So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.
It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lighted up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping breasts
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foliage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.
Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver,
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o'-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brilliance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.
As a man, I won't repeat
the things she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The swords of the lilies
battled with the air.
I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she was a maiden
when I took her to the river.
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Comments
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hyacinth poem
From guest biplab ghosh (contact)
the memory of reading this poetry was beyond any description. at that time i was only 21. two renowned peots of west bengal, india have translated the poetry. the better one, as per my opinion, of sunil ganguly's. however, after almost 25 years, i have come across the translated one in english and experience was the same. that is why this poetry is an eternal one. -
I like this poem
From guest Wu Jingdong (contact)
Im a Chinese poet. I'm moved by the beauty of this poem.
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Lies, passion, lust...readable, believable, captivating. This poem is like a little opera. It's the story skillfully told of a lying woman wandering along the edge of a river and her presence is noted by a soldier who knows opportunity when he sees it. They have their moment in the richness of unfolded, textual means, yet, the poem never veers into a pornographic moment. The poem maintains an air of a gentlemanly manner, as indeed the lines reveal, "as a man (implied gentleman, one of proper bearing or social rules)I won't repeat the things she said to me." She is spared the risk of her husband finding out, and the soldier leaves her with a gift, but not his heart.
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Lorca was such a brilliant poet, born and died, long before his time of greatness was to be appreciated...it is with sadness that I realize a lot of his work was banned until 1971..poetic freedom rage on
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This happens to be my favorite Lorca poem (though I've only read about 10).
Sleepy breasts opening to spiky hyacinths. Just wonderous. And poems about rivers are nearly always beautiful.
Excellent.
Lisa
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