Green alludes to what the gypsy had been desiring upon being reunited with his love. Tragically, every night, the girl has waited for him, never knowing if he will return alive. This night, he is late and hearing commotion in the countryside, she believes that her love he has been killed, by the Guardia Civil and so she kills herself. The text of the poem is set out below. Insight and commentary on the poem and its imagery is considered in an essay by Robert Havard "From Romanticism to Surrealism: Seven Spanish Poets" (Chapter VI, pages 193-213 ). Havard comments upon the treatment of traditional themes within an increasingly psychical and dreamlike texture, and mentions the responses of Lorca's associates: Rafael Alberti was impressed by the poem's "mysterious dramatic quality" and Salvador Dalí had exclaimed "¡Parece que tiene argumento, pero no lo tiene!" ("It seems to have logical plot, but it does not!"). As Havard comments with reference to Lorca's own explanation that he had created in the poem "a strong impression of anecdote, a sharp dramatic atmosphere, and yet nobody knows what's going on, not even I, for poetic mystery is also a mystery to the poet who communicates it, but who very often is unaware of it", the mystery centres on the symbolic meaning of the narrative and imagery. That the poem is related to dream is explicit in its title.
My piece draws on the thematic suggestion of Lorca's poem. "Thema" is the Greek word for "theme". Theme is defined: as a subject of discourse, discussion, meditation, or composition, a unifying or dominant idea or motif, as in a work of art; in music, as a principal melodic subject in a composition, or a short melodic subject from which variations are developed; in grammar, the element common to all or most of the forms of an inflectional paradigm, often consisting of a root with certain formative elements or modifications.
I do hope you enjoy "Thema". I have also been thrilled this month to upload a short piece called "Sumiko's song" which I composed for a dear friend. (here is the video) . (You can download the mp3 and pdf score from my Main Music Page.) You can imagine my delight when my friend posted her performance of the song with a beautiful video. Here is my friend's very special performance: video . Thank you, Sue. And thank you also to you all for such kind comments about last month's piece "Four Encounters". I was so happy that the piece was so well received. Your support is hugely appreciated.
With best wishes
Anna Ferro - April 2014
Green wind. Green branches.The ship out on the sea
horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibres.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for your house,
my saddle for your mirror,
my knife for your blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
Thirty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.
Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.
Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her green hair,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
Federico García Lorca: (5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936)