Spanish Poems





TRADUTTORE TRADITORE

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
César Vallejo -Heces-
sábado, 10 de enero de 2004
Heces

Esta tarde llueve, como nunca; y no
tengo ganas de vivir, corazón.

Esta tarde es dulce. Por qué no ha de ser?
Viste de gracia y pena; viste de mujer.

Esta tarde en Lima llueve. Y yo recuerdo
las cavernas crueles de mi ingratitud;
mi bloque de hielo sobre su amapola,
más fuerte que su "No seas así!"

Mis violentas flores negras; y la bárbara
y enorme pedrada; y el trecho glacial.
Y pondrá el silencio de su dignidad
con óleos quemantes el punto final.

Por eso esta tarde, como nunca, voy
con este búho, con este corazón.

Y otras pasan; y viéndome tan triste,
toman un poquito de ti
en la abrupta arruga de mi hondo dolor.

Esta tarde llueve, llueve mucho. ¡Y no
tengo ganas de vivir, corazón!


Dregs

This afternoon it rains, as never before; and I
don't want to live, heart.

This afternoon's sweet. Why shouldn't it be?
Dressed in grace and grief; dressed like a woman.

This afternoon in Lima, it rains. And I remember
the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
my block of ice upon her poppy
stronger than her "Don't be this way!"

My violent black flowers; and the barbaric,
atrocious stoning; and the glacial space.
And with scalding oils, the silence
of her dignity will make the final point.

So this afternoon, as never before, I go
with this owl, this heart.

And other women pass by; and seeing me so sad,
they take a little bit of you
from the steep furrow of my profound sorrow.

This afternoon it rains, it pours. And I don't
want to live, heart!

Translated by Rebecca Seiferle

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 13:30  
3 Comments:
  • At 21 de junio de 2007, 4:18, Blogger Bishop said…

    DREGS

    This afternoon it rains as never before; and I
    don't feel like staying alive, heart.

    This afternoon is sweet. Why shouldn't it be?
    It's dressed in grace and sorrow, dressed like a woman.

    This afternoon it's raining in Lima. And I remember
    the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
    my chunk of ice on her poppy,
    harsher than her 'Don't be like that.'

    My violent black flowers; the savage
    outrageous lashing out; and the glacial distance.
    And the silence of her dignity will brand
    the final period with blazing oil.

    That's why this afternoon, as never before, I walk
    owl-like, with such a heart.

    And others go by, and seeing me so sad,
    they sense a little of you
    in the craggy furrows of my deep misery.

    This afternoon it rains and rains. And I
    don't feel like staying alive, heart.

    Tranlated by Sandy McKinney

     
  • At 21 de junio de 2007, 4:20, Blogger Bishop said…

    DREGS

    This afternoon it is raining as never before, and I,
    my heart, have no desire to live.

    This afternoon is sweet. Why shouldn't it be?
    It is dressed in grace and sorrow; dressed like a woman.

    It is raining this afternoon in Lima. And I remember
    the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
    my block of ice crushing her poppy,
    stronger than her "Don't be like this!"

    My violent black flowers; and the barbarous
    and enormous stoning; and the glacial interval.
    And the silence of her dignity will mark
    in burning oils the final period.

    And so this afternoon, as never before, I go
    with this owl, with this heart […]

    Translated by Muna Lee

     
  • At 21 de junio de 2007, 4:34, Blogger Bishop said…

    DOWN TO THE DREGS

    This afternoon it rains as never before; and I
    don't feel like staying alive, heart.

    The afternoon is pleasant. Why shouldn't it be?
    It is wearing grace and pain; it is dressed like a woman.

    This afternoon in Lima it is raining. And I remember
    the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
    my block of ice laid on her poppy,
    stronger than her crying "Don't be this way!"

    My violent black flowers; and the barbarous
    and staggering blow with a stone; and the glacial pause.
    And the silence of her dignity will pour
    scalding oils on the end of the sentence.

    Therefore, this afternoon, as never before, I walk
    with this owl, with this heart.

    And other women go past; and seeing me sullen,
    they sip a little of you
    in the abrupt furrow of my deep grief.

    This afternoon it rains, rains endlessly. And I
    don't feel like staying alive, heart.

    Translated by James Wright

     
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