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Times Alone: Selected Poems
A new book of poetry translation that enhances the ordinary
Antonio Machado, a school teacher and philosopher and one of Spain's foremost poets of the twentieth century, writes of the mountains, the skies, the farms and the sentiments of his homeland clearly and without "Just as before, I'm interested/in water held in;/ but now water in the living/rock of my chest." "Machado has vowed not to soar too much; he wants to 'go down to the hells' or stick to the ordinary," Robert Bly writes in his introduction. He brings to the ordinary―to time, to landscape and stony earth, to bean fields and cities, to events and dreams―magical sound that conveys order, penetrating sight and attention. "The poems written while we are awake…are more original and more beautiful, and sometimes more wild than those made from dreams," Machado said.
In the newspapers before and during the Spanish Civil War, he wrote of political and moral issues, and, in 1939, fled from Franco's army into the Pyrenees, dying in exile a month later. When in 1966 a bronze bust of Machado was to be unveiled in a town here he had taught school, thousands of people came in pilgrimage only to find the Civil Guard with clubs and submachine guns blocking their way.
This selection of Machado's poetry, beautifully translated by Bly, begins with the Spanish master's first book, Times Alone, Passageways in the House, and Other Poems (1903), and follows his work to the poems published after his Poems from the Civil War (written during 1936 – 1939).
Antonio Machado, a school teacher and philosopher and one of Spain's foremost poets of the twentieth century, writes of the mountains, the skies, the farms and the sentiments of his homeland clearly and without "Just as before, I'm interested/in water held in;/ but now water in the living/rock of my chest." "Machado has vowed not to soar too much; he wants to 'go down to the hells' or stick to the ordinary," Robert Bly writes in his introduction. He brings to the ordinary―to time, to landscape and stony earth, to bean fields and cities, to events and dreams―magical sound that conveys order, penetrating sight and attention. "The poems written while we are awake…are more original and more beautiful, and sometimes more wild than those made from dreams," Machado said.
In the newspapers before and during the Spanish Civil War, he wrote of political and moral issues, and, in 1939, fled from Franco's army into the Pyrenees, dying in exile a month later. When in 1966 a bronze bust of Machado was to be unveiled in a town here he had taught school, thousands of people came in pilgrimage only to find the Civil Guard with clubs and submachine guns blocking their way.
This selection of Machado's poetry, beautifully translated by Bly, begins with the Spanish master's first book, Times Alone, Passageways in the House, and Other Poems (1903), and follows his work to the poems published after his Poems from the Civil War (written during 1936 – 1939).
187 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1983
25 people are currently reading
289 people want to read
About the author
Antonio Machado
414 books271 followersAntonio Machado was a Spanish poet and one of the leading figures of the Spanish literary movement known as the Generation of '98, a group of novelists, poets, essayists, and philosophers active in Spain at the time of the Spanish-American War (1898).
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Displaying 1 - 26 of 26 reviews
April 24, 2016
Yesterday evening a dear friend of mind told me he had a dream where he heard these lines from Antonio Machado’s poem:
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Dream within a dream; poem within a poem; honeycomb within honeycomb - even for readers such as myself who are not usually taken by poetry, these few lines can serve as the sweet honey to carry us through difficult times.
Below is the complete poem as translated by Robert Bly, who also translated all the other poems in this collection.
Last Night As I Was Sleeping
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
January 21, 2022
The house I loved so much
—she lived there—
rising above a great mound of bricks and chunks,
broken down
and collapsed, shows now
its black and worm-eaten
badly lasting skeleton of wood.
The moon is pouring down
her clear light in dreams that turn
the windows silver. Poorly dressed and sad,
I go walking along the old street.
March 28, 2017
The square and the brilliant orange trees
with their fruit round and joyful.
[…]
And something we once were, that we still
see walking through these old streets!
*
You know the secret passageways
of the soul, the roads that dreams take,
and the calm evening
where they go to die… .
*
Memory is valuable for one thing,
astonishing: it brings dreams back.
*
I watch the sun quietly setting
alone with my shadow and my pain.
