García Lorca (1898-1936), as the Clash quite correctly pointed out, is dead and gone. But his “tragic poem” Yerma (‘barren’ in Spanish, apparently) is alive and well and coming to Leeds. I’ll blog on it, I expect, once I’ve seen it.
Here’s an appetiser: some talking heads from a 2009 US production.
And here’s a little bit of Lorca.
My shadow glides in silence
over the watercourse.
On account of my shadow
the frogs are deprived of stars.
The shadow sends my body
reflections of quiet things.
My shadow moves like a huge
A hundred crickets are trying
to gild the glow of the reeds.
A glow arises in my breast,
the one mirrored in the water.
The poem is called Debussy. I don’t know, I’m afraid, who translated this from the Spanish. I chose it because I’ve already come across Debussy once today: here, where he did unexpectedly well (he’d be delighted, I’m sure, if only he hadn’t died from cancer of the rectum in 1918).