On Poetry and Culture Shock

Lorca (a summer poem)

I’m not a big fan of Lorca; I just like the occasional poem, or even individual lines by him. I love one that says,

Caballito frío,
¡qué perfume de flor de cuchillo!

Cold little horse,
What a fragrance of knife flowers!

The horse is cold because it is dead and the fragrance of knife flowers is blood. And the poem is about highwaymen that have assaulted a traveller in the night.

Surrealism in a poem is like sex in Hollywood movies. I don’t have anything against it, as long as it really adds something good to the whole instead of just being there because it is expected.

Anyway, a little bit more Lorca. My town associated with suffocating heat. I hope I don’t go to the Hell of Translators for this (where bad translators have to work on Finnegans Wake for all eternity).

Adelina de paseo

La mar no tiene naranjas
Ni Sevilla tiene amor
Morena, ¡qué luz de fuego!
Préstame tu quitasol.

Me pondrá la cara verde
Zumo de lima y limón
Tus palabras, pececillos,
Nadarán alrededor.

La mar no tiene naranjas.
¡Ay!, amor.
¡Ni Sevilla tiene amor!

Adelina takes a walk

There are no oranges at sea,
There is no love in Seville.
My brunette, what fiery light.
Lend me your parasol.

It will make my cheeks green
(juice of limes and lemons)
Your words – little fishes –
will swim all around us.

There are no oranges at sea.
Ay, love.
And no love in Seville!

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