*
a heart that’s all by itself
is not a heart.
with their fruit round and joyful.
[…]
And something we once were, that we still
see walking through these old streets!
*
You know the secret passageways
of the soul, the roads that dreams take,
and the calm evening
where they go to die… .
*
Memory is valuable for one thing,
astonishing: it brings dreams back.
*
I watch the sun quietly setting
alone with my shadow and my pain.
*
a heart that’s all by itself
is not a heart.
December 27, 2025
I first learned of Antonio Machado through the poem “Traveler, your footprints”, not collected here, which is one of those poems I often return to:
Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship's wake on the sea.
Reading the poems collected here, I was struck at some point at how much they reminded me of Octavio Paz, especially with their meditations on childhood and memory. And surely enough a quick search showed that Machado was an influence for Octavio Paz. And just like Paz, Machado's poetry is an incisive exploration on childhood, youth, memory, love, loss, death, grief, and nature. Looking forward to reading more from him.
August 2, 2007
Bly does Machado. There should be a law.
March 18, 2018
Oddly enough, I owe my interest in the Spanish poet Antonio Machado to a Catholic bishop from Green Bay, Wisconsin. Bishop Robert Morneau was not only a bishop (now retired), but also a poet and poetry lover. Years ago, I met him at several poetry events in northeast Wisconsin, and it was from him that I first heard mention of Antonio Machado. One line in particular was one of Bishop Morneau's favorites: “What have you done with the garden entrusted to you?” I was so happy to find the poem that ended with that line in this collection of Machado's poems, Times Alone.
There is a lot to love in this volume. Machado has a combination of melancholy and deep appreciation of the beauty of the natural world. I also liked seeing the progression in style that this book reveals. I thought his later poems had an Asian feel to them that I really enjoyed. Here are a few of my favorite excerpts:
from an untitled poem:
“that's how I am, drunk, sad by nature,
a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,
and an ordinary man lost in dreams,
searching constantly for God among the mists.”
From his poem, “Portrait”:
“And when the day arrives for the last leaving of all,
and the ship that never returns to port is ready to go,
you'll find me on board, light, with few belongings,
almost naked like children of the sea.”
Another poem with a lovely metaphor:
“Is my soul asleep?
Have those beehives that labor
at night stopped? And the water
wheel of thought,
is it dry, the cups empty,
wheeling, carrying only shadows?
No, my soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its clear eyes open,
far-off things, and listens
at the shores of the great silence.”
And the poem Bishop Morneau loves:
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an aroma of jasmine.
'In return for this jasmine odor,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.
'I have no roses; I have no flowers left now
in my garden...All are dead.'
'Then I'll take the waters of the fountains,
and the yellow leaves and the dried-up petals.'
The wind left...I wept. I said to my soul,
'What have you done with the garden entrusted to you?'
It is a question worth carrying through life: “What have you done with the garden entrusted to you?”
There is a lot to love in this volume. Machado has a combination of melancholy and deep appreciation of the beauty of the natural world. I also liked seeing the progression in style that this book reveals. I thought his later poems had an Asian feel to them that I really enjoyed. Here are a few of my favorite excerpts:
from an untitled poem:
“that's how I am, drunk, sad by nature,
a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,
and an ordinary man lost in dreams,
searching constantly for God among the mists.”
From his poem, “Portrait”:
“And when the day arrives for the last leaving of all,
and the ship that never returns to port is ready to go,
you'll find me on board, light, with few belongings,
almost naked like children of the sea.”
Another poem with a lovely metaphor:
“Is my soul asleep?
Have those beehives that labor
at night stopped? And the water
wheel of thought,
is it dry, the cups empty,
wheeling, carrying only shadows?
No, my soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its clear eyes open,
far-off things, and listens
at the shores of the great silence.”
And the poem Bishop Morneau loves:
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an aroma of jasmine.
'In return for this jasmine odor,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.
'I have no roses; I have no flowers left now
in my garden...All are dead.'
'Then I'll take the waters of the fountains,
and the yellow leaves and the dried-up petals.'
The wind left...I wept. I said to my soul,
'What have you done with the garden entrusted to you?'
