My Night with Federico Garcia Lorca - Mi Noche Con Federico Garcia Lorca

My Night with Federico Garcia Lorca - Mi Noche Con Federico Garcia Lorca

by Jaime Manrique Ardila
     
 

Here is a collection of lyrical and sensual poems about childhood in Colombia, Manrique's memories of his family, and his more recent experiences and loves in Manhattan. Musical and romantic, these poems are in the tradition of Pablo Neruda. Translated by Edith Grossman and Eugene Richie. A bilingual edition.  See more details below

Overview

Here is a collection of lyrical and sensual poems about childhood in Colombia, Manrique's memories of his family, and his more recent experiences and loves in Manhattan. Musical and romantic, these poems are in the tradition of Pablo Neruda. Translated by Edith Grossman and Eugene Richie. A bilingual edition.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780965155830
Publisher:
Painted Leaf Press
Publication date:
03/28/1997
Pages:
127
Product dimensions:
6.02(w) x 9.01(h) x 0.43(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One


El Barranco de Loba, 1929

Cuando el sol calcinante
se abate hostigante sobre el pueblo,
despues de que mi abuela
(como Ursula Iguaran)
se ha pasado horas enteras
confeccionando animalitos azucarados,
mi madre, con un vestido de lino blanco
que le llega hasta los tobillos,
una cinta roja adornandole
su larga trenza negra,
calzando burdas chancletas,
va de casa en casa cantando:
"Cocadas, cocadas de coco y pina."

Maldiciendo el sol que la
quema y la renegrea,
mi madre balancea la bandeja
encima de su cabeza
y camina desde la quebrada
hasta la escuela publica,
pasando por el cuartel de la policia,
las dos cantinas del pueblo,
y el cementerio donde los gallinazos,
las iguanas y las viboras hacen la siesta.
Mi madre camina las calles engramadas
del villorrio hasta que el sol
—una guayaba madura ardiendo—
se zambulle en las aguas del Magdalena
y una violenta hemorragia celeste
pinta nubes enfebrecidas.

Acomodandose sobre una piedra
a orillas del rio,
observando los pescadores
que regresan en sus piraguas cargadas
de bagres, bocachicos y manaties,
tortugas y babillas,
mi madre, con su bandeja de animalitos casi intacta,
espanta los mosquitos que la aguzan
y las moscas drogadas por el azucar.
Ella es una nina de diez anos,
hastiada, sudorosa, cansada.
Ella odia a sus padres por ponerla
a vender cocadas que nadie compra.
Rascandose las piernas
con sus unas de senorita,
ella espera la lancha
que todas las tardes pasa rio arriba,
rumbo aMompox, Magangue, El Banco, Cartagena,
las grandes ciudades del mundo.
Todas las tardes ella espera.
Todos los dias ella anhela ese primer viaje
del que nunca regresara.
Cuando finalmente la lancha a vapor
aparece, tosiendo como una ballena tisica,
los zancudos freneticos
que atacan los brazos expuestos
de mi madre,
ya no la molestan.

Porque el picor que la ataca
es mas agudo, es de otra naturaleza.
Es el picor del deseo herido,
es el canto de sirena del mundo y sus placeres
que la lancha anuncia todas las noches
subiendo las aguas del rio en llamas
hacia esas urbes donde la vida empieza.

Barranco de Loba, 1929

When the calcine sun
swoops down to scourge the town,
after my grandmother
(like Ursula Iguaran)
has spent endless hours
making little sugared candies,
my mother, in a white linen dress
down to her ankles,
with a red ribbon twined
in her long black braid
and coarse slippers on her feet,
goes from house to house singing:
"Candies, coconut and pineapple candies."

Cursing the sun
that burns and blackens her,
my mother balances the tray
on her head
and walks from the ravine
to the public school,
past the police station,
the two cantinas,
the cemetery where buzzards, iguanas and snakes
take their siestas.
My mother walks the overgrown streets
of that one-horse town until the sun
—a burning ripe guava—
falls into the Magdalena
and a violent hemorrhage
stains the feverish clouds.

Settling on a rock
at the river's edge
to watch fishermen
returning in canoes heavy
with catfish, bocachico, manatee,
turtles, gators,
my mother, her tray of sweets almost full,
brushes away stinging mosquitoes
and flies drunk on sugar.

A ten-year-old girl,
she is angry, sweating, tired.
She hates her parents for sending her
to sell candies that nobody buys.
Scratching her legs
with her young lady's nails,
she waits for the launch
that passes every afternoon
heading upriver to Mompox and Magangue, El Banco, Cartagena,
the great cities of the world.
Every afternoon she waits.
Every day she longs for that first voyage
from which she will never return.
When the steamboat finally
appears, coughing like a consumptive whale,
the frantic mosquitoes
assaulting my mother's bare arms
no longer bother her.

The sting that torments her
is sharper, is a different kind,
is the sting of wounded desire,
the siren song of the world and its pleasures
sung every night by the launch
as it moves up the river in flames
to metropolises
where life begins.

Translated by Edith Grossman

Just for the Summer

By Laura Van Wormer

MIRA BOOKS

Copyright © 1997 Laura Van Wormer. All rights reserved.
TAILER

Read More

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network

     

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >