Miguel Hernandez (NYRB/Poets)
Miguel Hernández is, in addition to Antonio Machado, Juan Ramón Jiménez, and Federico García Lorca, one of many maximum Spanish poets of the 20 th century. This quantity spans the complete of Hernández’s short writing lifestyles, and contains his such a lot celebrated poems, from the early lyrics written in conventional types, akin to the relocating elegy Hernández wrote to his good friend and mentor Ramon Sijé (one of the main well-known elegies ever written within the Spanish language), to the non secular eroticism of his love poems, and the heart-wrenching, luminous traces written within the trenches of battle. additionally integrated during this variation are tributes to Hernández by way of Federico García Lorca, Pablo Neruda (interviewed through Robert Bly), Rafael Alberti, and Vicente Aleixandre. Pastoral nature, love, and battle are ordinary issues in Hernández’s poetry, his phrases a blinding reminder that strength can by no means defeat spirit, that braveness is its personal gift.
Canefields. Drooping over man’s drowsiness until eventually his middle is left calmed and his brain comfortable. Smother the weapon’s voice, don’t enable it wake and spring with hatred’s knife throbbing among its tooth. you notice, sound asleep, a guy is definitely worth the complete earth. the entire homes Are Eyes all of the homes are eyes that glisten and lie in wait. all of the homes are mouths that spit and gnash and kiss. all of the homes are hands that shove, and fold over on themselves. Out of each condo come whiffs.
Wore corduroy pants and espadrilles; he appeared like a soldier or a peasant. In that inn in Valencia, packed with smoke and self-esteem, and likewise jam-packed with actual ardour, Miguel Hernández sang in his deep voice and his making a song used to be as if the entire bushes have been making a song. It was once as if a unmarried tree, the tree of a baby and millennial Spain, had began to sing its songs back. no longer a poplar, no longer an olive, now not an oak, no longer an apple, now not an orange, yet the entire timber jointly, mixing their sap and scents.
Winter’s middle, this uncooked starvation, so bored with being hungry and chilly, threatens the unclothed with an timeless grudge that's white, deadly, ravenous, mute, and darkish. It desires to fan forges, hatred, flames, it desires to cease up the seas, and bury love. It is going round heaving up large diaphanous obstacles, tongue-tied statues, and feisty slivers of glass. I want the hearts of wool in all of the retailers and fabric generators might spool over, and canopy our bodies that kindle every one morning with voices and.
Absence, tired by way of time. Letters, tales, letters; postcards, goals, bits of tenderness tossed into the sky, introduced from blood to blood, from longing to longing. even supposing my loving physique is below earth now, write to me on the earth so i will be able to write to you. outdated letters, outdated envelopes develop quiet within the nook, the colour of age pressed into the writing. The letters perish there, full of shivering. The ink suffers demise throes, the free sheets weaken, and the paper fills with.
wide awake, with love, you are going to depart gentle imposed on every little thing whereas your mom and that i circulate towards affliction. I communicate, and my center escapes in my breath. If i couldn't say how choked with love i'm, i'd drown. I fragrance your room with lavender and resin. you're sunrise, my spouse. i'm the center of the day. III. baby of sunshine and Shadow Woven within the sunrise, engraved, honeycombs can’t carry again the honey from their nipples. Your breasts within the sunrise: maternal springs that fight, that rush.