Myth of Arrival

Garcia Lorca’s Muerto de amor

chartkoffs; june 1996

This photo was taken by my mother of the three of us; my father, myself and my brother (on the uke), singing in a little cabin up on the western shores of Beaver Island, Lake Michigan, June, 1996. I'd like to say we were singing gypsy ballads, but it was probably songs from the Clancy Brothers or the Kingston Trio.

Of all the poems in Garcia Lorca's collection, this one, Muerto de amor, has been the least enjoyable to translate so far. By that I mean that though it deals with the theme of passionate death, it is a death from amorphous love in some confusing, obscure manner the poet does not bother to comment upon; it just happens. In this, the poem appears rather modern in today's vogue of employing chichi smoke and garrulous smorgasbords to cover up mundane observations.

The plot, if it can be called that goes as follows: someone's son sees a mysterious light, however it is not clear if it is the light that kills the boy or even if he is dying. All of this is in present tense. Lorca, slapdash, changes gears and focuses in on the moon and the metaphor of moonlight tapping on the window. Then the poem changes into past tense, with images of river women burying a glorified male and the broken conversation returns, with the male (?) voice saying he wants the whole world to know of us his death. The last of the poem concerns itself with images of death and light, the sky slamming doors, and the hullabaloo witnessed in the beginning of the poem returns. Had Federico included a blooming mushroom cloud upon the high terrace there would be some sense to the broken train of thought he exercises here. However, lines like: "7 bellows and 7 jets of blood,/ 7 heavy poppies in bloom," do nothing but obscure the points he is trying to make, rather than illuminate it.

However, there are some critics that suggest there is meaning to everything, so let us spend some time to see if such an approach to poetry is a good use of our time. Loughran (1994) says the following about Muerto de amor:

26. Saint George. Legendary slayer of the dragon. A soldier, he is depicted by Carpaccio armed with a lance and sword astride a galloping horse … 43. Blue telegrams. Telegrams in Spain are traditionally blue. 43. Seven … seven … seven. A number of great importance in the Bible, Catholicism and Christianity in general. Lorca's drawing of the Virgin (Mary) of the Seven Sorrows (seven swords transfix her heart) would be particularly appropriate here. 47. Severed hands … wreaths. These are remindful of the body parts removed from dolls and hung up as ex votos on chapel gratings in Spanish churches as a pledge for the curing of a particular affliction (a crippled hand, for example) or for indulgence for the dead or dying. "Severed Hands," is the title of Lorca's drawings, in which two severed hands dripping blood grope upwards while being entangled in a wandering line that resembles the figure eight and ends in root-like appendages at the bottom of the drawing … It would appear that they represent a sort of frustrated seeking.

Does any of this lead us closer to understanding the poem? Is there, for example, any symbolism between the light, what I translated as "shines," in the beginning and end of the poem and anything we can examine in a Catholic wake? The actual Spanish line is cuatro faroles, which some translators have rendered as: "four lanterns" (Loughran) and "four lights" (Kirkland) but it could also just as easily be some sort of candle or taper. If the speaker is indeed dead (but the math of somehow speaking to the mother from the grave hurt my head), if we say the shining light is part of some sort wake, why then would the mother warn the child to shut the door and that the light is from: "those people/ scouring their copper"? What people? The seraphim and the gypsies? It is all very confusing.

Again, if Garcia Lorca included images from Revelations, the Horsemen for example, or that the 7s mentioned in the last stanza bore any resemblance to the "seven seals" opened on Judgment Day, then the aggressive nature of the light (that may or may not have killed someone) would carry more weight. However that esoterica is not present in the poem and the criticism I have read in favor of reading into such (Havard makes an attempt, I believe) has more to do with the desire of translators seeing every poem in Gypsy Ballads as a complete whole. I do not agree, Muerto de amor reads as a rough draft, something cobbled together after more successful poems, Romance de la pena negra say, or Muerte de Antonito el Camborio.

To follow up on something Kasey touched upon, while the poem works mechanically as a ballad, it doesn't work as a successful poem for me. I would have asked Federico in workshop, "my dear, what are you trying to say here?"

