Sonnet of homage to Manuel de Falla offering him flowers

Soneto de homenaje a Manuel de Falla ofreciéndole unas flores

Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)

Soneto de homenaje a Manuel de Falla ofreciéndole unas flores
Lira cordial de plata refulgente de duro acento y nervio desatado, voces y frondas de la España ardiente con tus manos de amor has dibujado. En nuestra propia sangre está la fuente que tu razón y sueños ha brotado. Álgebra limpia de serena frente. Disciplina y pasión de lo soñado. Ocho provincias de la Andalucía, olivo al aire y a la mar los remos, cantan, Manuel de Falla, tu alegría. Con el laurel y flores que ponemos, amigos de tu casa, en este día, pura amistad sencilla te ofrecemos.
Sonnet of homage to Manuel de Falla offering him flowers
Warm-hearted shining silver lyre of steady beat and supple nerve, you conjure with your hands of love voices and fronds of Spanish fire. In our own blood the wellsprings flow from which your thoughts and visions stream: clean algebra of tranquil brow, passion and discipline of dream. Sing, eight lands of Andalucía, wind in the olives, oars on sea, Manuel de Falla’s alegría. Friends of your house, now, offering our pure and simple amity, these flowers and sprigs of bay we bring.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Federico García Lorca...

To the Soldiers of the Great War

An die Soldaten des Großen Krieges

Gerrit Engelke (1890-1918)

