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Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias
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Early poetry and plays
His dramatic poetry was modern yet traditional, personal yet universal. Above all, his poems expressed a self-critical, compassionate personality. In the following decades Spender, in some ways a more personal poet than his early associates, became increasingly more autobiographical, turning his gaze from the external topical situation to the subjective experience. The protagonists of Blood Wedding are ordinary women…. Literature In Spanish literature: Reform of the drama In Spanish literature: Articles from Britannica Encyclopedias for elementary and high school students.
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Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
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Remember me on this computer. The room was iridescent 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. Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon! 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. Let my memory kindle! Warm the jasmines of such minute whiteness! The cow of the ancient 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 sated with threading the earth.
Ignacio goes up the tiers with all his death on his shoulders. He sought for the dawn but the dawn was no more.
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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: 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 torso his firm drawn moderation. The air of Andalusian Rome gilded his head where his smile was a spiked of wit and intelligence. What a great torero in the ring! What a good peasant in the sierra!
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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, slides on frozen horns, faltering souls in the mist stumbling over a thousand hoofs like a long, dark, sad tongue, to form a pool of agony close to the starry Guadalquivir.