It is a question worth carrying through life: “What have you done with the garden entrusted to you?”
April 28, 2014
Machado has been overshadowed by Lorca, possibly because of the tragic end Lorca came to, it may also have to do with the much more withdrawn, sober poetry he produced. This is a fairly small volume, with the originals included. There is nothing remotely rhapsodic about his work, to use a metaphor, this is poetry of the slow unblinking gaze; completely committed to purity of sentiment. Like a glass of cool spring water. At times it reminds me of the poetry produced by the Pessoa heteronym Caeiro. Both being committed to stripping any mystical or transcendent elements out of poetry. Rhapsody is for youth but the world as it is is more than enough for those who know how to look. At least that is what Machado seems to be suggesting and I, for one, agree. The problem with this volume is Bly, the translator, who is one of the more personally intrusive ones out there. Clearly a student of Pound's notions of creative translation, only problem is he's not Pound. If you have a Spanish-English dictionary you can try and translate the more problematic of Bly's re-writings. I strongly recommend Machado to anyone who finds themselves a bit tired of the sometimes venal exercise in cleverness that some poetry seems to be and wants to listen to the ruminations of someone more entranced by the world than the alchemy of the poetic word. There's something almost Buddhist about these poems.
June 16, 2009
Machado was a quiet genius. This is my favorite collection of his poems, and Bly does an excellent job translating. For a deep, quiet read, nothing is better than Machado. This guy is Spain's Robert Frost, though few of us know him well. He's not as flashy as many other poets who write in Spanish, but he's a master of the gentle revelation.
Okay, so I'm reading this AGAIN! In the bathtub. Before bed. I sleep better.
Okay, so I'm reading this AGAIN! In the bathtub. Before bed. I sleep better.
October 12, 2011
Some of my favorite lines:
"That's how I am, drunk, sad by nature,
a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,
and an ordinary man lost in dreams,
searching constantly for God
among the mists"
AND
"The deepest words
of the wise man teach us
the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows
or the sound of the water when it is flowing."
"That's how I am, drunk, sad by nature,
a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,
and an ordinary man lost in dreams,
searching constantly for God
among the mists"
AND
"The deepest words
of the wise man teach us
the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows
or the sound of the water when it is flowing."
March 5, 2015
Antonio Machado represents one of the largest snups of the Nobel Prize for literature in history. His poetry is masterful. He notes the importance of the world around us, without narcissistically thinking of it as “around us.” It is a poetry of silence. He aims to be direct, simple, and pure. He is entranced by the world around us and seeks to communicate that feeling to us, his readers.
In one of the introductory segments, Bly notes that Machado is intent on seeing the world clearly. If we don’t, we have no choice but to remain narcissists. He quotes the following passage from “Moral Proverbs and Folk Songs”:
This Narcissus of ours
Can’t see his face in the mirror
Because he has become the mirror. (120)
Later, he writes:
Look for your other half
Who walks along next to you,
And tends to be what you aren’t. (120)
At times, his poetry is wonderfully real. We can imagine ourselves getting our hands caught in the cookie jar:
Creí mi hogar apagado,
y revolví la ceniza….
Me quemé la mano.”
[ I thought my fire was out,
and stirred the ashes….
I burnt my fingers.]
One of my personal favorites, “I have walked many roads," rings in my ears like a Johnny Cash song:
He andado muchos caminos,
he abierto muchas veredas;
he navegado en cien mares,
y atracado en cien riberas.
En todas partes he visto
caravanas de tristeza,
soberbios y melancólicos
borrachos de sombra negra,
y pedantones al paño
que miran, callan, y piensan
que saben, porque no beben
el vino de las tabernas.
Mala gente que camina
y va apestando la tierra…
Y en todas partes he visto
gentes que danzan o juegan,
cuando pueden, y laboran
sus cuatro palmos de tierra.
Nunca, si llegan a un sitio,
preguntan adónde llegan.
Cuando caminan, cabalgan
a lomos de mula vieja,
y no conocen la prisa
ni aun en los días de fiesta.
