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 -Muchos somos-
miércoles, 16 de febrero de 2005
Muchos somos

De tantos hombres que soy, que somos,
no puedo encontrar a ninguno:
se me pierden bajo la ropa,
se fueron a otra ciudad.

Cuando todo está preparado
para mostrarme inteligente
el tonto que llevo escondido
se toma la palabra en mi boca.

Otras veces me duermo en medio
de la sociedad distinguida
y cuando busco en mí al valiente,
un cobarde que no conozco
corre a tomar con mi esqueleto
mil deliciosas precauciones.

Cuando arde una casa estimada
en vez del bombero que llamo
se precipita el incendiario
y ése soy yo. No tengo arreglo.
Qué debo hacer para escogerme?

Cómo puedo rehabilitarme?
Todos los libros que leo
celebran héroes refulgentes
siempre seguros de sí mismos:
me muero de envidia por ellos,
en los filmes de vientos y balas
me quedo envidiando al jinete,
me quedo admirando al caballo.

Pero cuando pido al intrépido
me sale el viejo perezoso,
y así yo no sé quién soy,
no sé cuántos soy o seremos.
Me gustaría tocar un timbre
y sacar el mí verdadero
porque si yo me necesito
no debo desaparecerme.

Mientras escribo estoy ausente
y cuando vuelvo ya he partido:
voy a ver si a las otras gentes
les pasa lo que a mí me pasa,
si son tantos como soy yo,
si se parecen a sí mismos
y cuando lo haya averiguado
voy a aprender tan bien las cosas
que para explicar mis problemas
les hablaré de geografía.


We are many

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?

How can I put myself together?
All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my dashing being,
out comes the same old lazy self,
and so I never know just who I am,
nor how many I am, nor who we will be being.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 18:10  
1 Comments:
  • At 2 de junio de 2007, 20:13, Blogger Bishop said…

    WE ARE MANY

    Of the many men who I am, who we are,
    I can't find a single one;
    they disappear among my clothes,
    they've left for another city.

    When everything seems to be set
    to show me off as intelligent,
    the fool I always keep hidden
    takes over all that I say.

    At other times, I'm asleep
    among distinguished people,
    and when I look for my brave self,
    a coward unknown to me
    rushes to cover my skeleton
    with a thousand fine excuses.

    When a decent house catches fire,
    instead of the fireman I summon,
    an arsonist bursts on the scene,
    and that's me. What can I do?
    What can I do to distinguish myself?
    How can I pull myself together?

    All the books I read
    are full of dazzling heroes,
    always sure of themselves.
    I die with envy of them;
    and in films full of wind and bullets,
    I goggle at the cowboys,
    I even admire the horses.

    But when I call for a hero,
    out comes my lazy old self;
    so I never know who I am,
    nor how many I am or will be.
    I'd love to be able to touch a bell
    and summon the real me,
    because if I really need myself,
    I mustn't disappear.

    While I'm writing, I'm far away;
    and when I come back, I've gone.
    I would like to know if others
    go through the same things that I do,
    have as many selves as I have,
    and see themselves similarly;
    and when I've exhausted this problem,
    I'm going to study so hard
    that when I explain myself,
    I'll be talking geography.

    Translated by Alastair Reid

     
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