Antonio Machado - one of Spain's greatest poets

Antonio Machado or, to give him his full name, Antonio Cipriano José María y Francisco de Santa Ana Machado Ruiz was one of Spain’s best-known poets. He is famous for his poetry describing the beauty of the Spanish countryside and also his love poems.

He had his first poems published in 1901 and his first book of poetry in 1903. In the same year Machado was offered the job of Professor of French at the school in Soria. Here he met Leonor Izquierdo, the daughter of the owners of the boarding house Machado was staying in, and fell in love.

They were married in 1909: he was 34; she was 14.

In 1911, the couple went to live in Paris where Leonor contracted tuberculosis. They returned to Spain and Leonor died a year later, aged just 18.

Machado was devastated and left Soria and went to live in Baeza. Here he wrote a series of poems dealing with the death of Leonor. He never remarried but had a long affair with Pilar de Valderrama, a married woman. He wrote many poems about her, referring to her by the name Guiomar. The affair was kept secret and people wondered who Guiomar was, whether she was real or imaginary.

When the Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936, Machado was in Madrid. The war was to separate him forever from his lover, Pilar, who fled to Portugal. A staunch Republican, he fled Franco’s forces first to Valencia, then to Barcelona, one of the last Republican strongholds.

Pilar de Valderrama

Machado had written many articles against the Nationalists and would surely have been executed. He and his elderly mother were forced to flee across the Pyrenees to France, but the arduous crossing took its toll on both.

Machado died from pneumonia in 1939, just days after arriving in Collioure on the French-Spanish border. His mother died three days later.

In his pocket was found his last poem, "Estos días azules y este sol de infancia" (those blue days and the sun of childhood). Machado is buried in Collioure where he died; Leonor is buried in Soria.

Pilar lived to be 90 and, in her later years, revealed her affair with Machado. The mystery of Guiomar was solved – she had been real.

Let’s listen to his poem El Tren, click here to see it.

El Tren

Yo, para todo viaje 
—siempre sobre la madera 
de mi vagón de tercera—, 
voy ligero de equipaje. 
Si es de noche, porque no 
acostumbro a dormir yo, 
y de día, por mirar 
los arbolitos pasar, 
yo nunca duermo en el tren, 
y, sin embargo, voy bien. 
¡Este placer de alejarse! 
Londres, Madrid, Ponferrada, 
tan lindos... para marcharse. 
Lo molesto es la llegada. 
Luego, el tren, al caminar, 
siempre nos hace soñar; 
y casi, casi olvidamos 
el jamelgo que montamos. 
¡Oh, el pollino 
que sabe bien el camino! 
¿Dónde estamos? 
¿Dónde todos nos bajamos? 
¡Frente a mí va una monjita 
tan bonita! 
Tiene esa expresión serena 
que a la pena 
da una esperanza infinita. 
Y yo pienso: Tú eres buena; 
porque diste tus amores 
a Jesús; porque no quieres 
ser madre de pecadores. 
Mas tú eres 
maternal, 
bendita entre las mujeres, 
madrecita virginal. 
Algo en tu rostro es divino 
bajo tus cofias de lino. 
Tus mejillas 
—esas rosas amarillas— 
fueron rosadas, y, luego, 
ardió en tus entrañas fuego; 
y hoy, esposa de la Cruz, 
ya eres luz, y sólo luz... 
¡Todas las mujeres bellas 
fueran, como tú, doncellas 
en un convento a encerrarse!... 
¡Y la niña que yo quiero, 
ay, preferirá casarse 
con un mocito barbero! 
El tren camina y camina, 
y la máquina resuella, 
y tose con tos ferina. 
¡Vamos en una centella!

 The Train

The whole way,
sitting on a wooden seat
in my third-class car,
I go with just one bag,
sitting the same at night
(I seldom sleep anyway)
and in the daytime
(to watch the little trees
pass by). I never sleep
on the train, yet I like
to travel. The pleasure of moving off!
London, Madrid, Ponferrada,

so lovely to leave.

Arriving’s the trouble.
Then the train, at a walk,
always makes us dream;

and almost, almost we forget
this old nag we ride,
the idiot donkey
that knows this road so well.

Where are we?
Where do we all get off?
In front of me travels
a pretty little nun.
She has that serene face
that lends hope

even to pain.

And I think, you’re good,

Because you gave all your love
to Jesus, because you don’t want

to become a mother to sinners,
But you are

maternal

blessed among women

virgin mother.
Something on your face is divine

Under the linen wimple,
your cheeks,

Those yellow roses—
they were pink, but then a fire
burned in your insides,
and today, bride of Christ,
you are light, and only light.
Oh, that all the pretty women
were like you, maidens closed
in a convent!

And the girl I wanted, ha!

She preferred to marry
a barber.

The train goes and goes,

and the engine wheezes,
and coughs its iron cough.
We’re riding on a spark.