"Gypsy Ballads" ehk "Romancero gitano" ilmus 1928 ja on see, mille järgi enamik Euroopat Lorcat tunneb, aga tema sulest on tulnud ka näiteks näidendeid ja filmistsenaarium.
Lorca ja Dali sõprusest/armusuhtest (kuidas soovite) vändati kaks aastat tagasi Little Ashes.
Ühesõnaga, kui te Lorcat lugenud pole, peaksite temast vähemalt kuulnud olema.
Ja õigustatud on Lorca au ja kuulsus ja tahe tema mõrvarid linnaväljakul neljaks rebida, sest tegu on suurepärase sõnalõime ketramisoskusega mehega. Võime loodust, inimest, naist, armastust, nii kaunilt ja nukralt ja sügavalt ja lõikavalt ja helisevalt sõnadesse ja värssidesse panna on kadestusväärne.
Kas üht luulekogu on üldse võimalik analüüsida? Ja kas Lorca puhul on võimalik ühe luulekoguga piirduda? Võin küll öelda, et mulle meeldib tema varasem looming rohkem, lühemad luuletused rohkem kui lehekülgi haaravad ballaadid, kuigi sealgi võlu ei kao.
Jätan edasised kommentaarid ja lasen Lorcal ise rääkida. Hermann Hesse iseloomustas oma retsentsioone alati nii: "Kui mul midagi head öelda pole, vaikin". Mina vaikin, sest lugesin just Lorcat ja ei soovi midagi lisada.
Nautige.
(Eesti keelde tõlgib/tõlkis Lorcat Ain Kaalep, aga minu riiulis on hispaania- ja inglisekeelne väljaanne.)
Variations
The air's unmoving water
under the echo's bough.
The water's unmoving water
under the stars' leaves.
Your mouth's unmoving water
under a thicket of kisses.
The Second Anniversary
The moon plunges its huge
horn of light in the sea,
a green and grey unicorn,
tremulous, but in rapture.
The sky floats over the air
like an enormous lotus.
You alone are strolling
the farthest farm of the night.
The air's unmoving water
under the echo's bough.
The water's unmoving water
under the stars' leaves.
Your mouth's unmoving water
under a thicket of kisses.
The Second Anniversary
The moon plunges its huge
horn of light in the sea,
a green and grey unicorn,
tremulous, but in rapture.
The sky floats over the air
like an enormous lotus.
You alone are strolling
the farthest farm of the night.
The Gypsy and the Wind
Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure erect
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.
Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.
Gypsy, let me lift your skirt
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.
Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breathing and burning sword.
The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.
Precosia, run, Precosia!
Or the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.
Precosia, filled with fear,
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.
Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.
The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.
And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure erect
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.
Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.
Gypsy, let me lift your skirt
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.
Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breathing and burning sword.
The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.
Precosia, run, Precosia!
Or the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.
Precosia, filled with fear,
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.
Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.
The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.
And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.
(Federico Garcia Lorca: Songs and Ballads. In english versions by R. Skelton. Montreal, 1992.)
No comments:
Post a Comment