In Memoriam August Deppe
An die Soldaten des Großen Krieges
Herauf! aus Gräben, Lehmhöhlen, Betonkellern, Steinbrüchen! Heraus aus Schlamm und Glut, Kalkstaub und Aasgerüchen! Herbei! Kameraden! Denn von Front zu Front, von Feld zu Feld Komme euch allen der neue Feiertag der Welt! Stahlhelme ab, Mützen, Käppis! und fort die Gewehre! Genug der blutbadenden Feindschaft und Mordehre! Euch alle beschwör’ ich bei eurer Heimat Weilern und Städten, Den furchtbaren Samen des Haßes auszutreten, zu jäten, Beschwöre euch bei eurer Liebe zur Schwester, zur Mutter, zum Kind, Die allein euer narbiges Herz noch zum Singen stimmt. Bei eurer Liebe zur Gattin — auch ich liebe ein Weib! Bei eurer Liebe zur Mutter — auch mich trug ein Mutterleib! Bei eurer Liebe zum Kinde — denn ich liebe die Kleinen! Und die Häuser sind voll von Fluchen, Beten, Weinen! Lagst du bei Ypern, dem zertrümmerten? Auch ich lag dort. Bei Mihiel, dem verkümmerten? Ich war an diesem Ort. Dixmuide, dem umschwemmten? Ich lag vor deiner Stirn, In Höllenschluchten Verduns, wie du in Rauch und Klirrn, Mit dir im Schnee vor Dünaburg, frierend, immer trüber, An der leichenfreßenden Somme lag ich dir gegenüber. Ich lag dir gegenüber überall, doch wußtest du es nicht! Feind an Feind, Mensch an Mensch und Leib an Leib, warm und dicht. Ich war Soldat und Mann und Pflichterfüller, so wie du, Dürstend, schlaflos, krank — auf Marsch und Posten immerzu. Stündlich vom Tode umstürzt, umschrien, umdampft, Stündlich an Heimat, Geliebte, Geburtßtadt gekrampft Wie du und du und ihr alle. — Reiß auf deinen Rock! Entblöße die Wölbung der Brust! Ich sehe den Streifschuß von fünfzehn, die schorfige Krust, Und da an der Stirn vernähten Schlitz vom Sturm bei Tahüre — Doch daß du nicht denkst, ich heuchle, vergelt’ ich mit gleicher Gebühr: Ich öffne mein Hemd: hier ist noch die vielfarbige Narbe am Arm! Der Brandstempel der Schlacht! von Sprung und Alarm, Ein zärtliches Andenken lang nach dem Kriege. Wie sind wir doch stolz unsrer Wunden! Stolz du der deinigen, Doch nicht stolzer als ich auch der meinigen. Du gabst nicht beßeres Blut, und nicht rötere Kraft, Und der gleiche zerhackte Sand trank unsern Saft! — Zerschlug deinen Bruder der gräßliche Krach der Granate? Fiel nicht dein Onkel, dein Vetter, dein Pate? Liegt nicht der bärtige Vater verscharrt in der Kuhle? Und dein Freund, dein lustiger Freund aus der Schule? — Hermann und Fritz, meine Vettern, verströmten im Blute, Und der hilfreiche Freund, der Jüngling, der blonde und gute. Und zu Hause wartet sein Bett, und im ärmlichen Zimmer Seit sechzehn, seit siebzehn die gramgraue Mutter noch immer. Wo ist uns sein Kreuz und sein Grab! — Franzose du, von Brest, Bordeaux, Garonne, Ukrainer du, Kosak vom Ural, Dnjestr und Don, österreicher, Bulgare, Osmanen und Serben, Ihr alle im rasenden Strudel von Tat und von Sterben — Du Brite aus London, York, Manchester, Soldat, Kamerad, in Wahrheit Mitmensch und Bester — Amerikaner, aus den volkreichen Staaten der Freiheit: Wirf ab: Sonderintereße, Nationaldünkel und Zweiheit! Warst du ein ehrlicher Feind, wirst du ein ehrlicher Freund. Hier meine Hand, daß sich nun Hand in Hand zum Kreise binde Und unser neuer Tag uns echt und menschlich finde. Die Welt ist für euch alle groß und schön und schön! Geht her! staunt auf! nach Schlacht und Blutgestöhn: Wie grüne Meere frei in Horizonte fluten, Wie Morgen, Abende in reiner Klarheit gluten, Wie aus den Tälern sich Gebirge heben, Wie Milliarden Wesen uns umbeben! O, unser allerhöchstes Glück heißt: Leben! — O, daß sich Bruder wirklich Bruder wieder nenne! Daß Ost und West den gleichen Wert erkenne: Daß wieder Freude in die Völker blitzt: Und Mensch an Mensch zur Güte sich erhitzt! Von Front zu Front und Feld zu Feld, Laßt singen uns den Feiertag der neuen Welt! Aus aller Brüsten dröhne eine Bebung: Der Psalm des Friedens, der Versöhnung, der Erhebung! Und das meerrauschende, dampfende Lied, Das hinreißende, brüderumarmende, Das wilde und heilig erbarmende Der tausendfachen Liebe laut um alle Erden!
To the Soldiers of the Great War
Rise up! From ditches, mud-holes, rubble and concrete bunkers! Rise up from carrion-stink, from chalk-dust and slime and embers! Comrades, to me! And from every front and field May there come to you all the new red-letter day of the world! Away with steel helmets and képis and deadly weapons of war! Enough of bloodshed and enmity, let’s honour murder no more! I conjure you all, by your country’s hamlets and streets To trample and stamp out hatred’s terrible seeds, I conjure you by your love for a sister, a mother, a child, For how else shall your war-scarred heart be to singing beguiled? By your love for your wife — for I too have a woman I love! By your love for your mother — my own mother gave me life! By your love for your child — for I love them all, little dears! And our homes are heavy with prayers and curses and tears! Were you at Ypres the shattered? There too was I. At Mihiel, the beset, the battered? And so was I. At Dixmuide, the flooded? I lay there in front of you. In Verdun’s gullies of hell, in the smoke and the din, like you. In the snow before Dünaburg, freezing and in distress, On the Somme, the eater of corpses, I lay, just across, Though you never knew, just across from you everywhere, Foe to foe, man to man, body to body, cosy and warm, I was there. I was a soldier and husband and dutiful, just like you, Thirsting, sleepless and suffering, at my post or marching, Hourly came Death to beset me, wrestling me, searing, screeching, Hourly frantic I longed for my home, my birthplace, my darling, Like you, and you, like each of you. — Tear off your tunic! Uncover the vault of your breast! I see your graze of ’15, the scab and the bloody crust, And there is the stitched-up slash from Tahure’s infernal day — But don’t think I mock you, for I can reciprocate and repay: I open my shirt: here still is the gaudy scar on my arm! The brandmark of battle! of shock, assault and alarm, A sweet souvenir, long after the war is done. But how proud we are of our wounds! You are proud of yours, And yet no prouder than I am, of my scars! You gave your blood good as mine, and strength as red, And the same sand riddled with wounds drank the blood we bled! — Did the vicious grenade’s discharge strike down your brother? Did your uncle fall, your cousin, your godfather? Is your old father rough-buried in some hole? And your jovial friend, your boon-companion from school? — Hermann and Fritz, my cousins, were soaked in blood, And my helpful fair-haired friend who was young and good. His bed is still waiting in his modest room, ’16, ’17, and his grief-grey mother, at home. And where is his cross and his grave! Frenchman, hailing from Brest, Bordeaux, Garonne, Ukrainian, Cossack of Urals, Dniester and Don, You Serbs and Austrians, Ottomans and Bulgars, All doing and dying, caught up in the hurtling ruckus — You, Briton from London, Manchester, York, Southampton, Soldier and comrade, in truth a fine companion — American out of the teeming States of freedom: Cast aside special interest, trickery, jingoism! You were an upright foe: become an upright friend. Here is my hand: let hand on hand make a bond: Honest and human may we henceforth be found. The world is for all of you beautiful and grand! With me, be amazed, after blood and battle have groaned, How the green seas ever flow free to the horizon, How pure and bright all the evenings and mornings have risen, How from the valleys the mountains upwards heave, How round us a million beings thrill and thrive! O, our highest good fortune of all is this: to live! O may a brother once again call himself brother! May East and West acknowledge their equal worth! May joy shine again on the nations of the earth: May men be moved to show kindness to one another! From front to front, from field to field, Let us sing the song, the red-letter day of the world! Let every breast by its resonance be thrilled, The psalm of peace, forgiveness and upraising! And the ocean–roaring song, the searing, The racing, brother-embracing, Running wild, with mercy gracing Thousandfold Love ring out, till the earth is filled!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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That Road, I Trod It Not

