| 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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| Francisco de Quevedo -Amor- |
| lunes, 20 de septiembre de 2004 |
Amor
Es hielo abrasador, es fuego helado,
es herida que duele y no se siente,
es un soñado bien, un mal presente,
es un breve descanso muy cansado;
es un descuido que nos da cuidado,
un cobarde, con nombre de valiente,
un andar solitario entre la gente,
un amar solamente ser amado;
es una libertad encarcelada,
que dura hasta el parasismo;
enfermedad que crece si es curada.
Éste es el niño amor, éste es su abismo.
¡Mirad cuál amistad tendrá con nada
el que en todo es contrario de sí mismo!.
Love
It is burning ice, it is frozen fire,
it is hurt that hurts and it does not feel,
he is dreaming well, badly presents/displays,
it is a brief rest very tired;
it is a negligence that gives care us,
a cowardly one, with name of brave,
to walk solitary between people,
to only love being loved;
it is a jailed freedom,
that it lasts until the parasismo;
disease that grows if it is cured.
This one is the young love, this one is its abyss.
You watch which friendship will have with anything
the one that in everything is opposite of itself.Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
posted by Bishop @ 14:30  |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Retirado en la paz de estos desiertos...- |
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Retirado en la paz de estos desiertos...
Retirado en la paz de estos desiertos,
con pocos, pero doctos libros juntos,
vivo en conversación con los difuntos,
y escucho con mis ojos a los muertos.
Si no siempre entendidos, siempre abiertos,
o enmiendan, o fecundan mis asuntos;
y en músicos callados contrapuntos
al sueño de la vida hablan despiertos.
Las grandes almas que la muerte ausenta,
de injurias de los años vengadora,
libra, ¡oh gran don Joseph!, docta la imprenta.
En fuga irrevocable huye la hora;
pero aquélla el mejor cálculo cuenta,
que en la lección y estudios nos mejora.
Retired to the peace of this deserted place...
Retired to the peace of this deserted place
Together with a few but learned books
I live in conversation with those passed away,
And with my eyes listen to the dead.
If not always understood, the books are ever open.
They either correct or fertilize my ideas.
And in silent contrapuntal music
In life's sleep they speak, awake.
Great souls which death makes absent,
The avenger of the years' insults,
The learned press frees,
O great Don Joseph!
In irrevocable flight the hour flees,
But that flight is reckoned best
Which in reading and study betters us.
Translated by Dennis ManganEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 14:20 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Poderoso caballero es don dinero- |
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Poderoso caballero es don dinero
Madre, yo al oro me humillo,
Él es mi amante y mi amado,
Pues de puro enamorado
Anda continuo amarillo.
Que pues doblón o sencillo
Hace todo cuanto quiero,
Poderoso caballero
Es don Dinero.
Nace en las Indias honrado,
Donde el mundo le acompaña;
Viene a morir en España,
Y es en Génova enterrado.
Y pues quien le trae al lado
Es hermoso, aunque sea fiero,
Poderoso caballero
Es don Dinero.
Son sus padres principales,
Y es de nobles descendiente,
Porque en las venas de Oriente
Todas las sangres son Reales.
Y pues es quien hace iguales
Al rico y al pordiosero,
Poderoso caballero
Es don Dinero.
¿A quién no le maravilla
Ver en su gloria, sin tasa,
Que es lo más ruin de su casa
Doña Blanca de Castilla?
Mas pues que su fuerza humilla
Al cobarde y al guerrero,
Poderoso caballero
Es don Dinero.
Es tanta su majestad,
Aunque son sus duelos hartos,
Que aun con estar hecho cuartos
No pierde su calidad.
Pero pues da autoridad
Al gañán y al jornalero,
Poderoso caballero
Es don Dinero.
Más valen en cualquier tierra
(mirad si es harto sagaz)
Sus escudos en la paz
Que rodelas en la guerra.
Pues al natural destierra
Y hace propio al forastero,
Poderoso caballero
Es don Dinero.
The lord of dollars
Mother, unto gold I yield me,
He and I are ardent lovers;
Pure affection now discovers
How his sunny rays shall shield me!
For a trifle more or less
All his power will confess,
Over kings and priests and scholars
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
In the Indies did they nurse him,
While the world stood round admiring;
And in Spain was his expiring;
And in Genoa did they hearse him;
And the ugliest at his side
Shines with all of beauty's pride;
Over kings and priests awl scholars
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
He's a gallant, he's a winner,
Black or white be his complexion;
He is brave without correction
As a Moor or Christian sinner.
He makes cross and medal bright,
And he smashes laws of right,—
Over kings and priests and scholars
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
Noble are his proud ancestors
For his blood-veins are patrician;
Royalties make the position
Of his Orient investors;
So they find themselves preferred
To the duke or country herd,—
Over kings and priests and scholars,
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars!
