Spanish Poems





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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 -Sermón sobre la muerte-
sábado, 10 de enero de 2004
Sermón sobre la muerte

Y, en fin, pasando luego al dominio de la muerte,
que actúa en escuadrón, previo corchete,
párrafo y llave, mano grande y diéresis,
¿a qué el pupitre asirio? ¿a qué el cristiano púlpito,
el intenso jalón del mueble vándalo
o, todavía menos, este esdrújulo retiro?

¿Es para terminar,
mañana, en prototipo del alarde fálico,
en diabetis y en blanca vacinica,
en rostro geométrico, en difunto,
que se hacen menester sermón y almendras,
que sobran literalmente patatas
y este espectro fluvial en que arde el oro
y en que se quema el precio de la nieve?
¿Es para eso, que morimos tánto?
¿Para sólo morir,
tenemos que morir a cada instante?
¿Y el párrafo que escribo?
¿Y el corchete deísta que enarbolo?
¿Y el escuadrón en que falló mi casco?
¿Y la llave que va a todas las puertas?
¿Y la forense diéresis, la mano,
mi patata y mi carne y mi contradicción bajo la sábana?
¡Loco de mí, lovo de mí, cordero
de mí, sensato, caballísimo de mí!

¡Pupitre, sí, toda la vida; púlpito,
también, toda la muerte!
Sermón de la barbarie: estos papeles;
esdrújulo retiro: este pellejo.

De esta suerte, cogitabundo, aurífero, brazudo,
defenderé mi presa en dos momentos,
con la voz y también con la laringe,
y del olfato físico con que oro
y del instinto de inmovilidad con que ando,
me honraré mientras viva —hay que decirlo;
se enorgullecerán mis moscardones,
porque, al centro, estoy yo, y a la derecha,
también, y, a la izquierda, de igual modo.


Sermon on death

And, finally, passing now into the domain of death,
which acts as squadron, former bracket,
paragraph and key, huge hand and dieresis,
for what the Assyrian desk? for what the Christian pulpit,
the intense tug of Vandal furniture
or, even less, this proparoxytonic retreat?

Is it in order to end,
tomorrow, as a prototype of phallic display,
as diabetes and as a white bedpan,
as a geometric face, as a deadman,
that sermon and almonds become necessary,
that there are literally too many potatoes
and this watery spectre in which the gold blazes
and in which the price of snow burns?
Is it for this, that we die so much?
Only to die,
must we die each instant?
And the paragraph that I write?
And the deistic bracket that I raise on high?
And the squadron in which my skull broke down?
And the key which fits all doors?
And the forensic dieresis, the hand,
my potato and my flesh and my contradiction under the bedsheet?

Out of my mind, out of my wolvum, out
of my lamb, out of my sensible horsessence!
Desk, yes, my whole life long; pulpit,
likewise, my whole death long!
Sermon on barbarism: these papers;
proparoxytonic retreat: this skin.

In this way, cognitive, auriferous, thick-armed,
I will defend my catch in two moments,
with my voice and also with my larynx,
and of the physical smell with which I pray
and of the instinct for immobility with which I walk,
I will be proud while I'm alive—it must be said;
my horseflies will swell with pride,
because, at the center, I am, and to the right,
likewise, and, to the left, equally.

Translated by Clayton Eshleman

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 13:20  
1 Comments:
  • At 31 de julio de 2007, 18:22, Blogger Bishop said…

    SERMON ON DEATH

    And at last, moving on to death's dominion,
    that acts in squadron, foregoing bracket,
    and paragraph and brace, big hand and dieresis;
    - why the Assyrian dais? Why the Christian pulpit,
    the ardent ramrod of vandal furniture
    or even less, this gravest retirement?

    Is it to end up,
    tomorrow, in prototype of phallic display,
    in diabetes and in white bedpan,
    in geometrical face, in defunct,
    that one needs a sermon and almonds,
    that there are literally potatoes to spare
    and this fluvial spectre in which gold burns
    and in which the price of snow burns up?
    Is it for this we die so much?
    Do we have to die each instant
    just to die?
    And the paragraph I'm writing?
    And the deistic bracket I'm hoisting?
    And the squadron in which my helmet failed?
    And the key that fits in every door?
    And the forensic dieresis, the hand,
    my potato, my flesh and, under the sheets, my contradiction?

    My lunacy, my wolfness, my lambness,
    my rational horseness!
    Dais, yes, my whole life; pulpit,
    also, my whole death!
    Sermon of barbarism: these pages;
    gravest retirement: this slough.

    In this manner, pensive, auriferous, armful,
    in two moments I will defend my prey
    with my voice and also with my larynx,
    and of the physical smell I pray with,
    and of the instinct for immobility I walk with,
    I will honour myself as long as I live - it has to be said;
    and my botflies will engorge with pride
    for I'm at the centre, and on the right
    as well, and on the left, just the same.

    Translated by Michael Smith & Valentino Gianuzzi

     
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