Donde hay vino, beben vino;
donde no hay vino, agua fresca.
Son buenas gentes que viven,
laboran, pasan y sueñan,
y en un día como tantos,
descansan bajo la tierra.
[ I have walked along many roads,
and opened paths through brush,
I have sailed over a hundred seas
and tied up on a hundred shores.
Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve seen
excursions of sadness,
angry and melancholy
drunkards with black shadows,
and academics in offstage clothes
who watch, say nothing, and think
they know, because they do not drink wine
in the ordinary bars
Evil men who walk around
polluting the earth…
And everywhere I’ve been I’ve seen
men who dance and play,
when they can, and work
the few inches of ground they have.
If they turn up somewhere,
they never ask where they are.
When they take trips, they ride
on the backs of old mules.
They don’t know how to hurry,
not even on holidays.
They drink wine, if there is some,
if not, cool water.
These men are the good ones,
who love, work, walk and dream.
And on a day no different from the rest
they lie down beneath the earth.] (17)
The last stanzas of “The evening is greyish and gloomy” evoke a certain mysticism:
Como perro olvidado que no tiene
huella ni olfato y yerra
por los caminos, sin camino, como
el niño que en la noche de una fiesta
se pierde entre el gentío
y el aire polvoriento y las candelas
chispeantes, atónito, y asombra
su corazón de música y de pena,
así voy yo, borracho melancólico,
guitarrista lunatic, poeta,
y pobre hombre en sueños,
siempre buscando a Dios entre la niebla.
[ Like an abandoned dog who cannot find
a smell or a track and roams
along the roads, with no road, like
the child who in a night of the fair
gets lost among the crowd,
and the air is dusty, and the candles
fluttering,--astounded, his heart
weighed down by music and by pain;
that’s how I am, drunk, sad by nature,
a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,
and an ordinary man lost in dreams,
searching constantly for God among the mists.] (65)
The Abel Martin poems are some of his most remarkable masterpieces. “In the theology of Abel Martin” contains the following remarkable line:
When the I AM THAT I AM made nothing
And rested, which rest it certainly deserved,
Night now accompanied day, and man
Had his friend in the absence of the woman. (122)
Ponder this emptiness for a second. What enters the nothingness is Reason. This block of poems continues, and my personal favorite is “Siesta, In Memory of Abel Martin”:
Mientras traza su curva el pez de fuego,
junto al ciprés, bajo el supremo añil,
y vuela en blanca piedra el niño ciego,
y en el olmo la copla de marfil
de la verde cigarra late y suena,
honremos al Señor
--la negra estampa de su mano Buena—
que ha dictado el silencio en el clamor.
Al dios de la distancia y de la ausencia,
del áncora en el mar, la plena mar…
Él nos libra del mundo—omnipresencia--,
nos abre senda para caminar.
Con la copa de sombra bien colmada,
con este nunca lleno corazón,
honremos al Señor que hizo la Nada
y ha esculpido en la fe nuestra razón.
[ While the burning fish is tracing his arc
near the cypress, beneath the highest blue of all,
and the blind boy flies away in the white stone,
and the ivory poem of the green cicada
beats and reverberates in the elm,
let us give honor to the Lord—
the black mark of his good hand—
who has arranged for silence in all this noise.
Honor to the god of distance and of absence,
ff the anchor in the sea—the open sea…
He frees us from the world—it’s everywhere—
he opens roads for us to walk on.
With our cup of darkness filled to the brim,
with our heart that always knows some hunger,
let us give honor to the Lord who created the zero
and carved our thought out of the block of faith.] (161)
See my other reviews here!
In one of the introductory segments, Bly notes that Machado is intent on seeing the world clearly. If we don’t, we have no choice but to remain narcissists. He quotes the following passage from “Moral Proverbs and Folk Songs”:
This Narcissus of ours
Can’t see his face in the mirror
Because he has become the mirror. (120)
Later, he writes:
Look for your other half
Who walks along next to you,
And tends to be what you aren’t. (120)
At times, his poetry is wonderfully real. We can imagine ourselves getting our hands caught in the cookie jar:
Creí mi hogar apagado,
y revolví la ceniza….