Of his standing who can question
When there yields unto his rank, a
Hight-Castillian Doña Blanca,
If you follow the suggestion?—
He that crowns the lowest stool,
And to hero turns the fool,—
Over kings and priests and scholars,
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
On his shields are noble bearings;
His emblazonments unfurling
Show his arms of royal sterling
All his high pretensions airing;
And the credit of his miner
Stands behind the proud refiner,
Over kings and priests and scholars
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
Contracts, bonds, and bills to render,
Like his counsels most excelling,
Are esteemed within the dwelling
Of the banker and the lender.
So is prudence overthrown,
And the judge complaisant grown,—
Over kings and priests and scholars
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
Such indeed his sovereign standing
(With some discount in the order),
Spite the tax, the cash-recorder
Still his value fixed is branding.
He keeps rank significant
To the prince or finn in want,—
Over kings and Priests and scholars
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
Never meets he dames ungracious
To his smiles or his attention,
How they glow but at the mention
Of his promises capacious!
And how bare-faced they become
To the coin beneath his thumb
Over kings and Priests and scholars
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
Mightier in peaceful season
(And in this his wisdom showeth)
Are his standards, than when bloweth
War his haughty blasts and breeze on;
In all foreign lands at home,
Equal e'en in pauper's loam,—
Over kings and priests and scholars
Rules the mighty Lord of Dollars.
Translated by Thomas WalshEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 14:10 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Afectos varios de su corazón- |
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Afectos varios de su corazón,
fluctuando en las ondas de los cabellos de Lisi
En crespa tempestad del oro undoso
nada golfos de luz ardiente y pura
mi corazón, sediento de hermosura,
si el cabello deslazas generoso.
Leandro en mar de fuego proceloso,
su amor ostenta, su vivir apura;
Icaro en senda de oro mal segura
arde sus alas por morir glorioso.
Con pretensión de fénix, encencidas
sus esperanzas, que difuntas lloro,
intenta que su muerte engendre vidas.
Avaro y rico, y pobre en el tesoro,
el castigo y la hambre imita a Midas,
Tántalo en fugitiva fuente de oro.
Several reactions of his heart,
bobbing on the waves of Lisi's hair
Within a curly storm of wavy gold
must swim great gulfs of pure and blazing light
my heart, for beauty eagerly athirst,
when your abundant tresses you unbind.
Just like Leander in a fire-tossed sea,
its love displays, extinguishes its life;
like Icarus, its golden path unsure,
its wings catch fire -- in glorious flames it dies.
So very like the Phoenix, with its hopes
all burnt, whose expiration I lament,
it wants its death to make new lives from old.
So miserly and rich, in treasure poor,
in trials and humger Midas imitates;
Tantalus in a fleeting fount of gold.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 14:00 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Dificulta el retratar una grande hermosura- |
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Dificulta el retratar una grande hermosura,
que se lo había mandado, y enseña el modo
que sólo alcanza para que fuese posible
Si quien ha de pintaros ha de veros,
y no es posible sin cegar miraros,
¿Quién será poderoso a retrataros,
sin ofender su vista y ofenderos?
En nieve y rosas quise floreceros;
mas fuera honrar las rosas y agraviaros;
dos luceros por ojos quise daros;
mas ¿cuándo lo soñaron los luceros?
Conocí el imposible en el bosquejo;
mas vuestro espejo a vuestra lumbre propia
aseguró el acierto en su reflejo.
Podráos él retratar sin luz impropia,
siendo vos de vos propria, en el espejo,
original, pintor, pincel y copia.
Painting a great beauty, which he was asked to do,
is hard, and he shows the only way
it might be possible
If he who is to paint you is to see you,
but cannot look at you and not go blind,
who then will have the skill to paint your portrait
with no offense to both you and his sight?
I sought to make you bloom in snow and roses;
but this would flatter roses and slight you;
two morning stars for eyes I sought to give you;
but how could stars hope that this could be true?
The sketch told me that it could not be done;
but then your mirror, catching your own glow,
assured it was exact in its reflection.
It renders you without unfitting light;
since you're from you yourself, the mirror holds
original, painter, brush and your perfection.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 13:50 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Soneto amoroso- |
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Soneto amoroso
Si dios eres, Amor, ¿cuál es tu cielo?
Si señor, ¿de qué renta y de qué estados?
¿Adónde están tus siervos y criados?
¿Dónde tienes tu asiento en este suelo?
Si te disfraza nuestro mortal velo,
¿cuáles son tus desiertos y apartados?
Si rico, ¿do tus bienes vinculados?
¿Cómo te veo desnudo al sol y al yelo?
¿Sabes qué me parece, Amor, de aquesto?
Que el pintarte con alas y vendado,
es que de ti el pintor y el mundo juega.
Y yo también, pues sólo el rostro honesto
de mi Lisis así te ha acobardado,
que pareces, Amor, gallina ciega.
Love sonnet
If you're a god, Love, tell me, what's your heaven?
If you're a lord what income, what estates?
Where are your underlings and all your servants?
What place in this world do you populate?
If our mortal veil serves to disguise you,
what are your lands, what rooms for you suffice?
