Biography of Rafael Alberti
Rafael Alberti Merello (16 December 1902 – 28 October 1999) was a Spanish poet, a member of the Generation of '27. He is considered one of the greatest literary figures of the so-called Silver Age of Spanish Literature, and he won numerous prizes and awards. He died aged 96. After the Spanish Civil War, he went into exile because of his Marxist beliefs. On his return to Spain after the death of Franco, he was named Hijo Predilecto de Andalucía in 1983 and Doctor Honoris Causa by the Universidad de Cádiz in 1985.
He published his memoirs under the title of La Arboleda perdida (‘The Lost Grove’) in 1959 and this remains the best source of information on his early life.
The Puerto de Santa María at the mouth of the Guadalete River on the Bay of Cádiz was, as now, one of the major distribution outlets for the sherry trade from Jerez de la Frontera. Alberti was born there in 1902, to a family of vintners who had once been the most powerful in town, suppliers of sherry to the crowned heads of Europe. Both of his grandfathers were Italian; one of his grandmothers was from Huelva, the other from Ireland. However, at some point, while they were handing down the business to the next generation, bad management resulted in the bodegas being sold to the Osbornes. As a result, Alberti’s father was no more than a commercial traveller for the company, always away on business, as the general agent for Spain for brands of sherry and brandy that had, before, only been exported to the UK. This sense of belonging to a “bourgeois family now in decline” was to become an enduring theme in his mature poetry. At the age of 10, he entered the Jesuit-run Colegio San Luis Gonzaga as a charity day-boy. During his first year, Alberti was a model student but his growing awareness of how differently the boarders were treated from the day-boys, together with the other ranking systems operated by the Jesuits, inspired in him a desire to rebel. In his memoirs, he attributes it to growing class conflict. He began to play truant and defy the school authorities until he was finally expelled in 1917. However, his family was then at the point of moving to Madrid which meant that the disgrace did not register on Alberti or his family as strongly as it might have done.
The family moved to Calle de Atocha in Madrid in May 1917. By the time of the move, Alberti had already shown a precocious interest in painting. In Madrid, he again neglected his formal studies, preferring to go to the Casón del Buen Retiro and the Prado, where he spent many hours copying paintings and sculptures. It was as a painter that he made his first entries into the artistic world of the capital. For example, in October 1920, he was invited to exhibit in the Autumn Salon in Madrid. However, according to his memoirs, the deaths in 1920 in quick succession of his father, the matador Joselito, and Benito Pérez Galdós inspired him to write poetry.
Rafael Alberti Poems
The dove was wrong. The dove was mistaken. To travel north she flew south, Believing the wheat was water.
I sell clouds of colours, Ellipses, reddened To temper the heat!
‘if My Voice Dies On Land'
If my voice dies on land, Carry it down to the sea, And leave it there on the shore.
Naming The Dawn
With gentle red assaults, Dawn, I was granting you names: Mistaken dream, Angel without exit, Falsehood of rain in the trees. At the edges of my soul, that recalls the rivers, Indecisive, hesitant, still.
For Federico García Lorca
Go, drinking fields and cities, Transformed to a great deer of water, Be the ocean of bright dawns, The kingfisher's nest on the waves.
The Dead Angels
Search, search for them: In the insomnia of forgotten conduits In gutters blocked by the muteness of litter. Not far from the pools incapable of retaining a cloud,
Peñaranda De Duero
Why look so serious, dear road? You have four grey mules, A horse in front,
My Roe Deer
My roe deer, dear friend, My white roe deer. The wolves slew her
What I Left, For You
For you I left my woods, my lost Grove, my sleepless dogs, My important years, those banished Almost to my life's winter.
Today, the clouds brought me, In flight, the map of Spain. How small over the river, How vast over the meadow
The Angel Of Numbers
Virgins with set-squares And compasses, watching over The heavenly blackboards. And the angel of numbers,
Coming And Going
In the afternoon, ascending In the evening, in descending, I want to tread the blue Snow of Jacaranda.
The Collegiate Angels
None of us understood the secret darkness of the blackboards Nor why the armillary sphere seemed so remote when we looked. We only knew a circumference can be other than round That an eclipse of the moon confuses flowers,
The Ballad Of What The Wind Said
Eternity may well Be only a river Be a forgotten horse And the cooing
The flowery shoulders now in the snow
And the ivory tresses in the wind.
Dead water in the brow, the pensive
Tinted halo of the moon when it rains.
Oh what a clamour in the brief breast;
What a palm in air the solitary breath,
What a floe caught in the firmament,
The bare foot, with the courage to die!