Spanish Poems





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Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano
Sentences
"Por principio, toda traducción es buena. En cualquier caso, pasa con ellas lo que con las mujeres: de alguna manera son necesarias, aunque no todas son perfectas"

Augusto Monterroso

-La palabra mágica-

"Es imposible traducir la poesía. ¿Acaso se puede traducir la música?"

Voltaire

"Translating poetry is like making jewelry. Every word counts, and each sparkles with so many facets. Translating prose is like sculpting: get the shape and the lines right, then polish the seams later."

James Nolan

"La traducción destroza el espí­ritu del idioma"

Federico García Lorca
César Vallejo -Trilce- XXVIII -
jueves, 15 de enero de 2004
Trilce

XXVIII

He almorzado solo ahora, y no he tenido
madre, ni súplica, ni sírvete, ni agua,
ni padre que, en el facundo ofertorio
de los choclos, pregunte para su tardanza
de imagen, por los broches mayores del sonido.

Cómo iba yo a almorzar. Cómo me iba a servir
de tales platos distantes esas cosas,
cuando habráse quebrado el propio hogar,
cuando no asoma ni madre a los labios.
Cómo iba yo a almorzar nonada.

A la mesa de un buen amigo he almorzado
con su padre recién llegado del mundo,
con sus canas tías que hablan
en tordillo retinte de porcelana,
bisbiseando por todos sus viudos alvéolos;
y con cubiertos francos de alegres tiroriros,
porque estánse en su casa. Así, ¡qué gracia!
Y me han dolido los cuchillos
de esta mesa en todo el paladar.

El yantar de estas mesas así, en que se prueba
amor ajeno en vez del propio amor,
torna tierra el brocado que no brinda la
MADRE,
hace golpe la dura deglución; el dulce,
hiel; aceite funéreo, el café.

Cuando ya se ha quebrado el propio hogar,
y el sírvete materno no sale de la
tumba,
la cocina a oscuras, la miseria de amor.


Trilce

XXVIII

I've had lunch alone now, and without mother,
or request, or serve-yourself, or water,
or father who, in the fluent offertory
of tender corn, might ask, through his belated
image, for the older clasps of sound.

How was I to have lunch. How was I to serve
those things from such distant dishes,
when one's own home might be broken up,
when no mother shows up at the lips.
How was I to eat the slightest thing.

I've had lunch at the table of a good friend
with his father just back from the world,
with his white-haired aunts who speak
in mottled tinges of porcelain,
muttering through all their widowed cavities;
and with generous settings of happy wheezes
because they are at home. Sure, what a feat!
And the knives of this table have hurt me
all over my palate.

Dining on such tables as these, in which one tastes
another love instead of one's own,
turns into earth the mouthful not offered by the
MOTHER,
turns the hard swallow into a blow; the sweet,
bile; funereal oil, the coffee.

When your own home is already broken up,
and the motherly serve-yourself comes no more from the
grave,
the kitchen in darkness, the wretchedness of love.

Translated by Michael Smith and Valentino Gianuzzi

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 10:28  
5 Comments:
  • At 21 de junio de 2007, 20:13, Blogger Bishop said…

    XXVIII

    I have now eaten alone, and had
    no mother, no plea, no service, no water,
    no father who, during the eloquent offertory
    of the maize, might question the delay of
    her appearance––with the largest clasps of sound.

    How was I to eat? How was I to serve myself
    such things from these far-off dishes?
    What with my own home broken,
    and not even mother there for my lips.
    How was I to eat at all?

    I have eaten at the table of a dear friend
    and with his father (recently arrived from the outside)––
    with his grey-haired aunts who chatter
    with the greyish tinkle of porcelain,
    muttering to their very widowed cores;
    and with french cutlery of vivid design,
    because they are in their home. Oh, how amusing!
    And the knives of this table have
    cut me all over the softest parts of my mouth.

    The food of such tables, at which you taste
    another’s love but not your own,
    turns each mouthful that is not offered by the

    MOTHER into earth--
    with the sharp swallowing pains; sweetness,
    bitterness; funereal oil, and coffee.

    Now when one’s own home is broken,
    and the open-handed mother won’t rise up from the
    tomb,
    ––the kitchen in darkness, O the misery of love.

    Translated from the Spanish by J. Tennant.

     
  • At 7 de junio de 2012, 20:33, Blogger Santiago Rangel Sierra said…

    My Mother-language is spanish, and, how I read this poem in english, loses all its grace!!!! the music is lost, the rhythm is lost ... lost almost all!!!!

     
  • At 7 de junio de 2012, 20:33, Blogger Santiago Rangel Sierra said…

    My Mother-language is spanish, and, how I read this poem in english, loses all its grace!!!! the music is lost, the rhythm is lost ... lost almost all!!!!

     
  • At 7 de junio de 2012, 20:33, Blogger Santiago Rangel Sierra said…

    My Mother-language is spanish, and, how I read this poem in english, loses all its grace!!!! the music is lost, the rhythm is lost ... lost almost all!!!!

     
  • At 7 de junio de 2012, 20:34, Blogger Santiago Rangel Sierra said…

    My Mother-language is spanish, and, how I read this poem in english, loses all its grace!!!! the music is lost, the rhythm is lost ... lost almost all!!!!

     
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