If you are rich, where are your funds invested?
Why go you naked into sun and ice?
Do you know what I think, Love, of all this?
That painting you with wings and blinded eyes,
shows how both life and art portray you right.
And I do, too, since just the honest face
of my own Lisi makes you so afraid,
you seem, Love, like a chicken without sight.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 13:40 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Inútil y débil victoria del Amor- |
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Inútil y débil victoria del Amor
en el que ya es vencido amante
¡Mucho del valeroso y esforzado,
y viéneslo a mostrar en un rendido!
Bástame, Amor haberte agradecido
penas, de que me puedo haber quejado.
¿Qué sangre de mis venas no te he dado?
¿Qué flecha de tu aljaba no he sentido?
Mira que la paciencia del sufrido
suele vencer las armas del airado.
Con otro de tu igual quisiera verte;
que yo me siento arder de tal manera,
que mayor fuera el mal de hacerme fuerte.
¿De qué sirve encender al que es hoguera,
si no es que quieres dar muerte a la Muerte,
introduciendo en mí que el muerto muera?
Futile and puny victory of Love
in one who is already a vanquished lover
So brave you are and so endowed with strength,
and you must demonstrate it on the weak!
Enough for me, Love, that I've thanked you for
my woes, of which I might complaining speak.
What blood did I not give you from my veins?
Which of your arrows has not done me wrong?
See how the very patience of the meek
so often bests the weapons of the strong.
I'd like to see you forced to fight your equal;
for I see myself on fire to such extent,
that I don't dare my will to fortify.
What good is it to burn one who's a bonfire
unless your goal is to put Death to death,
starting with me, who as a dead man die.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 13:30 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Comunicación de amor invisible por los ojos- |
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Comunicación de amor invisible por los ojos
Si mis párpados, Lisi, labios fueran,
besos fueran los rayos visuales
de mis ojos, que al sol miran caudales
águilas, y besaran más que vieran.
Tus bellezas, hidrópicos, bebieran,
y cristales, sedientos de cristales;
de luces y de incendios celestiales,
alimentando su morir, vivieran.
De invisible comercio mantenidos,
y desnudos de cuerpo, los favores
gozaran mis potencias y sentidos;
mudos se requebraran los ardores;
pudieran, apartados, verse unidos,
y en público, secretos, los amores.
Communication of invisible love through the eyes
If my eyelids, Lisi, could be lips,
kisses rays of sight would surely be
from my eyes, which like golden eagles watch
the sun, and they would kiss more than they see.
Your beauty, dropsically, they would drink,
and crystals, thirsting for your crystal panes;
from lights and from those great celestial fires,
nourishing their death, alive they'd stay.
By invisible commerce thus sustained,
their bodies wholly nude, such bounteous gifts
my potency and senses would caress;
mute, they would demand their ecstasy;
they could, once parted, see themselves entwined,
and publicly, their secret love possess.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 13:20 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Artificiosa evasión de la muerte- |
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Artificiosa evasión de la muerte, si valiera;
pero, entretanto, es ingeniosa
Pierdes el tiempo, Muerte, en mi herida,
pues quien no vive no padece muerte;
si has de acabar mi vida, has de volverte
a aquellos ojos donde está mi vida.
Al sagrado en que habita retraída,
aun siendo sin piedad, no has de atreverte;
que serás vida, si llegase a verte,
y quedarás de ti desconocida.
Yo soy ceniza que sobró a la llama;
nada dejó por consumir el fuego
que en amoroso incendio se derrama.
Vuélvete al miserable, cuyo ruego,
por descansar en su dolor, te llama:
que lo que yo no tengo, no lo niego.
Artful evasion of death, if it worked;
but in the meantime, it is clever
Death, you're wasting time upon my wound,
for he who does not live will never die;
if you're to end my life, you must return
to those eyes where my very life resides.
To that pure ground where it, alone, now dwells,
though you've no mercy, you won't dare to go;
for there, if I saw you, you would be life,
and you yourself would then not even know.
I am the ash left over from the flame;
nothing was left to burn by the great fire
that in a loving blaze intensifies.
Go find someone who's wretched, whose loud plea,
to bring relief to his pain calls to you:
for what I do not have, I'll not deny.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 13:10 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Rendimiento de amante desterrado- |
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Rendimiento de amante desterrado
que se deja en poder de su tristeza
Éstas son y serán ya las postreras
lágrimas que, con fuerza de voz viva,
perderé en esta fuente fugitiva,
que las lleva a la sed de tantas fieras.
¡Dichoso yo que, en playas extranjeras,
siendo alimento a pena tan esquiva,
halle muerte piadosa, que derriba
tanto vano edificio de quimeras!
Espírito desnudo, puro amante,
sobre el sol arderé, y el cuerpo frío
se acordará de Amor en polvo y tierra.
Yo me seré epitafio al caminante,
pues le dirá, sin vida, el rostro mío:
"Ya fue gloria de Amor hacerme guerra."
