Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
1. Cogida and death
At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.
The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At five o'clock in the afternoon.
A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
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!
2. The Spilled Blood
I will not see it!
Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.
I will not see it!
The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.
I will not see it!
Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!
I will not see it!
The cow of the ancient world
passed har sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
No.
I will not see it!
Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multiude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!
His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!
But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in the mist
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
No.
I will not see it!
No chalice can contain it,
no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
No.
I will not see it!
3. The Laid Out Body
Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.
I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
raising their tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caught by lying stone
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.
For stone gathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.
Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
death has covered him with pale sulphur
and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.
All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
warms itself on the peak of the herd.
What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away,
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.
Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
to see his body without a chance of rest.
Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.
Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out
for this captain stripped down by death.
I want them to show me a lament like a river
wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.
Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.
I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!
4. Absent Soul
The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have dead forever.
The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever
The autumn will come with small white snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
because you have died forever.
Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.
Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.
It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.
poem by Federico García Lorca
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Related quotes
Afternoon Tea
Tea time wont be the same without my donna
At night I lie awake and dream of donna
I think about that small cafe
Thats where we used to meet each day
And then we used to sit a while
And drink our afternoon tea
Ill take afternoon tea (afternoon tea)
If you take it with me (afternoon tea)
You take as long as you like
cause I like you, girl
I take sugar with tea (afternoon tea)
You take milk if you please (afternoon tea)
Like you talking to me
Because you ease my mind
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Tea time still aint the same without my donna
At night I lie awake and dream of donna
I went to our cafe one day
They said that donna walked away
Youd think at least she might have stayed
To drink her afternoon tea
Ill take afternoon tea (afternoon tea)
If you take it with me (afternoon tea)
You take as long as you like
cause I like you, girl
I take afternoon tea (afternoon tea)
Every day of the week (afternoon tea)
Please come along if you like
Because I like you, girl
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (afternoon tea)
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Afternoon Poem Is Rare
AN AFTERNOON POEM IS RARE
An Afternoon Poem is rare-
Afternoon is long after the first light-
Afternoon is a time of heaviness and quiet
A time of rest-
Afternoon is after the morning work has been done-
Afternoon is the weight of the day-
Afternoon is the time after the day has lost its freshness-
Still there must be afternoon poems-
There must be a beauty that emerges
In its own way,
Perhaps from where lovers meet
Perhaps from ‘ripeness is all’
Perhaps from the anticipation of evening
Perhaps from winter where it is the warmest time of day.
There must be afternoon poems-
Poems that celebrate all that warmth can bring-
Poems of rest poems of sleep-
Poems of waiting to believe
That in the evening
A new day and a new world
Will make life easier again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem of the Afternoon
THE POEM OF THE AFTERNOON
The poem of the afternoon
Long and drawn out
Does not know why it is written
And what its true name is.
It does not ask or answer
Remember or remain
It simply appears
And disappears
As if its writing
Were yet
One more way of
Just being in the world
And passing its light.
The poem of the afternoon
Does not know why it is
Or why it should be
But now that it is here
It looks out at the trees
Through the sun of its pages
And prepares itself to be read and reread
As if someone somewhere
Searches and sees it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Afternoon High
The sunlight hits the corner of your eye
As it bounces off the morning sky
The summer in the 70s fly by
Bye
Daylight hits the corners of your mind
Steals the thought you thought no one could find
Close your eyes and it will rob you blind
Blind
Incidental memories collide
Sentimental reveries abide
Afternoon high
Daylight hits the corners of your mouth
Steals the words that filled you up with doubt
Open up and let them all fall out
Honey smoothes the wrinkles from you bed
Gone are the indentations of your head
Leaving just the frown upon your forehead
Incidental memories collide
Sentimental reveries abide
Afternoon high
Worry works a wrinkle over time
Open eyes and let it rob you blind
Incidental memories collide
People tell me you've been blinded by
On afternoon high
On afternoon high
