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
Pablo Neruda -El pie desde su niño-
sábado, 19 de febrero de 2005
El pie desde su niño

El pie del niño aún no sabe que es pie,
y quiere ser mariposa o manzana.
Pero luego los vidrios y las piedras,
las calles, las escaleras,
y los caminos de la tierra dura
van enseñando al pie que no puede volar,
que no puede ser fruto redondo en una rama.
El pie del niño entonces
fue derrotado, cayó en la batalla,
fue prisionero, condenado a vivir en un zapato.
Poco a poco sin luz fue conociendo el mundo
a su manera,
sin conocer el otro pie, encerrado,
explorando la vida como un ciego.
Aquellas suaves uñas de cuarzo, de racimo,
se endurecieron, se mudaron
en opaca sustancia, en cuerno duro,
y los pequeños pétalos del niño
se aplastaron, se desequilibraron,
tomaron formas de reptil sin ojos,
cabezas triangulares de gusano.
Y luego encallecieron, se cubrieron
con mínimos volcanes de la muerte,
inaceptables endurecimientos.
Pero este ciego anduvo sin tregua, sin parar
hora tras hora, el pie y el otro pie,
ahora de hombre o de mujer,
arriba, abajo, por los campos, las minas,
los almacenes y los ministerios,
atrás, afuera, adentro, adelante,
este pie trabajó con su zapato,
apenas tuvo tiempo de estar desnudo
en el amor o el sueño, caminó,
caminaron hasta que el hombre entero se detuvo.
Y entonces a la tierra bajó y no supo nada,
porque allí todo y todo estaba oscuro,
no supo que había dejado de ser pie,
si lo enterraban para que volara
o para que pudiera ser manzana.


To the foot from its child

The child’s foot is not yet aware it’s a foot,
and would like to be a butterfly or an apple.
But in time, stones and bits of glass,
streets, ladders,
and the paths in the rough earth
go on teaching the foot that it cannot fly,
cannot be a fruit bulging on the branch.
Then, the child’s foot
is defeated, falls in the battle,
is a prisoner condemned to live in a shoe.
Bit by bit, in that dark,
it grows to know the world in its own way,
out of touch with its fellow, enclosed,
feeling out life like a blind man.
These soft nails of quartz, bunched together,
grow hard, and change themselves
into opaque substance, hard as horn,
and the tiny, petal toes of the child
grow bunched and out of trim,
take on the form of eyeless reptiles
with triangular heads, like worms.
Later, they grow callused and are covered
with the faint volcanoes of death,
a coarsening hard to accept.
now the man’s, now the woman’s,
up above, down below, through fields, mines,
markets, and ministries,
backwards, far a field, inward, forward,
this foot toils in its shoe,
scarcely taking time to bare itself
in love or sleep; it walks,
they walk, until the whole man chooses to stop.
And then it descended underground, unaware,
for there everything, everything was dark.
It never knew it had ceased to be a foot
or if they were burying it so that it could fly
or so that it could become an apple.

Translated by Alastair Reed

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posted by Bishop @ 3:05  
1 Comments:
  • At 2 de junio de 2007, 15:37, Blogger Bishop said…

    To the Foot From Its Child

    A child's foot doesn't know it's a foot yet
    And it wants to be a butterfly or an apple
    But then the rocks and pieces of glass,
    the streets, the stairways
    and the roads of hard earth
    keep teaching the foot that it can't fly,
    that it can't be a round fruit on a branch.
    Then the child's foot
    was defeated, it fell
    in battle,
    it was a prisoner,
    condemned to life in a shoe.

    Little by little without light
    it got acquainted with the world in its own way
    without knowing the other imprisoned foot
    exploring life like a blind man.

    Those smooth toe nails
    of quartz in a bunch,
    got harder, they changed into
    an opaque substance, into hard horn
    and the child's little petals
    were crushed, lost their balance,
    took the form of a reptile without eyes,
    with triangular heads like a worm's.
    And they had callused over,
    they were covered
    with tiny lava fields of death,
    a hardening unasked for.
    But this blind thing kept going
    without surrender, without stopping
    hour after hour.
    One foot after another,
    now as a man,
    or a woman,
    above,
    below,
    through the fields, the mines,
    the stores, the government bureaus,
    backward,
    outside, inside,
    forward,
    this foot worked with its shoes,
    it hardly had time
    to be naked in love or in sleep
    one foot walked, both feet walked
    until the whole man stopped.

    And then it went down
    into the earth and didn't know anything
    because there everything was dark,
    it didn't know it was no longer a foot
    or if they buried it so it could fly
    or so it could
    be an apple.

    Translated by Jodey Bateman

     
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