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

He never needed the letter E !
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
That Road, I Trod It Not
Two roads! At a fork in an autumn wood I was sorry I could not go down both Without bifurcating. Long I stood looking down road X as far as I could till it slank out of sight in that sylvan growth. And I took road Y, which could turn a trick, Alluring, and angling for priority, That is, it was grassy and in good nick, Though I must say footfall and walking-stick Had worn both roads with comparability. And both that morning similarly lay Intact, no taint of any trampling black. I put off Road X for a distant day, Though, knowing how way links up with way, I hardly thought that I would go back. I shall spout this story and I shall sigh, Who knows how soon, or in what locality: Two roads at a fork in a wood, and I – Shunning busy road X, I took road Y! – With what upshot? A thoroughgoing dissimilarity!
The story behind this poem: Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is both humorous and ironic, reflecting the poet's playful side. In the early 20th century, Frost became close friends with the English writer Edward Thomas. They often took long walks together through the countryside, where Thomas would frequently express regret over not choosing a different path once they had gone a certain way. Frost, amused by Thomas's indecision and tendency to second-guess himself, decided to write a poem as a gentle parody of his friend. In 1915, Frost penned "The Road Not Taken," intending it as a playful mockery of Thomas’s indecisiveness. The poem's narrator stands at a fork in the woods, choosing one path over another, only to later claim that the choice made "all the difference," despite the paths being equally worn. Frost sent the poem to Thomas, expecting his friend to catch the humor. However, Thomas did not realize that the poem was meant to be lighthearted and instead interpreted it as a serious reflection on choice and consequence. This misunderstanding disappointed Frost but also deepened the poem’s legacy, as it highlighted how easily people can misconstrue intentions based on their perspectives. Interestingly, this poem, which Frost intended as a joke, became one of his most famous and is often quoted as an inspiring message about individualism and the significance of choices in life. Yet, Frost’s original intent was more about poking fun at the human tendency to overthink and attribute deep meaning to decisions that, in hindsight, may not have been as significant as we believe. This story not only sheds light on the poem’s true meaning but also adds a layer of irony, as the world continues to interpret the poem in a way that differs from Frost’s original playful intent.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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