Muerto de amor Federico Garcia Lorca	Dead from Love translated by ZJC
¿Qué es aquello que reluce por los altos corredores? Cierra la puerta, hijo mío, acaban de dar las once. En mis ojos, sin querer, relumbran cuatro faroles. Será que la gente aquella estará fregando el cobre. * Ajo de agónica plata la luna menguante, pone cabelleras amarillas a las amarillas torres. La noche llama temblando al cristal de los balcones, perseguida por los mil perros que no la conocen, y un olor de vino y ámbar viene de los corredores. * Brisas de caña mojada y rumor de viejas voces, resonaban por el arco roto de la media noche. Bueyes y rosas dormían. Sólo por los corredores las cuatro luces clamaban con el furor de San Jorge. Tristes mujeres del valle bajaban su sangre de hombre, tranquila de flor cortada y amarga de muslo joven. Viejas mujeres del río lloraban al pie del monte, un minuto intransitable de cabelleras y nombres. Fachadas de cal, ponían cuadrada y blanca la noche. Serafines y gitanos tocaban acordeones. Madre, cuando yo me muera, que se enteren los señores. Pon telegramas azules que vayan del Sur al Norte. Siete gritos, siete sangres, siete adormideras dobles, quebraron opacas lunas en los oscuros salones. Lleno de manos cortadas y coronitas de flores, el mar de los juramentos resonaba, no sé donde. Y el cielo daba portazos al brusco rumor del bosque, mientras clamaban las luces en los altos corredores.	"What is that is shines along the high terrace?" "My son, shut the door, eleven is just now striking." "In my eyes, impudently, four tapers are burning." "It must be those people scouring their copper." * The waning moon, a garlic clove of dying silver, drapes tresses of yellow hair onto yellow towers. Night taps, trembling, on the lattice of the balcony, chased by a thousand bulldogs that do not know her name. A smell of wine and balsam wafts from the terrace. * Through the broken arch of midnight came breezes from sodden stalks and the sound of primeval voices resonating. Rose and ox, asleep; only those four lights thundered in the terrace with the fury of Saint George. Sad women in the valley brought down his heroic blood, blood calm as a plucked flower, as bitter as a young thigh. Old women of the river, cried out an impassable minute of long hair and names at the bottom of the foothills. The frescoed walls turned the night square and white. Holy seraphim and gypsies played squeeze-boxes. "Mother, when I die I want all the gentlemen to know. Send our blue telegrams to the South, to the North, to the East, to the West." * 7 bellows and 7 jets of blood, 7 heavy poppies in bloom shattering the opaque moons in the darkened salons. Awash with severed hands and little crowns of wreaths, the sea of oaths and vows responded, I do not know where. And the sky slammed doors to rude noises of the woods, while lights were thundering along the high terrace.

Muerto de amor
Federico Garcia Lorca

Dead from Love
translated by ZJC

¿Qué es aquello que reluce
por los altos corredores?
Cierra la puerta, hijo mío,
acaban de dar las once.
En mis ojos, sin querer,
relumbran cuatro faroles.
Será que la gente aquella
estará fregando el cobre.

Ajo de agónica plata
la luna menguante, pone
cabelleras amarillas
a las amarillas torres.
La noche llama temblando
al cristal de los balcones,
perseguida por los mil
perros que no la conocen,
y un olor de vino y ámbar
viene de los corredores.

Brisas de caña mojada
y rumor de viejas voces,
resonaban por el arco
roto de la media noche.
Bueyes y rosas dormían.
Sólo por los corredores
las cuatro luces clamaban
con el furor de San Jorge.
Tristes mujeres del valle
bajaban su sangre de hombre,
tranquila de flor cortada
y amarga de muslo joven.
Viejas mujeres del río
lloraban al pie del monte,
un minuto intransitable
de cabelleras y nombres.
Fachadas de cal, ponían
cuadrada y blanca la noche.
Serafines y gitanos
tocaban acordeones.
Madre, cuando yo me muera,
que se enteren los señores.
Pon telegramas azules
que vayan del Sur al Norte.
Siete gritos, siete sangres,
siete adormideras dobles,
quebraron opacas lunas
en los oscuros salones.
Lleno de manos cortadas
y coronitas de flores,
el mar de los juramentos
resonaba, no sé donde.
Y el cielo daba portazos
al brusco rumor del bosque,
mientras clamaban las luces
en los altos corredores.

"What is that is shines
along the high terrace?"
"My son, shut the door,
eleven is just now striking."
"In my eyes, impudently,
four tapers are burning."
"It must be those people
scouring their copper."

The waning moon, a garlic
clove of dying silver, drapes
tresses of yellow hair
onto yellow towers.
Night taps, trembling,
on the lattice of the balcony,
chased by a thousand
bulldogs that do not know her name.
A smell of wine and balsam
wafts from the terrace.

Through the broken arch of midnight
came breezes from sodden stalks
and the sound of primeval voices
resonating. Rose
and ox, asleep;
only those four lights
thundered in the terrace
with the fury of Saint George.
Sad women in the valley
brought down his heroic blood,
blood calm as a plucked flower,
as bitter as a young thigh.
Old women of the river,
cried out an impassable minute
of long hair and names
at the bottom of the foothills.
The frescoed walls turned
the night square and white.
Holy seraphim and gypsies
played squeeze-boxes.
"Mother, when I die
I want all the gentlemen to know.
Send our blue telegrams
to the South, to the North,
to the East, to the West."

7 bellows and 7 jets of blood,
7 heavy poppies in bloom
shattering the opaque moons
in the darkened salons.
Awash with severed hands
and little crowns of wreaths,
the sea of oaths and vows
responded, I do not know where.
And the sky slammed doors
to rude noises of the woods,
while lights were thundering
along the high terrace.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 16th, 2005 at 10:17 am and is filed under Scantily Clad Info Dump, Translations, Spanish Translations, Federico Garcia Lorca. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

Garcia Lorca’s Muerto de amor

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