Me quemé la mano.”
[ I thought my fire was out,
and stirred the ashes….
I burnt my fingers.]
One of my personal favorites, “I have walked many roads," rings in my ears like a Johnny Cash song:
He andado muchos caminos,
he abierto muchas veredas;
he navegado en cien mares,
y atracado en cien riberas.
En todas partes he visto
caravanas de tristeza,
soberbios y melancólicos
borrachos de sombra negra,
y pedantones al paño
que miran, callan, y piensan
que saben, porque no beben
el vino de las tabernas.
Mala gente que camina
y va apestando la tierra…
Y en todas partes he visto
gentes que danzan o juegan,
cuando pueden, y laboran
sus cuatro palmos de tierra.
Nunca, si llegan a un sitio,
preguntan adónde llegan.
Cuando caminan, cabalgan
a lomos de mula vieja,
y no conocen la prisa
ni aun en los días de fiesta.
Donde hay vino, beben vino;
donde no hay vino, agua fresca.
Son buenas gentes que viven,
laboran, pasan y sueñan,
y en un día como tantos,
descansan bajo la tierra.
[ I have walked along many roads,
and opened paths through brush,
I have sailed over a hundred seas
and tied up on a hundred shores.
Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve seen
excursions of sadness,
angry and melancholy
drunkards with black shadows,
and academics in offstage clothes
who watch, say nothing, and think
they know, because they do not drink wine
in the ordinary bars
Evil men who walk around
polluting the earth…
And everywhere I’ve been I’ve seen
men who dance and play,
when they can, and work
the few inches of ground they have.
If they turn up somewhere,
they never ask where they are.
When they take trips, they ride
on the backs of old mules.
They don’t know how to hurry,
not even on holidays.
They drink wine, if there is some,
if not, cool water.
These men are the good ones,
who love, work, walk and dream.
And on a day no different from the rest
they lie down beneath the earth.] (17)
The last stanzas of “The evening is greyish and gloomy” evoke a certain mysticism:
Como perro olvidado que no tiene
huella ni olfato y yerra
por los caminos, sin camino, como
el niño que en la noche de una fiesta
se pierde entre el gentío
y el aire polvoriento y las candelas
chispeantes, atónito, y asombra
su corazón de música y de pena,
así voy yo, borracho melancólico,
guitarrista lunatic, poeta,
y pobre hombre en sueños,
siempre buscando a Dios entre la niebla.
[ Like an abandoned dog who cannot find
a smell or a track and roams
along the roads, with no road, like
the child who in a night of the fair
gets lost among the crowd,
and the air is dusty, and the candles
fluttering,--astounded, his heart
weighed down by music and by pain;
that’s how I am, drunk, sad by nature,
a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,
and an ordinary man lost in dreams,
searching constantly for God among the mists.] (65)
The Abel Martin poems are some of his most remarkable masterpieces. “In the theology of Abel Martin” contains the following remarkable line:
When the I AM THAT I AM made nothing
And rested, which rest it certainly deserved,
Night now accompanied day, and man
Had his friend in the absence of the woman. (122)
Ponder this emptiness for a second. What enters the nothingness is Reason. This block of poems continues, and my personal favorite is “Siesta, In Memory of Abel Martin”:
Mientras traza su curva el pez de fuego,
junto al ciprés, bajo el supremo añil,
y vuela en blanca piedra el niño ciego,
y en el olmo la copla de marfil
de la verde cigarra late y suena,
honremos al Señor
--la negra estampa de su mano Buena—
que ha dictado el silencio en el clamor.
Al dios de la distancia y de la ausencia,
del áncora en el mar, la plena mar…
Él nos libra del mundo—omnipresencia--,
nos abre senda para caminar.
Con la copa de sombra bien colmada,
con este nunca lleno corazón,
honremos al Señor que hizo la Nada
y ha esculpido en la fe nuestra razón.