Surrender of an exiled lover
to the power of his own sadness
These are now and will be the very last
tears that, with all the strength of living voice,
I shall lose in this fountain's fleeting stream,
which carries them to slake the thirst of brutes.
I'm fortunate if, on some far-off shore,
while nourishing so much elusive pain,
I find a death that's merciful, and fells
such flimsy structures built on weakened roots!
A spirit thus stripped bare a lover pure,
upon the sun I'll burn, and my cold flesh
in dust and earth will keep Love's memory.
to travellers I'll be an epitaph,
since my face, lifeless, will declare to them:
"It was Love's triumph to make war on me."
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 13:00 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Amante agradecido a las lisonjas mentirosas de un sueño- |
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Amante agradecido a las lisonjas mentirosas de un sueño
¡Ay Floralba! Soñé que te ... ¿Dirélo?
Sí, pues que sueño fue: que te gozaba.
¿Y quién, sino un amante que soñaba,
juntara tanto infierno a tanto cielo?
Mis llamas con tu nieve y con tu yelo,
cual suele opuestas flechas de su aljaba,
mezclaba Amor, y honesto las mezclaba,
como mi adoración en su desvelo.
Y dije: «Quiera Amor, quiera mi suerte,
que nunca duerma yo, si estoy despierto,
y que si duermo, que jamás despierte».
Mas desperté del dulce desconcierto;
y vi que estuve vivo con la muerte,
y vi que con la vida estaba muerto.
A lover grateful for the flattering lies of a dream
Ah, Floralba!, I dreamt that... Shall I say it?
Yes, for dream it was: that we made love.
And who, if not a lover who was dreaming,
could blend with such a heaven such a hell?
My flames then with your snow and with your ice,
as often with his quiver's different darts,
Love sought to mix, and mixed quite decently,
my wakeful adoration to match well.
And I said: "May Love, may my fate decree
that I should never sleep, if I'm awake,
and if I sleep now, never leave this bed."
But from this sweet discord I soon awoke;
and I found that I was alive with death,
and I found that with living I was dead.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 12:50 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Amor constante más allá de la muerte- |
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Amor constante más allá de la muerte
Cerrar podrá mis ojos la postrera
sombra que me llevare el blanco día,
y podrá desatar esta alma mía
hora a su afán ansioso lisonjera;
mas no, de esotra parte, en la ribera,
dejará la memoria, en donde ardía:
nadar sabe mi llama la agua fría,
y perder el respeto a ley severa.
Alma a quien todo un dios prisión ha sido,
venas que humor a tanto fuego han dado,
medulas que han gloriosamente ardido:
su cuerpo dejará, no su cuidado;
serán ceniza, mas tendrá sentido;
polvo serán, mas polvo enamorado.
Love constant beyond Death
Perhaps whatever final shadow that
the shining day may bring could close my eyes,
and this my soul may well be set aflight
by time responding to its longing sighs;
but it will not, there on the farther shore
its memory leave behind, where once it burned:
my flame the icy current yet can swim,
and so severe a law can surely spurn.
Soul by no less than a god confined,
veins that such a blazing fire have fueled,
marrow to its glorious flames consigned:
the body will abandon, not its woes;
will soon be ash, but ash that is aware;
dust will be, but dust whose love still grows.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 12:40 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Salmo- |
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Salmo
Miré los muros de la patria mía,
si un tiempo fuertes, ya desmoronados,
de la carrera de la edad cansados,
por quien caduca ya su valentía.
Salíme al campo; vi que el sol bebía
los arroyos del yelo desatados,
y del monte quejosos los ganados,
que con sombras hurtó su luz al día.
Entré en mi casa; vi que, amancillada,
de anciana habitación era despojos;
mi báculo, más corvo y menos fuerte.
Vencida de la edad sentí mi espada,
y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.
Psalm
I looked upon my native country's walls,
if once they were strong, now they were decayed,
fatigued by time's inevitable race,
by which their former valor now must fade.
I went out to the fields; I saw the sun
drink up the brooks now freed from winter's ice,
and cattle of the mountain grumbling,
which with its shadows stole from day the light.
I went into my house; I saw that, stained,
it was just rubble of an ancient room;
my walking stick, more bowed and bearing less.
I saw my sword was overcome with age,
and nothing left on which to fix my glance
that was not a reminder now of death.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 12:30 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -A Roma sepultada en sus ruinas- |
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A Roma sepultada en sus ruinas
Buscas en Roma a Roma, ¡oh, peregrino!,
y en Roma misma a Roma no la hallas;
cadáver son las que ostentó murallas,
y tumba de sí proprio el Aventino.
Yace donde reinaba el Palatino;
y limadas del tiempo, las medallas
más se muestran destrozo a las batallas
de las edades que blasón latino.
Sólo el Tibre quedó, cuya corriente,
si ciudad la regó, ya, sepoltura,
la llora con funesto son doliente.
¡Oh, Roma!, en tu grandeza, en tu hermosura,
huyó lo que era firme, y solamente
lo fugitivo permanece y dura.
