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
Jaime Sabines -Te quiero a las diez de la mañana-
viernes, 7 de mayo de 2004
Te quiero a las diez de la mañana

Te quiero a las diez de la mañana, y a las once, y a las doce del día. Te quiero con toda mi alma y con todo mi cuerpo, a veces, en las tardes de lluvia. Pero a las dos de la tarde, o a las tres, cuando me pongo a pensar en nosotros dos, y tú piensas en la comida o en el trabajo diario, o en las diversiones que no tienes, me pongo a odiarte sordamente, con la mitad del odio que guardo para mí.

Luego vuelvo a quererte, cuando nos acostamos y siento que estás hecha para mí, que de algún modo me lo dicen tu rodilla y tu vientre, que mis manos me convencen de ello, y que no hay otro lugar en donde yo me venga, a donde yo vaya, mejor que tu cuerpo. Tú vienes toda entera a mi encuentro, y los dos desaparecemos un instante, nos metemos en la boca de Dios, hasta que yo te digo que tengo hambre o sueño.

Todos los días te quiero y te odio irremediablemente. Y hay días también, hay horas, en que no te conozco, en que me eres ajena como la mujer de otro. Me preocupan los hombres, me preocupo yo, me distraen mis penas. Es probable que no piense en ti durante mucho tiempo. Ya ves. ¿Quién podría quererte menos que yo, amor mío?


I love you at ten in the morning

I love you at ten in the morning, at eleven, at twelve noon. I love you with my whole soul and my whole body, sometimes, on rainy afternoon. But at two in the afternoon, or at three, when I start to think about the two of us, and you thinking about dinner or the day’s work, or the amusements you don’t have, I start to hate you with a dull hatred, with half of the hatred that I reserve for myself.

Then I go back to loving you, when we go to bed and I feel that you are made for me, that in some way your knee and your belly are telling me that, that my hands are assuring me of that, and that there is nowhere I can come to or go to that is better than your body. The whole of you comes to meet me and for a moment we both disappear, we put ourselves into the mouth of God, until I tell you that I am hungry or sleepy.

Every day I love you and hate you irreparable. And there are days, besides, there are hours, in which I don’t know you, in which you are as strange to me as somebody else’s wife. Men worry me, I worry about myself, my troubles bewilder me. Probably there is a long time when I don’t think about you at all. So you see. Who could love you less than I do, my love?

Translated by W.S. Merwin

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posted by Bishop @ 11:30  
1 Comments:
  • At 24 de junio de 2007, 13:19, Blogger Bishop said…

    I LOVE YOU AT TEN IN THE MORNING

    I love you at ten in the morning, at eleven, and at twelve noon. I love you with all my soul and with all my body, sometimes, on rainy afternoons. But at two in the afternoon, or at three, when I begin to think of the two of us, and you think of dinner or the daily chores, or the amusements you lack, I begin to hate you silently, with the half of hate that I keep for myself.

    Later I return to love you, when we lie down together and I see that you're there for me, that in some way your knee and your belly speak to me, that my hands convince me of it, and that there is no other place where I can come and go more easily than your body. You come whole to my seeking, and we two disappear in an instant, we plunge into the mouth of God, until I tell you of my hunger or my dream.

    Every day I love you and hate you hopelessly. And there are days, there are hours, in which I don't know you, in which you are another's--like the other woman. Men worry me, I worry myself, my griefs distract me. I probably don't think of you too much. You know that. Who could love you less than I, my love?

    Translated by Athena Kildegaard

     
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