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The dancer's trembling heart must bring everything into harmony, from the tips of her shoes to the flutter of her eyelashes, from the ruffles of her dress to the incessant play of her fingers.

Federico Garcia Lorca

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Federico Garcia Lorca
Age: 38 †
Born: 1898
Born: June 5
Died: 1936
Died: August 19
Author
Drawer
Lyricist
Musician
Playwright
Poet
Theatrical Director
Madrid
Spain
García Lorca
García Lorca
Federico
G. F. Lorca
Federiḳo Garsiyah Lorḳah
Federiko Garsii︠a︡ Lorka
Federiko Garsia Lorka
Federico Carcía Lorca
Phenteriko Gkarthia Lorka
Lorka
Phederiko Gkarthia Lorka
F. García Lorca
Federico Garcia Lorca
F. G. Lorca
Frederico Garcia Lorca
Lorca
Federico Garciá Lorca
Federico del Sagrado Corazon de Je
Heart
Dresses
Ruffles
Fingers
Flutter
Harmony
Tips
Shoes
Eyelashes
Bring
Incessant
Everything
Trembling
Play
Dancer
Must
Dress

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Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.
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What matters most has an ultimate metallic quality of death. The chasuble and the wagon wheel, the razor and the prickly beards of shepherds, the bare moon, a fly, humid cupboards, rubble piles, the images of saints covered in lace, quicklime, and the wounding edges of the rooflines and watchtowers.
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The world is a shoulder of dark meat (black flesh of an old mule). And the light is on the other side.
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What shall I say about poetry? What shall I say about those clouds, or about the sky? Look look at them look at it! And nothing more. Don't you understand anything about poetry? Leave that to the critics and the professors. For neither you, nor I, nor any poet knows what poetry is.
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The mirror is the mother dew, the book of desiccated twilights, echo become flesh.
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To see you naked is to recall the Earth.
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Life is laughter amid a rosary of death.
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I will always be on the side of those who have nothing and who are not even allowed to enjoy the nothing they have in peace.
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Relish the fresh landscape of my wound, break rushes and delicate rivulets, drink blood poured on honeyed thigh.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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The wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon, and the crowd broke the windows At five in the afternoon. Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon!
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We're all curious about what might hurt us.
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The moon carries the masks of meningitis into bedrooms, fills the wombs of pregnant women with cold water and, as soon as I'm not careful, throws handfuls of grass on my shoulders.
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The gitano is the most distinguished, profound and aristocratic element in my country, the one that most represents its Way of being and best preserves the fire, the blood and the alphabet of Andalusian and universal truth.
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If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows?
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The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word. He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices: the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love and the voice of art.
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Hail, mute devil! You are the most intense animal. An eternal mystic of the fleshly inferno.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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Angel and Muse approach from without the Angel sheds light and the Muse gives form (Hesiod learned of them). Gold leaf or chiton-folds: the poet finds his models in his laurel coppice. But the Duende, on the other hand, must come to life in the nethermost recesses of the blood.
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Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie. New York is Senegal with machines.
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Damned, damned be the rich! May not even their fingernails be left!... I'm sure that they are going to Hell head-first.
Federico Garcia Lorca