To Rome buried in its ruins
You search in Rome for Rome, oh wanderer!,
and yet in Rome itself you don't find Rome:
the walls boasting its fame are now a corpse,
the Aventine now serves as its own tomb.
It lies now where the Palatine once reigned;
and its medallions, worn away by time,
show more the devastation of the battles
of the ages than great Latium's pride.
Only the Tiber has remained, whose flow,
if once a city watered, now, a grave,
it mourns for her with brokenhearted tones.
Oh Rome!, of all your greatness, your allure,
that which was firm has fled, and nothing but
what is elusive stays and will endure.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 12:20 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Conoce la diligencia con que se acerca la muerte- |
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Conoce la diligencia con que se acerca la muerte,
y procura conocer también la conveniencia de su venida,
y aprovecharse de ese conocimiento
Ya formidable y espantoso suena
dentro del corazón el postrer día;
y la última hora, negra y fría,
se acerca, de temor y sombras llena.
Si agradable descanso, paz serena
la muerte en traje de dolor envía,
señas da su desdén de cortesía:
más tiene de caricia que de pena.
¿Qué pretende el temor desacordado
de la que a rescatar piadosa viene
espíritu en miserias anudado?
Llegue rogada, pues mi bien previene;
hálleme agradecido, no asustado;
mi vida acabe, y mi vivir ordene.
Recognizing the diligence with which death approaches,
and trying to recognize also the desirability of her arrival,
and to take advantage of such recognition
Formidable and frightfully resounds
within my heart the day when all will end;
and now the last hour, black, and cold, and drear
approaches, full of shadows and of fear.
If pleasant rest, serene tranquility
death offers me, dressed up to look like grief
her scorn to me resembles courtesy:
there's more caress in her than penalty.
What point is there so foolishly to dread
the one who to redeem with mercy comes
a spirit that in misery lies chained?
I beg she come, my welfare she insures;
thankful may she find me, not afraid;
she'll end my life, my living she'll arrange.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 12:10 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Represéntase la brevedad de lo que se vive- |
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Represéntase la brevedad de lo que se vive
y cuán nada parece lo que se vivió
"¡Ah de la vida!" ... ¿Nadie me responde?
¡Aquí de los antaños que he vivido!
La Fortuna mis tiempos ha mordido;
las Horas mi locura las esconde.
¡Que sin poder saber cómo ni adónde,
la salud y la edad se hayan huído!
Falta la vida, asiste lo vivido,
y no hay calamidad que no me ronde.
Ayer se fue; mañana no ha llegado;
hoy se está yendo sin parar un punto;
soy un fue, y un será y un es cansado.
En el hoy y mañana y ayer, junto
pañales y mortaja, y he quedado
presentes sucesiones de difunto.
Presenting the brevity of life now
and how inconsequential one's past life seems
"Calling Life!" And no one answers me?
Come back, the yesteryears that I have lived!
Fortune all my time has chewed away;
the Hours my madness skillfully obscures.
Incapable of knowing how or where,
my health and all my years have swiftly fled!
Life cannot be grasped, just what was lived,
and there's no misery I don't endure.
Yesterday's gone; tomorrow's not arrived;
today's departing and it will not stop;
I am a was, a will be, an is tired.
In now, tomorrow, yesterday, I link
diapers and shroud, and I have thus become
visible stages of a man who's died.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 12:00 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Signifícase la propria brevedad de la vida- |
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Signifícase la propria brevedad de la vida,
sin pensar y con padecer, salteada de la muerte
¡Fue sueño ayer; mañana será tierra!
¡Poco antes, nada; y poco después, humo!
¡Y destino ambiciones, y presumo
apenas punto al cerco que me cierra!
Breve combate de importuna guerra,
en mi defensa soy peligro sumo;
y mientras con mis armas me consumo
menos me hospeda el cuerpo, que me entierra.
Ya no es ayer; mañana no ha llegado;
hoy pasa, y es, y fue, con movimiento
que a la muerte me lleva despeñado.
Azadas son la hora y el momento,
que, a jornal de mi pena y mi cuidado,
cavan en mi vivir mi monumento.
Indicates life¹s essential brevity,
unexpected and with suffering, assaulted by death
Yesterday a dream; tomorrow dust!
Nothing, just before; just after, smoke!
And I plot out ambitions, and can claim
not one point on the siege that circling looms!
The briefest skirmish in a pressing war,
I bring great peril to my own defense;
while I consume myself with my own arms,
my body less gives lodging than entombs.
Yesterday's no more; tomorrow's late;
today moves on, and is, and was, with steps
that send me, headlong, down into death's cave.
The hour and the moment are mere spades
which, for the wages of my grief and woes,
now excavate in my life my own grave.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 11:50 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Aconseja a un amigo- |
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Aconseja a un amigo, que estaba en buena
posesión de nobleza, no trate de calificarse,
porque no le descubran lo que no se sabe
Solar y ejecutoria de tu abuelo
es la ignorada antigüedad sin dolo;
no escudriñes al Tiempo el protocolo,
ni corras al silencio antiguo el velo
Estudia en el osar deste mozuelo,
descaminado escándalo del polo:
para probar que descendió de Apolo,
probó, cayendo, descender del cielo.
