Half rant, half rendition

What can I write about Lorca? He was not just a poet; he was also a dedicated pianist. Manuel de Falla was his mentor, and he learned from him about the profound songs known as Cante Jondo. Therefore, reading Lorca is an experience that evokes a deep sense of Duende, an ethereal quality that transcends mere poetry. Many scholars believe that translating Lorca into American English is an impossible task.However, if you dare to attempt it, I highly recommend reading this translation by Sarah Arvio while having a glass of red wine and some delicious Serrano ham. And perhaps, for a moment, you can channel the spirit of that young boy who found inspiration in music and transformed it into poetry.This voice crafter you are hearing will provide you with a full-blown rendition, taking advantage of my privileged condition as a transnational author. See, the translator thought Lorca never used commas or periods or full stops, but he certainly did. Like Emily Dickinson used dashes, including long ones, to create pauses, separate ideas, and add ambiguity to her poetry, a feature often lost in standardized printed versions but present in her manuscripts.I hope you find a suitable time to listen, not because you need to open the doors of perception with red wine and Serrano ham – and prosciutto does not count, because it is sweeter and more tender with a buttery texture, while Serrano ham is from Spain, is saltier and more intensely flavored, and has a firmer texture.The reason for such preliminaries is because of the magnitude of Lorca as a poet. And the tragic fate he found in the first days of the Spanish Civil War, assassinated in cold blood at the wee hours by a bunch of fascists in an unmarked place between the infinite olive trees of Granada, where since then nobody could find his lovely bones.Like the bones of 140,000 Spaniards still lost in ditches, fifty years later to this day of the passing of General Franco, who died peacefully in his bed after ruling for 39 years, while the cowards did nothing else than lie through their teeth about a resistance that only existed in their wildest dreams.Not for nothing, it is rightly said that real heroes cannot tell war stories because they die pretty soon for their exceptional acts of valor. And stolen valor is the sign of any coward that hopes you are too lazy to connect the dots and ask them why they kept their heads in the sand.Get ready and comfy to meet the beautiful mind of Federico García Lorca, a man of the short-lived Spanish Republic, and how he pictured his own demise.Dreamwalking Ballad Green I want you green.Green wind. Green branches.Boat on the sea andhorse on the mountain.Shadow on her waist,she dreams at her railing,green flesh, green hair,eyes of cold silver.Green I want you green.Under the gypsy moon,things are seeing herbut she can’t see them.*Green I want you green.The great stars of frost,come with fish of shadowpaving the path to dawn.The fig tree rasps the windwith its rough branches,and the wildcat mountainbares its sour agaves.Who will come—from where—?At her railing she gazesgreen flesh, green hair,dream of the bitter sea.*Compadre! Can I swapmy horse for your house?My saddle for your mirror-my knife for your blanket–?Compadre! I come bleedingfrom the Cabra passes.If I could, young friend,the deal would be done.But I’m no longer menor is my house my own.Compadre! Let me diedecent in my bed.A steel bed, if you please,laid with Dutch linen.Don’t you see the slashfrom my breast to my throat?Three hundred dark roseson your white shirtfront.Blood oozes and stinksin the sash at your waist.But I’m no longer menor is my house my own.Let me climb way upto the high terrace.Let me climb! Let meto the green terrace.Railing of moonlightand the rushing water.*Two compadres climbto the high terrace,leaving a trail of blood,and a trail of tears.Tin lanterns trembledon the tops of roofs.A thousand glass tambourines,tore up the dawn.*Green I want you green,green wind, green branches.The two compadres climbed.The slow wind in their mouthsleft a strange flavorof bile, basil, and mint.Compadre! Where is she?Where’s your bitter girl?How often has she waited!How often will she waitfresh face, and black hair,on the green terrace!*Over the face of the cisternthe gypsy girl swayed.Green flesh, green hair,eyes of cold silver.A moon icicle holds her,high over the water.The night was as cozyas a small plaza.Drunken civil guardspounded on the door.Green I want you green.Green wind, green branches.Boat on the sea andhorse on the mountain. Get full access to Don't You Dare To Think Out Loud! at javiertruben.substack.com/subscribe