Federico García Lorca and Flamenco

14 Jun Federico García Lorca and Flamenco

Imagen1-Lorca-236x300The poet Federico García Lorca in his short life created a fertile artistic work, which included poetry, music, literature … Creating formidable works for theater and opera without overlooking other manifestations like painting. His dramatic end of this year the 75th anniversary met, serves as a reminder of a great artist and a man of his time, who knew how to compromise his work and his art towards the respect for life and dignity of the people.

This program aims to provide a flamenco concert whose lyrics are poems by Lorca in different styles adapted to the metric and sensitivity of a poet.



Green I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.

With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, green hair,
with eyes of cold silver.

Green I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
things are looking at her
and she can not see them.

Green 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 mountain, a thieving cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.

But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

Compadre, I want to change
my horse for your house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for your blanket.

Friend, I come bleeding
from the passes of Cabra.

If I could, young man,
this deal was closed.
But since I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.

Compadre, I want to die
decently in my bed.
In steel, if possible,
with linen sheets.
Do not you see the wound I have
from my chest to my throat?

Three hundred dark roses
your white chest.
Your blood oozes and smells
around your sash.
But I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.

Let me climb 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
to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of tears.
trembling on the roofs
of tin lanterns.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn.

                                               Romance sleepwalker. Gypsy Ballads.





Listen, my son, the silence.
It is an undulating silence,
a silence,
where valleys and echoes slip
and leaning their foreheads
to the ground.

Poema del Cante Jondo.




And the nana nana nana,

The nanita do it,

one shack in the countryside.

I’ll tell you, my child, yes.

I cut short and broken for you.

How it hurts the waist

where you have first cradle!

When, my child, you are coming.

When your flesh smells of jasmine.

                Nana Yerma .



Start crying
They break the glasses
in the morning.
Start crying
It is useless to silence it.
It is impossible
to silence it.
weeps monotonously
as water weeps,
as the wind cries
over the snow.
It is impossible to
silence her.
She cries by things
far away.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Cry arrow without target
evening without morning,
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart wounded
five swords.


Guitar. The poem of flamenco singing.









The Guadalquivir river

It goes between orange and olive trees,

The two rivers of Granada

Snow down to wheat.

Oh Love

he left and did not come!

The Guadalquivir river

The garnets have beards.

The two rivers of Granada,

and another one crying blood.

Oh Love

that was in the air!

For sailboats

Sevilla has a way;

by water from Granada

only sighs row.

Oh Love

he left and did not come!

Guadalquivir, high tower

and wind in the orange groves,

Dauro and Genil, turrets

Dead on the ponds.

Oh Love

that was in the air!

Who will say that the water bears

a fool shouting fire!

Oh Love

he left and did not come!

I wear orange blossom, leading olives,

Andalucia, to your seas,

Oh Love

that was in the air!

The river Guadalquivir. Poem of flamenco singing.




In the cold stream

wash your belt.

As a hot jasmine

you laugh.

Oh, what a field of sorrow!
Oh, what a closed door to the beauty !,
I ask a child to suffer, and the air
gives me asleep Dahlias moon.

These two springs that I have
warm milk, are in the thick
of two pulses my horse meat
that make beating the branch of my distress.

Oh, blind breasts under my dress!
Oh, eyeless white doves!
Oh, what pain prisoner blood
is nailing wasps me in the neck!

But you have to come, love, my child,
because water gives salt, ground fruit,
and our belly guards tender children
like sweet rain cloud brings.

                               Pilgrimage of Yerma






Her parchment moon
Preciosa comes playing
for an amphibious path
of crystals and laurels.
The starless silence,
fleeing the chant,
falls where the sea whips and sings
his evening full of fish.
In the mountain peaks
sleep Carabinieri
keeping white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies water
up to distract,
Bowers shells and
green pine branches.

Her parchment moon
Preciosa comes playing.
Seeing her has risen
the wind that never sleeps.
Saint Christopher naked,
full of celestial languages,
look at the girl playing
a sweet absent bagpipe.
Girl, let lift
your dress to see you.
Opens in my fingers old
blue rose of your belly.
Beautiful strip the tambourine
and runs without stopping.
The wind-big man pursues
with a hot blade.
Gather your rumor sea.
The pale olive.
They sing flutes shade
and smooth gong Snow.
Preciosa, run, Preciosa,
you take the green wind!
Preciosa, run, Beautiful!
Look where he comes!
Satyr low stars
with his shining tongues.
Preciosa, full of fear,
enters the house has,
above the pines,
the British Consul.
Frightened by the cries
three carabineers come,
their black belted coats
and hats at the temples.
The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of warm milk
and a glass of gin
Preciosa does not drink.
And while counting, crying,
your adventure to these people,
the slates in the
wind, furious, bites.