No revuelvas los huesos sepultados;
que hallarás más gusanos que blasones,
en testigos de nuevo examinados.
Que de multiplicar informaciones,
puedes temer multiplicar quemados,
y con las mismas pruebas, Faetones.
Advising a friend, secure in his nobility,
not to have his lineage researched,
so no one will find out what is not known
Without fraud your grandfather's unknown past
is your estate, your forebears' pedigree;
don't scrutinize the registry of Time,
or part silence's veil of secrecy.
Just see what happened to that daring youth,
misguided spectacle of days gone by:
to prove that he descended from the Sun
proved, falling, he descended from the sky.
Don't tamper with your kin's long-buried bones;
you'll find more worms than crests residing there
when newly questioned witnesses tell all.
For with each bit of evidence you add,
you may find as the bonfires multiply
a proof akin to Phaëthon's famous fall.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 11:40 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Túmulo a Colón- |
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Túmulo a Colón.
Habla un pedazo de la nave
en que descubrió el Nuevo Mundo.
Imperio tuve un tiempo, pasajero,
sobre las ondas de la mar salada;
del viento fui movida y respetada
y senda abrí al Antártico hemisfero.
Soy con larga vejez tosco madero;
fui haya, y de mis hojas adornada,
del mismo que alas hice en mi jornada,
lenguas para cantar hice primero.
Acompaño esta tumba tristemente,
y aunque son de Colón estos despojos,
su nombre callo, venerable y santo,
de miedo que, de lástima, la gente
tanta agua ha de verter con tiernos ojos,
que al mar nos vuelva a entrambos con el llanto.
Monument to Columbus.
Spoken by a piece of the ship
in which he discovered the New World.
Once I had an empire, wanderer,
upon the billows of the salty sea;
I was moved by the wind and well-respected,
to southern lands I forged an opening.
I am in my old age a rough-hewn plank;
I was a beech, and by my leaves adorned,
from that same stuff that I made wings for for sailing,
first I manufactured tongues to sing.
In sadness I accompany this tomb,
and though these are Columbus's remains,
I will not name him --holy,without peers--
for fear that, out of pity, people here
from tender eyes will so much water spill,
we'll be back on the ocean of their tears.
Translated by Alix IngbedEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 11:30 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -A un hombre de gran nariz- |
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A un hombre de gran nariz
Erase un hombre a una nariz pegado,
érase una nariz superlativa,
érase una alquitara medio viva,
érase un peje espada mal barbado;
era un reloj de sol mal encarado,
érase un elefante boca arriba,
érase una nariz sayón y escriba,
un Ovidio Nasón mal narigado.
Erase el espolón de una galera,
érase una pirámide de Egito,
las doce tribus de narices era;
érase un naricísimo infinito
frisón archinariz, caratulera,
sabañón garrafal, morado y frito.
* Otra versión (posiblemente la original)
del terceto final:
érase un naricísimo infinito,
muchísimo nariz, nariz tan fiera,
que en la cara de Anás fuera delito.
To a man with a big nose
Once there was a man stuck to a nose,
it was a nose more marvellous than weird,
it was a nearly living web of tubes,
it was a swordfish with an awful beard,
it was a sundial doomed to face the shade,
an elephant that looked up to the sky,
it was a nose of hangman and of scribe,
Ovidius Naso nostrilled all awry,
it was the bowsprit of a mighty ship,
like Egypt's pyramid it pierced the sky,
it was of noses all of the twelve tribes;
it was in noseness truly infinite,
an archnose shudder, and a frightening mask,
a monstrous chilblain, purpley and fried.
*Translation of the alternate final tercet
(possibly the original):
it was in noseness truly infinite,
an awful lot of nose, a nose so fierce
that on Annas's face would be a crime.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 11:20 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -A Apolo siguiendo a Dafne- |
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A Apolo siguiendo a Dafne
Bermejazo platero de las cumbres,
a cuya luz se espulga la canalla:
la ninfa Dafne, que se afufa y calla,
si la quieres gozar, paga y no alumbres.
Si quieres ahorrar de pesadumbres,
ojo del cielo, trata de compralla:
en confites gastó Marte la malla,
y la espada en pasteles y en azumbres.
Volvióse en bolsa Júpiter severo;
levantóse las faldas la doncella
por recogerle en lluvia de dinero.
Astucia fue de alguna dueña estrella,
que de estrella sin dueña no lo infiero:
Febo, pues eres sol, sírvete de ella.
To Apollo chasing Daphne
Ruddy silversmith from up on high,
in whose bright beams the rabble pick their fleas:
Daphne, that nymph, who takes off and won't speak,
if you'd possess her, pay, and douse your light.
If you want to save yourself the pain,
oh, eye of heaven, try to buy her love:
Mars for bonbons sold his coat of mail,
and then his sword for jugs and sweet delights.