On afternoon high
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Disco
every night is disco night
with you im living every moment for you
seeing things in a different way
of my god im thankful that youre leaving
is there something we can do, this afternoon
is there nothing left to say
oh your love, cautions you
you are something new
afternoon
ill make it up to somehow
im laughing and youre dancing like my mother
ill teach you to go off on me
shake, shake from the horror
mirror naked feeling hot
your radio is not store bought but stolen
another night is going out
its saturday and now youve got the fever
is there something we can do, this afternoon
is there nothing left to say
oh your love, cautions you
you are something new
afternoon
is there something we can do, this afternoon
is there nothing left to say
oh your love, warning you
and you are so beautiful
youll just have to do
is there nothing left to say
song performed by by Howie Day
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Afternoon
The light is fading in the afternoon
Wont you see me baby in my room
Theres something that I wanna say to you
Tell me baby am I getting through
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
In the afternoon, in the afternoon
The light is fading from across the way
I see you coming baby every day
I see you running, running from across the field
And I wanna know if you can feel the same as me
Cause I wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
In the afternoon, in the afternoon
The wind is howling baby outside the shack
Train whistle blowin from across the track
Get on my wavelength, and you set me free
I just wanna be everything you want me to be
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
In the afternoon, in the afternoon
The moon is sinking way across the trees
I can see my baby but she cant see me
Ive got a longing deep within my soul
I have to take it there and let it roll
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
Wanna make, wanna make, wanna make, wanna make
Love to you
In the afternoon, make love in the afternoon
Make love in the afternoon
Let it roll
You got me reelin and a-rockinand rollin again
Let it roll
You got me reelin and a-rockinand rollin and rollin again
Oh, Im rollin and tumblin, and Im rollin and tumblin
And Im talkin all outta my mind baby
Let it roll
You got me reelin and a-rockin
And Im talkin all outta my mind
Im talkin all outta my mind
Make love in the afternoon
Make love in the afternoon
Make love in the afternoon
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cortège
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Fifteen hundred miles away:
So it goes, the crazy tune,
So it pounds and hums all day
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Earth will hide them far away:
Best they go to go so soon,
Best for them the grave to-day.
Had she gone but half so soon,
Half the world had passed away.
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Best for them they go to-day.
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Love will hide them deep, they say;
Love that made the grave so soon,
Fifteen hundred miles away:
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Ah, but they go slow to-day:
Slow to suit my crazy tune,
Past the need of all we say.
Best it came to come so soon,
Best for them they go to-day:
Four o'clock this afternoon,
Fifteen hundred miles away.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Gacela of the Dead Child
Each afternoon in Granada,
each afternoon, a child dies.
Each afternoon the water sits down
and chats with its companions.
The dead wear mossy wings.
The cloudy wind and the clear wind
are two pheasants in flight through the towers,
and the day is a wounded boy.
Not a flicker of lark was left in the air
when I met you in the caverns of wine.
Not the crumb of a cloud was left in the ground
when you were drowned in the river.
A giant of water fell down over the hills,
and the valley was tumbling with lilies and dogs.
In my hands' violet shadow, your body,
dead on the bank, was an angel of coldness.
poem by Federico García Lorca
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Bunbury Afternoon
England in the summer is a pretty sight
Flowers in the meadow in the morning light
You know , satisfy the song inside
And the dream is making you care , evrybody smiles
And the dream is taking you there
Theres a little bit of heaven on the village green
And the bunbury eleven that you never see
And they take all comers in the month of june
On a friday , saturday , sunbury afternoon
On a friday , saturday , bunbury afternoon
On a friday , saturday , bunbury afternoon
They all say it couldnt be real
Shakin their head in wonder
Makin it long drive home
And when the sun and the moment is gone
Breakin that spell were under
We played a part in the heart of a beautiful memory
Theres a baby in a cradle and a wise old man
Young lovers happy to be hand in hand
Evrybody finds their way
They will learn the secret in time
Theres a ring on her finger
And a love that shows
And the bunbury eleven say the rumor goes
They re married in the church in the month of june
On a friday , saturday , sunbury afternoon
On a friday , saturday , bunbury afternoon
On a friday , saturday , bunbury afternoon
Theres a wind in the willows
When the day is done
People disappearing in the golden sun
You know , evrybody smiles
Theres a little bit of heaven on ....
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the sun languished slowly in the late afternoon
When the sun languished slowly in the late afternoon
I held you in an embrace,
while the moon did cling bright white to the heaven,
winking stars appeared in the night
and sweet we were blissful together
when you trusted me, with your body, spirit and soul.
When the sun languished slowly in the late afternoon
I held you in an embrace,
suddenly the evening star did disappear
while I held your hand in mine,
saw the glance in the depths of your eyes
and all the misunderstandings and pain were gone,
when the sun languished slowly in the late afternoon.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Poem Of The Afternoon
Poem of the afternoon
What do you have to say for yourself?
