Garcia Lorca’s La Monja Gitana
Lorca's La Monja Gitana, The Gypsy Nun has been examined as a Freudian metaphor for repressed sexuality; which, considering Federico's closeted self and the nature of repression in the Catholic Church, really isn't that much of a stretch for the imagination.
The idea of the nun, sewing bizarre and sensual designs into her lemon-colored cloth while a summer breeze rustles her gowns is an entrancing one. Loughran (1994) says in his notes:
Myrtle Flowering shrub held sacred to Venus, goddess of passionate lust … Mallows Common European plant, usually with white or pink blossoms … Almería Eastern province of Spain bordering on the Mediterranean … Yerbaluisa A common sweet smelling plant used for making soothing herbal infusions … (page 18 - 19)
Since so much of Garcia Lorca's Gypsy Ballads have been set to flamenco, I would love to see a production of this poem put to dance. However, the more I search for some reference of this the less I find. Anyone with any suggestions1 please feel free to write to me. I love letters. Actually, a note dropped for any reason would be welcome. So would a box of Turkish Delight. Or maybe a photograph of yourself on stage; reading your most beloved poem ever. That would be wonderful, too.
| La Monja Gitana Federico Garcia Lorca |
The Gypsy Nun translated by ZJC |
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Silencio de cal y mirto. Malvas en las hierbas finas. La monja borda alhelíes sobre una tela pajiza. Vuelan en la araña gris siete pájaros del prisma. La iglesia gruñe a lo lejos como un oso panza arriba. ¡Que bien borda! ¡Con qué gracia! Sobre la tela pajiza ella quisiera bordar flores de su fantasía. ¡Qué girasol! ¡Qué magnolia de lentejuelas y cintas! ¡Qué azafranes y qué lunas, en el mantel de la misa! Cinco toronjas se endulzan en la cercana cocina. Las cinco llagas de Cristo cortadas en Almería. Por los ojos de la monja galopan dos caballistas. Un rumor último y sordo le despega la camisa, y al mirar nubes y montes en las yertas lejanías, se quiebra su corazón de azúcar y yerbaluisa. ¡Oh, qué llanura empinada con veinte soles arriba! ¡Qué ríos puestos de pie vislumbra su fantasía! Pero sigue con sus flores, mientras que de pie, en la brisa, la luz juega el ajedrez alto de la celosía. |
Silence of white lime and myrtle. |
- Somewhere in New York City someone must be festering with passion over Federico right now as I write this, somewhere someone must be festering, I can only hope. [back]