Stodgy Jupiter became a purse;
the maiden raised her skirt above her knees
in showers of coins to catch him on the run.
That was the doing of some duenna star,
--a star without a duenna it can't be--
Phoebus, get her help, since you're the sun.
Translated by Alix Ingber Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 11:10 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Dafne, huyendo de Apolo- |
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Dafne, huyendo de Apolo
"Tras vos, un alquimista va corriendo,
Dafne, que llaman Sol, ¿y vos tan cruda?
Vos os volvéis murciégalo sin duda,
pues vais del Sol y de la luz huyendo.
Él os quiere gozar, a lo que entiendo,
si os coge en esta selva tosca y ruda:
su aljaba suena, está su bolsa muda;
el perro, pues no ladra, está muriendo.
Buhonero de signos y planetas,
viene haciendo ademanes y figuras,
cargado de bochornos y cometas."
Esto la dije; y en cortezas duras
de laurel se ingirió contra sus tretas,
y, en escabeche, el Sol se quedó a escuras.
To Daphne, fleeing from Apollo
"An alchemist is running after you,
Daphne, he's called the Sun, and you're so rude?
Without a doubt you're acting like a bat,
since Sun and light you so swiftly elude.
He plans to have you, as I understand it,
if he can catch you in this forest dark:
his quiver's noisy, but his purse is voiceless;
the dog must be near death, since it won't bark.
A hawker of the signs and of the planets,
he's making funny faces, gesturing,
all laden down with steamy days and comets."
This I said; and to stiff laurel bark
she grafted herself on, to flee his wiles,
and the Sun, pickled, was left in the dark.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 11:00 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Contra Góngora- |
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Contra Góngora
¿Qué captas, noturnal, en tus canciones,
Góngora bobo, con crepusculallas,
si cuando anhelas más garcivolallas,
las reptilizas más y subterpones?
Microcósmote Dios de inquiridiones,
y quieres te investiguen por medallas
como priscos, estigmas o antiguallas,
por desitinerar vates tirones.
Tu forasteridad es tan eximia,
que te ha de detractar el que te rumia,
pues ructas viscerable cacoquimia,
farmacofolorando como numia,
si estomacabundancia das tan nimia,
metamorfoseando el arcadumia.
Against Góngora
What capture you, nocturnal, in your ballads,
fool Góngora, crepusculating them,
if when you want to heronfluctuate them,
they're merely reptilized and subterposed?
I microcosmate you God of the pedants;
and you want them certify your worth
like bovines, antiquations or stigmata,
just so novitiate bards you'll decompose.
You exoticity is so commensurate,
that he who ruminates you must detract you,
since you eruct entrailings of turdalchemy,
pharmacofoliating like a numiate,
with your stomachabundance emanating,
you metamorphosize the archacadumy.
Translated by Alix IngberEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 10:50 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Tudescos moscos de los sorbos finos- |
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Tudescos moscos de los sorbos finos...
Tudescos moscos de los sorbos finos,
caspa de las azumbres más sabrosas,
que porque el fuego tiene mariposas
queréis que el mosto tenga maravinos;
aves luquetes, átomos mezquinos,
motas borrachas, pájaras vinosas,
pelusas de los vinos invidiosas,
abejas de la miel de los tocinos;
liendres de la vendimia, yo os admito
en mi gaznate, pues tenéis por soga
al nieto de la vid, licor bendito.
Tomá en el trago hacia mi nuez la boga,
Que bebiéndoos a todos, me desquito
Del vino que bebistes y os ahoga.
The poet takes his revenge on the midge
Gnats in lederhosen quaffing the best,
Scurf afloat on finest five-pint tassies,
As buttery flame draws moths and butterflies,
So you think must’s a must for wino-pests;
Fake lemon-zest with wings, you guzzling dust,
You drunken motes, you wine-gorged thieving maggies,
Covetous fluff on gardevines and bowies,
Bees from the Sauerbraten’s honeyed crust;
Lice of the wine-harvest, be my guests: swim
Into my gullet, since your final rope’s
The grandchild of the vine, this blessed balsam.
Row for my Adam’s apple while I tope,
And as I swig you all, I will reclaim
The wine you drank, where now you choke.
Translated by Anna CroweEtiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 10:40 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Si no duerme su cara con Filena...- |
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Si no duerme su cara con Filena...
Si no duerme su cara con Filena,
Ni con sus dientes come y su vestido
Las tres partes le hurta a su marido,
Y la cuarta el afeite le cercena,
Si entera con él come y con él cena,
Mas debajo del lecho mal cumplido
Todo su bulto esconde, reducido
A Chapinzanco y Moño por almena,
¿Por qué te espantas, Fabio, que abrazado
A su mujer, la busque y la pregone,
Si, desnuda, se halla descasado?
Si cuentas por mujer lo que compone
A la mujer, no acuestes a tu lado
La mujer, sino el fardo que se pone.
If Filena does not sleep with her face...
