{"product_id":"miguel-hernandez-isbn-9781590176290","title":"Miguel Hernandez","description":"Miguel Hernández is, along with Antonio Machado, Juan Ramón Jiménez, and Federico García Lorca, one of the greatest Spanish poets of the twentieth century. This volume spans the whole of Hernández’s brief writing life, and includes his most celebrated poems, from the early lyrics written in traditional forms, such as the moving elegy Hernández wrote to his friend and mentor Ramon Sijé (one of the most famous elegies ever written in the Spanish language), to the spiritual eroticism of his love poems, and the heart-wrenching, luminous lines written in the trenches of war. Also included in this edition are tributes to Hernández by Federico García Lorca, Pablo Neruda (interviewed by Robert Bly), Rafael Alberti, and Vicente Aleixandre. Pastoral nature, love, and war are recurring themes in Hernández’s poetry, his words a dazzling reminder that force can never defeat spirit, that courage is its own reward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis English-only edition does not include the poems in their original language.“In Miguel’s earthy and wild poetry all the extravagances of color, of perfume, and of the voice of the Spanish Levant came together, with the exuberance and the fragrance of a powerful and virile youth.” —Pablo Neruda\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Miguel Hernández sang in his deep voice and his singing was as though all the trees were singing.” —Octavio Paz\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In Don Share’s translations of Miguel Hernández, there is a sense of shared elation between reader and translator that confirms the delight of exact sensation when the poem feels transmitted by that cautious and subtle alchemy that is the translator’s skill.” —Derek Walcott\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “The consumate poet of light, darkness, soul, time, death.” —Willis Barnstone \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The apparent simplicity of his poems, which speak eloquently of love, poverty and hope, turned Hernández into a popular figure who was elevated to cult status.” —\u003ci\u003eEl Pais\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Raw, passionate, despairing and celebratory.” —\u003ci\u003ePublisher’s Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What a victory it is to watch springing forth from our murky thicket of half-commercialized poetry the silver boar of Hernández's words—to see the world of paper part so as to allow the language tusks and shoulders to emerge, shining, pressed forward by his genius.” —Robert Bly\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One of the great talents of the century.” —Philip Levine, \u003ci\u003eThe Kenyon Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “ A cherished example of why great poetry is timeless.\" —Ray Gonzalez, \u003ci\u003eBloomsbury Review\u003c\/i\u003eMiguel Hernández Gilabert (1910–1942) was born into a poor family in the city of Orihuela in southern Spain. His father raised goats and sheep, and Hernández was brought up to be a shepherd. At age eleven, he entered the Jesuit Colegio de Santo Domingo, where he learned to read and write, and started to compose poems whose uncanny virtuosity and wild inspiration earned the admiration of Pablo Neruda and Federico García Lorca. With the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936, his poetry took on a new public dimension, and Hernández would soon enlist in the Republican Army. In 1937, he married Josefina Manresa Marhuenda, the love of his life. The couple lost their first son to malnutrition; a second, Manuel Miguel, was born in 1939. After the defeat of the Republic, Hernández was condemned to death for his poetry by Francisco Franco, who called him “an extremely dangerous man,” a sentence that was subsequently reduced lest he become a martyr like Lorca. Hernández, imprisoned under brutal conditions and suffering from an advanced case of tuberculosis, continued to write until his death on March 28, 1942; he was thirty-one years old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon Share is the senior editor of \u003ci\u003ePoetry\u003c\/i\u003e magazine. His books of poetry include \u003ci\u003eSquandermania\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eUnion\u003c\/i\u003e, and most recently, \u003ci\u003eWishbone\u003c\/i\u003e. He is the editor of \u003ci\u003eSeneca in English\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBunting’s Persia\u003c\/i\u003e, and with Christian Wiman, \u003ci\u003eThe Open Door: One Hundred Poems, One Hundred Years of\u003c\/i\u003e Poetry \u003ci\u003eMagazine\u003c\/i\u003e. His translations of Miguel Hernández were awarded the \u003ci\u003eTimes Literary Supplement\u003c\/i\u003e Translation Prize and the Premio Valle\u003cbr\u003eInclán.