Beautiful and air. Gypsy Ballads .


The moon came to the forge
with her ​​bustle of lilies.
The boy look look.
The child is watching.

In the shaken air
the moon moves her arms
and teaches, lubricious and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.

Run away, moon, moon.
If the gypsies come,
they would do with your heart
necklaces and white rings.

Child let me dance.
When the gypsies come,
they’ll find you on the anvil
with little eyes closed.

Run away, moon, moon,
because I hear their horses.
Boy let me, do not tread,
my starched whiteness.

The rider approached
drumming plain.
Inside the forge the child
‘s eyes are closed.

Through the olive grove they came,
bronze and dream, Roma.
The uplifted heads
and eyes.

How sings zumaya,
woe as he sings in the tree!
By the sky goes the moon
with the child’s hand.

Inside the forge crying,
screaming, Roma.
The air candle, candle.
the air is watching.

Romance of the moon, moon. Ballads .



I will not see it!

Tell the moon to come, do not want to
see the blood of Ignacio on the sand.

I will not see it!

The moon wide.
Horse of still clouds,
and the gray square dream
with willows in the barriers.

Will not see it!
That burns my memory.
Warn jasmine
with its tiny whiteness!

I will not see it!

Cow old world
passed her 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
tired of treading the earth.
No.¡Que not see it!

By the stands Ignacio climbs with
all his death on his.
He sought the dawn,
and dawn was not.
He seeks his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him.
He sought his beautiful body
and found his open blood.
Do not tell me you see it !
I do not want to feel the jet
increasingly less strongly,
that spurt that illuminates
the stands and turns
on the corduroy and leather
of thirsty crowd.
Who shouts at me that poke me!
Do not tell me to see it!

His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And through the herd,
was an air of secret voices
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.

There was no prince in Seville
that compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvelous strength,
and like a marble torso
his drawn prudence.
Air Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great fighter in the ring!
What a mountain in the Sierra!
How gentle with the spikes!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling at the fair!
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 his blood is already chanting,
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliding on frozen horns,
faltering soulless in mist,
stumbling thousands hoof
horn 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 blood aura of Ignacio!
Oh nightingale of his veins
No.¡Que not see it!
That no chalice that contains it,
no swallows can drink,
no frost in the cool light,
no song nor deluge of lilies,
no glass that covers silver.
No.¡¡Yo not want to see !!

The blood shed. Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Megias.














Nana nana child,
the big horse
who did not want the water,
he did not want the water
was black water
in the branch
when it reaches the bridge
stops and sings
my child who will say
you have water
with its long tail
with its salt green
carnation fall asleep
the horse
will not drink
pink fall asleep
the horse
gets to mourn.

Blood Wedding







































Didactic concert for all audiences: students, travelers, visitors and interested in art.

The concert consists of several songs (see above) in which the letters of Federico G. Lorca poems are set to music in a flamenco key in different styles and rhythms. The singer explains the origin and meaning of the posts chosen by the musicality of the poem or the sequence of letters.It is accompanied by a guitarist and a third party that briefly explains the literary character of the poem, its gestation, etc. in English or French.

No deployment is necessary to mainstream media; two chairs and water. A small stage if possible or a small team of amplification.

Moreover, artists are tailored to the specific circumstances of the time and occasion

Asher Barrett



Metamorphic Transformation

Observing metamorphic transformations in nature allows us to extrapolate that method to humans and the arts. That is to say, the foundational substance becomes a supporting substance retained in the new identity. These essential elements are absorbed, now invisible to the observer, while the transformed form creates a stunning awareness of the new.

Likewise, our compositions make use of a similar pattern of creative mutation, if you will. We begin with folk songs that poet Federico Garcia Lorca chose, rescued from oblivion, transcribed for the piano and performed in various venues. Following a trajectory of revealing hidden elements, we submit them to an unexpected metamorphic process. The melodic essences of the old songs are those that give musical meaning to different poems that Lorca wrote.

Additionally, in his short life, he created diverse artistic works, including poetry, music, and literature. He also created formidable works for the theater, while also embracing other mediums such as painting. His contemporaries and artistic collaborators included Joan Miro and Salvador Dali.

«Lorca in the Keys of Hands and Voice,” a concert conceived and presented by Adam Kent and Fernando Barros, is a musical innovation inspired by Lorca’s example. Lorca collected melodies from the Spanish folklore repertoire and transcribed them for the piano using two different concepts: 1) adapting the old melodies to various of his poem, as for example, ANDA JALEO to the poem «Preciosa y el Aire”; and 2) singing the old songs using the expressive, emotive characteristics inherent in flamenco music.

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