You are tired and you want a nap
But it’s too late for a nap
We must be going-
Poem of the afternoon
Say something different
Say life is wonderful
On a warm day after many cold ones
Say life is wonderful
When you can still walk and talk and move about
Though you are older than you ever thought you’d be-
Poem of the afternoon
Cloudy and a bit sunny
Say the night is still a certain way off
And the day the long day is still happily with us.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Sunset Dream
During this afternoon
I saw you
sitting in a chair
near the sea
And i see your face
your eyes
Your smile
your hands
your body
every part of you
is expecting me
This afternoon
you make me prove
every feeling
i wanna be with you
you open your arms
to take me in an infinity embrace
In this beautiful sunset
i realize that
I love you no matter what
that you are the light
that makes me dream
in this sunset time.
poem by Elida Cumani
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We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance.
quote by Marcel Proust
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance.
quote by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Late- Afternoon Sadness
LATE- AFTERNOON SADNESS
Late- afternoon sadness
Has a feeling all its own.
Life is all the things one has failed to do
It is all the disappointments brought us
By loved ones.
It is the sense that nothing good will happen again
Late- afternoon sadness
Is a world of its own,
And within it one sinks and sinks and sinks
Until one does not know
If the ground ever existed.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In The Morning
I can't stop myself from calling
Calling out your name
I can't stop myself from falling
Falling back again
In the morning
Baby, in the afternoon
Dark like the shady corner
Inside a violin
Hot like to burn my lips
I know I can't win
In the morning
Baby, in the afternoon
I try to quit you but I'm too weak
Waking up without you
I can hardly speak at all
My girlfriend tried to help me
Get you off my mind
She tried a little tea and sympathy
To help me to unwind
In the morning
Baby, in the afternoon
Funny how my favorite shirt
Smells more like you than me
Bitter traces left behind
In stains no one can see
In the morning
Baby, in the afternoon
You're gonna put me in an early grave
I know I'm your slave whenever you call
I can't stop myself from calling
Calling out your name
I can't stop myself from falling
Falling back again
Falling back again
In the morning
Baby, in the afternoon
song performed by by Norah Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Long Afternoon Became Longer
THE LONG AFTERNOON BECAME LONGER
The long afternoon became longer-
Time had no end and boredom also-
We all know it will eventually pass
But in the middle we are marooned waiting
Without any idea whatsoever of what to do-
I write these lines because I know
Boredom too has its beauty-
And waiting for nothing also its dream-
And out of nowhere there may come
Long into the long afternoon
Far after all the work is done and nothing remains
While waiting is still going on
A small poem to break the monotony
And give meaning back to life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Reminiscence
Long ago I recall
When speechless you grabbed my hands
And looking deeply into my eyes,
You confessed to me with gestures
That you were starving for my love…
It was a rainy afternoon
I clearly recall,
When you kissed me all over
In an insane delirium…
Our heartbeats like drums
Sounded just like one…
How can I possibly forget
Such a great moment in my life?
You gave me the glory
Of your burning lips
With just one expectation: love…
Now that you are forever gone,
In this rainy afternoon I wonder
Whether the secret of this love
Was in that first kiss,
In the rain, the afternoon
Or perhaps
In that passionate moment
Which I still r recall...
©All Rights Reserved-2009
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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When Tree Branches Rub Against The Roof
When tree branches rub against the roof
the small bulbul runs past
during the afternoon hour
to the pool where it dives and rolls,
stretches out wings and shoot them out straight,
walking boldly up and down
stretches out wings,
stretches out wings
as he walks to and thro.
When tree branches rub against the roof
a light breeze blows,
while the sun burns hot as fire
and the neighbouring child calls
when the afternoon comes with its peace,
with thoughts from the past
when the afternoon comes,
when the afternoon comes
and sometimes I forget the present.
When tree branches rub against the roof
birds peck around everywhere
while moments are lingering
as leaves blow to the ground,
and I think of God as if He is here,
while the shades bring a kind of tranquillity
and I think of God
and I think of God
and find some deeper meaning to life.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Glorafilia
She keeps me waiting in the morning
Tying ribbons in her hair
And come the evening theres no warning
Why Im not to know why she isnt there
No time to tell her all the reasons
Why I always disappear
And in those desperate situations
I just fade away still she never cares
But Glorafilia says
She says its just another Sunday afternoon oh oh
And Glorafilia says
She says there aint no point in loving you no oh
She keeps me wrapped around her finger
So I dont know what to do
And using my imagination
She could set me free
I bet she's dying to
And sipping wine around a table
Her expense is plain to see
Entertainging for a living
Shes got everything that she doesn't need
But Glorafilia says
She says its just another Sunday afternoon oh oh
And Glorafilia says
She says there aint no point in loving you no oh
I cant sleep at night
I must show that things just ain't right
I really need to know
But Glorafilia says
She says its just another Sunday afternoon oh oh
And Glorafilia says
She says there ain't no point in loving you no oh
But Glorafilia says
She says its just another Sunday afternoon oh oh
And Glorafilia says
She says there ain't no point in loving you no oh
song performed by by Zed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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