| About this blog |
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 |
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| César Vallejo -Espergesia- |
| sábado, 10 de enero de 2004 |
Espergesia
Yo nací un día
que Dios estuvo enfermo.
Todos saben que vivo,
que soy malo; y no saben
del diciembre de ese enero.
Pues yo nací un día
que Dios estuvo enfermo. Hay un vacío
en mi aire metafísico
que nadie ha de palpar:
el claustro de un silencio
que habló a flor de fuego.
Yo nací un día
que Díos estuvo enfermo.
Hermano, escucha, escucha...
Bueno. Y que no me vaya
sin llevar diciembres,
sin dejar eneros.
Pues yo nací un día
que Díos estuvo enfermo.
Todos saben que vivo,
que mastico... Y no saben
por qué en mi verso chirrían,
oscuro sinsabor de féretro,
luyidos vientos
desenroscados de la Esfinge
preguntona del Desierto.
Todos saben... Y no saben
que la luz es tísica,
y la Sombra gorda...
Y no saben que el Misterio sintetiza...
que él es la joroba
musical y triste que a distancia denuncia
el paso meridiano de las lindes a las Lindes.
Yo nací un día
que Dios estuvo enfermo,
grave.
Epexegesis
I was born on a day
when God was sick.
Everybody knows that I am alive,
that i am bad; and they do not know
about the December of that January.
For i was born on a day
when God was sick.
There is a void
in my metaphysical air
that no one is going to touch:
the cloister of a silence
that spoke flush with fire.
I was born on a day
when God was sick.
Brother, listen, listen...
Okay. And do not let me leave
without bringing Decembers,
without leaving Januaries.
For i was born on a day
when God was sick.
Everybody knows that i am alive,
that i chew...And they do not know
why in my poetry galled winds,
untwisted from the inquisitive
Sphinx of the Desert,
screech an obscure
coffin anxiety.
Everybody knows... And they do not know
that the Light is consumptive,
and the Shadow fat...
And they do not know how the Mystery synthesizes...
how it is the sad musical
humpback who denounces from afar
the meridional step from the limits to the Limits.
I was born on a day
when God was sick,
gravely.Etiquetas: César Vallejo |
posted by Bishop @ 10:00  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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ESPERGESIA
I was born on a day
God was sick.
Everyone knows that I live,
That I’m bad, and they don’t know
About the December of that January.
For I was born on a day
God was sick.
There’s an emptiness
In my metaphysical air
That no one’s going to touch:
The cloister of a silence
That spoke with its tongue on fire.
I was born on a day God was sick.
Brother, listen, listen…
Okay now. And don’t let me go away
Without taking along Decembers,
Without leaving Januaries.
For I was born on a day
God was sick.
Everyone knows that I live
That I chew…And they don’t know
Why in my poems,
A dark disgust of coffin,
Rasp frayed wind
Unraveled from the Sphynx,
The great questioner of the Desert.
Everyone know…And they don’t know
That the Light is consumptive,
And the Shadow fat…
And they don’t know the Mystery sums it up…
That it is the hump
Musical and sad that in the distance denounces
The meridian passage from the limits to the Limits.
I was born on a day
God was sick,
Grave.
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ESPERGESIA
I was born on a day
God was sick.
Everyone knows that I live,
That I’m bad, and they don’t know
About the December of that January.
For I was born on a day
God was sick.
There’s an emptiness
In my metaphysical air
That no one’s going to touch:
The cloister of a silence
That spoke with its tongue on fire.
I was born on a day God was sick.
Brother, listen, listen…
Okay now. And don’t let me go away
Without taking along Decembers,
Without leaving Januaries.
For I was born on a day
God was sick.
Everyone knows that I live
That I chew…And they don’t know
Why in my poems,
A dark disgust of coffin,
Rasp frayed wind
Unraveled from the Sphynx,
The great questioner of the Desert.
Everyone know…And they don’t know
That the Light is consumptive,
And the Shadow fat…
And they don’t know the Mystery sums it up…
That it is the hump
Musical and sad that in the distance denounces
The meridian passage from the limits to the Limits.
I was born on a day
God was sick,
Grave.