\u003cb\u003eA man-eating knife\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA man-eating knife\u003cbr\u003ewith a sweet, murdering wing\u003cbr\u003ekeeps up its flight and gleams\u003cbr\u003eall around my life.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA twitching metal glint\u003cbr\u003eflashes quickly down,\u003cbr\u003epricks into my side,\u003cbr\u003eand makes a sad nest in it.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy temples, flowery balcony\u003cbr\u003eof a younger day,\u003cbr\u003eare black, and my heart,\u003cbr\u003emy heart is turning grey.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSuch is the evil ability\u003cbr\u003eof this enveloping beam\u003cbr\u003ethat I go back to my youth\u003cbr\u003elike the moon goes to a city.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI gather with my eyelashes\u003cbr\u003esalt from my soul, salt from my eye,\u003cbr\u003eand gather blossoming spiderwebs\u003cbr\u003eof all my sadnesses.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhere can I be\u003cbr\u003ethat I will not find loss?\u003cbr\u003eYour destiny is the beach,\u003cbr\u003emy calling is the sea.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTo rest from this hurricane\u003cbr\u003ework of love or hell\u003cbr\u003eis impossible, and the pain\u003cbr\u003emakes sorrow last and last.\u003cbr\u003eBut at last I will win out,\u003cbr\u003eworldly bird and ray,\u003cbr\u003eheart, because in death\u003cbr\u003ethere is no doubt.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSo go on, knife, and slash\u003cbr\u003eand fly: and then one day\u003cbr\u003etime will yellow\u003cbr\u003eon my photograph.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLightning that never ends\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWill this lightning never end, that fills\u003cbr\u003emy heart with exasperated wild beasts\u003cbr\u003eand furious forges and anvils\u003cbr\u003ewhere even the freshest metal shrivels?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWill it never quit, this stubborn stalactite,\u003cbr\u003etending its stiff tufts of hair\u003cbr\u003elike swords and harsh bonfires\u003cbr\u003einside my heart, which bellows and cries out?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThis lightning never ends, or drains\u003cbr\u003eaway: from me alone it sprang, it trains\u003cbr\u003eon me alone its madness.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThis obstinate rock sprouts\u003cbr\u003efrom me, and turns on me the insistence\u003cbr\u003eof its rainy, shattering bolts.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eYour heart is a frozen orange\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYour heart is a frozen orange.\u003cbr\u003eNo light gets in; it is resinous, porous,\u003cbr\u003egolden: the skin promises\u003cbr\u003egood things to the eye.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy heart is a feverish pomegranate\u003cbr\u003eof clustered crimson, its wax opened,\u003cbr\u003ewhich could offer you its tender pendants\u003cbr\u003elovingly, persistently.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut how crushing it is to go\u003cbr\u003eto your heart and find it frosted\u003cbr\u003ewith sheer, terrifying snow!\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOn the fringes of my grief\u003cbr\u003ea thirsty handkerchief\u003cbr\u003ehovers, hoping to drink down my tears.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eYou threw me a bitter lemon\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou threw me a bitter lemon\u003cbr\u003efrom a hand so warm and pure\u003cbr\u003ethat I tasted the bitterness\u003cbr\u003ewithout spoiling its architecture.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWith a yellow jolt, my sweet\u003cbr\u003eand lazy blood turned hot, possessed,\u003cbr\u003eand so I felt the bite\u003cbr\u003eof the tip of that long, firm teat.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut glancing at you and seeing the smile\u003cbr\u003ethat this lemon condition produced\u003cbr\u003e(so at odds with my greed and guile),\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003emy blood blacked out inside my shirt,\u003cbr\u003eand through that porous golden breast\u003cbr\u003eI felt a pointed, dazzling hurt.","brand":"NYRB Poets","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233389752549,"sku":"NP9781590176290","price":12.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781590176290.jpg?v=1767732680","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/miguel-hernandez-isbn-9781590176290","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}