake on the sea.