If Filena does not sleep with her face,
nor with her teeth eat, and if her clothing robs
three-fourths of her from her husband
while the rest her makeup shears away,
and if she eats whole with him and with him dines,
but beneath the unconsummated bed
all her bulk is hidden, reduced
to a shoe heel with a wig for a roof,
why does it frighten you, Fabio, that embracing
his wife, he looks and calls for her if,
when she is naked, he finds himself unmarried?
If you count as woman what woman is made of,
don't lay a woman next to you,
but instead the bundles that she wears.Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 10:30 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Los que ciego me ven de haber llorado...- |
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Los que ciego me ven de haber llorado...
Los que ciego me ven de haber llorado
y las lágrimas saben que he vertido,
admiran de que, en fuentes dividido
o en lluvias, ya no corra derramado.
Pero mi corazón arde admirado
(porque en tus llamas, Lisi, está encendido)
de no verme en centellas repartido,
y en humo negro y llamas desatado.
En mí no vencen largos y altos ríos
a incendios, que animosos me maltratan,
ni el llanto se defiende de sus bríos.
La agua y el fuego en mí de paces tratan;
y amigos son, por ser contrarios míos;
y los dos, por matarme, no se matan.
Those who see me blind from weeping...
Those who see me blind from weeping
and know the tears I have poured out
are surprised that, divided into fountains
or deluges, I do not yet flow away spilled.
But my heart burns in wonder
(for by your flames, Lisi, it is ignited),
at not seeing me scattered in sparks,
and into black smoke and flames unfastened.
Great high rivers do not in me defeat
the fires that as enemies mistreat me,
nor does weeping guard itself from their brightness.
Water and fire have made a truce in me
and become friends, in being my adversaries;
the two, to kill me, do not kill each other.Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 10:20 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -En los claustros del alma la herida...- |
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En los claustros del alma la herida...
En los claustros del alma la herida
yace callada; mas consume, hambrienta,
la vida, que en mis venas alimenta
llama por las medulas extendida.
Bebe el ardor, hidrópica, mi vida,
que ya, ceniza amante y macilenta,
cadáver del incendio hermoso, ostenta
su luz en humo y noche fallecida.
La gente esquivo y me es horror el día;
dilato en largas voces negro llanto,
que a sordo mar mi ardiente pena envía.
A los suspiros di la voz del canto;
la confusión inunda l'alma mía;
mi corazón es reino del espanto.
In the cloisters of my soul the wound
In the cloisters of my soul the wound
lies quiet; but hungrily it consumes
the life that in my veins feeds
a flame that extends through my marrow.
My dropsied life drinks the fire
as now, emaciated and loving ash,
the remains of the lovely fire, it displays
its extinguished light in smoke and darkness.
I flee people and am horrified by the day;
I extend in long cries my black weeping,
which to a silent sea my burning pain sends.
To cries I gave the voice of song;
confusion floods my soul;
my heart is a realm of terror.Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 10:10 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Tú, que la paz del mar, ¡oh navegante!- |
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Tú, que la paz del mar, ¡oh navegante!
Tú, que la paz del mar, ¡oh navegante!,
molestas, codicioso y diligente,
por sangrarle las venas al Oriente
del más rubio metal, rico y flamante,
detente aquí; no pases adelante;
hártate de tesoros, brevemente,
en donde Lisi peina de su frente
hebra sutil en ondas fulminante.
(...)
You who molest the peace of the sea...
You who molest the peace of the sea,
oh navigator both greedy and diligent,
so as to bleed the veins of the Orient
of the blondest metal, rich and flaming,
stay here; go no farther;
sate yourself with treasures, quickly,
where Lisi combs from her forehead
delicate fibers into fulminating waves.
(...)Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 10:00 |
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| Francisco de Quevedo -Soneto a Luis de Góngora- |
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Soneto a Luis de Góngora
Yo te untaré mis obras con tocino
porque no me las muerdas, Gongorilla,
perro de los ingenios de Castilla,
docto en pullas, cual mozo de camino;
apenas hombre, sacerdote indino,
que aprendiste sin cristus la cartilla;
chocarrero de Córdoba y Sevilla,
y en la Corte bufón a lo divino.
¿Por qué censuras tú la lengua griega
siendo sólo rabí de la judía,
cosa que tu nariz aun no lo niega?
No escribas versos más, por vida mía;
aunque aquesto de escribas se te pega,
por tener de sayón la rebeldía.
Sonnet to Luis de Gongora
I shall spread on you my works with lard
So that you don't bite it, Gongorilla
Dog of the wits of Castilla,
Erudite in obscene words, like lackay of the road
Barely a man, contemptible priest,
Who learned without christus the lesson;
Coarse of Cordoba and Seville
And in the Court, jester to the divine
Why do you censor the Greek language
being you nothing but a rabbi of the jewess,
something that your nose can't deny
Do not write more verses, by the life of mine;
Although this of clerk sticks in you,
For having as tunic the defiance.Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
| posted by Bishop @ 9:50 |
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