Ditty of First Desire

I love Federico García Lorca. He may have lived and died many decades before I was even born, but his poetry is so fresh, so vibrant, it’s as though written this morning, at sunrise, as he was squeezing oranges for breakfast, or at nightfall, as the sun goes down over Andalucia. Lorca’s poetry captures the aliveness of life, the sizzle and pop, his words always charged with the heat of change, the birth of day or night, when life dances on the cusp of possibility. He captures the heat, the blood, of living and moulds the flames into words; he feeds on vivacity, at the ready to absorb the sun when it first rises or snatch the last remnants of day as it descends across the sky. He inspires his readers to dance with the fire of life. He is Flamenco in written form.

Ditty of First Desire

by Federico García Lorca.

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In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.

And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.

(Soul,
turn orange-coloured.
Soul,
turn the colour of love.)

In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.

And at the evening’s end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.

Soul,
turn orange-coloured.
Soul,
turn the colour of love.