[ While the burning fish is tracing his arc
near the cypress, beneath the highest blue of all,
and the blind boy flies away in the white stone,
and the ivory poem of the green cicada
beats and reverberates in the elm,
let us give honor to the Lord—
the black mark of his good hand—
who has arranged for silence in all this noise.
Honor to the god of distance and of absence,
ff the anchor in the sea—the open sea…
He frees us from the world—it’s everywhere—
he opens roads for us to walk on.
With our cup of darkness filled to the brim,
with our heart that always knows some hunger,
let us give honor to the Lord who created the zero
and carved our thought out of the block of faith.] (161)
See my other reviews here!
December 2, 2025
As of December 2025, Robert Bly's translations feel contemporary and easy, and reading them alongside the Spanish is a wonderful experience. Machado's work, especially his later snippets of poems, are surreal, exquisite and expansive. I look forward to continuing to center Machado's work.
Also, starting in 2026 I'll be putting all my reviews on StoryGraph and only doing star ratings on Goodreads! Consider connecting with me there.
Also, starting in 2026 I'll be putting all my reviews on StoryGraph and only doing star ratings on Goodreads! Consider connecting with me there.
July 20, 2025
I read this collection first in my junior year of high school and revisiting it going into my junior year of college was really fun.
i will always love these poems they are written so beautifully and hold such good reminders about the importance of spending time with yourself, which makes me feel better about living alone.
i will always love these poems they are written so beautifully and hold such good reminders about the importance of spending time with yourself, which makes me feel better about living alone.
November 1, 2018
Anthony Bourdain's forays in Montana led me to Jim Harrison.. And Jim Harrison's wild goose chase of a lost valise of poems led me to Antonio Machado.. Am thankful to both for leading me to this beautiful timeless poetry...
October 30, 2020
"Lord, you have ripped away from me what I loved most.
One more time, O God, hear me cry out inside.
“Your will be done,” it was done, and mine not.
My heart and the sea are together, Lord, and alone."
-- "Lord, You Have Ripped Away"
One more time, O God, hear me cry out inside.
“Your will be done,” it was done, and mine not.
My heart and the sea are together, Lord, and alone."
-- "Lord, You Have Ripped Away"
February 7, 2018
One of my favorite poets.
May 20, 2018
There is so much intimacy in his vulnerability--he listens into silence and somehow writes silence into every word.
February 6, 2021
Favourite poems on pages 13, 24, and 145.
October 11, 2021
I've been in a weird poetry mood lately. This collection of Antonio Machado poems deal with everyday life, the seen and the experienced.
December 4, 2024
When I AM THAT I AM made nothing
and rested, which it certainly deserved,
night now accompanied day, and man
had his friend in the absence of the woman
and rested, which it certainly deserved,
night now accompanied day, and man
had his friend in the absence of the woman
March 11, 2017
Although Bly's versions often feel freer than I would like, it was good to have them when my Spanish stumbled. Also good to have his intro materials Machado is superb.
April 2, 2017
It's so hard to review poetry! But I liked some of the poems, and I thought reading about Machado's history was very interesting, especially since he is a relatively unknown figure to me.
November 17, 2014
Cemented Machado's place among my most beloved poets.
Ie.
The whole world this instant
is transparent, empty, blind, flying.
What the poet is searching for
is not the fundamental I
but the deep you.
don't hunt for dissonance;
because, in the end, there is no dissonance.
When the sound is heard people dance.
Ie.
The whole world this instant
is transparent, empty, blind, flying.
What the poet is searching for
is not the fundamental I
but the deep you.
don't hunt for dissonance;
because, in the end, there is no dissonance.
When the sound is heard people dance.
July 13, 2016
Antonio Machado holds a special place in the world of poetry and the literary culture of Spain. This book, translated and with remarks by Robert Bly, includes a selection from each of Machado's books, in Spanish and English. A wonderful introduction to this important poet of nature and the working class of his culture.
September 1, 2016
Beautiful reflections from Machado. A collection from all of his books from a first youthful mystical collection to mature studies and songs, to despair over the Spanish Civil War. En face, so if you have some Spanish you can read both the originals and Bly's translations.
June 18, 2012
None better than this one...
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