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 -Oda a la alcachofa-
lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005
Oda a la alcachofa

La alcachofa
de tierno corazón
se vistió de guerrero,
erecta, construyó
una pequeña cúpula,
se mantuvo
impermeable
bajo
sus escamas,
a su lado
los vegetales locos
se encresparon,
se hicieron
zarcillos, espadañas,
bulbos conmovedores,
en el subsuelo
durmió la zanahoria
de bigotes rojos,
la viña
resecó los sarmientos
por donde sube el vino,
la col
se dedicó
a probarse faldas,
el orégano
a perfumar el mundo,
y la dulce
alcachofa
allí en el huerto,
vestida de guerrero,
bruñida
como una granada,
orgullosa,
y un día
una con otra
en grandes cestos
de mimbre, caminó
por el mercado
a realizar su sueño:
la milicia.
En hileras
nunca fue tan marcial
como en la feria,
los hombres
entre las legumbres
con sus camisas blancas
eran
mariscales
de las alcachofas,
las filas apretadas,
las voces de comando,
y la detonación
de una caja que cae,

pero
entonces
viene
María
con su cesto,
escoge
una alcachofa,
no le teme,
la examina, la observa
contra la luz como si fuera un huevo,
la compra,
la confunde
en su bolsa
con un par de zapatos,
con un repollo y una
botella
de vinagre
hasta
que entrando a la cocina
la sumerge en la olla.

Así termina
en paz
esta carrera
del vegetal armado
que se llama alcachofa,
luego
escama por escama
desvestimos
la delicia
y comemos
la pacífica pasta
de su corazón verde.


Ode to an artichoke

The artichoke
of delicate heart
erect
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.

And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a pot.

So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.

Translated by Ben Belitt

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 23:20  
1 Comments:
  • At 1 de junio de 2007, 12:13, Blogger Bishop said…

    Ode to the Artichoke

    The artichoke
    With a tender heart
    Dressed up like a warrior,
    Standing at attention, it built
    A small helmet
    Under its scales
    It remained
    Unshakeable,
    By its side
    The crazy vegetables
    Uncurled
    Their tendrills and leaf-crowns,
    Throbbing bulbs,
    In the sub-soil
    The carrot
    With its red mustaches
    Was sleeping,
    The grapevine
    Hung out to dry its branches
    Through which the wine will rise,
    The cabbage
    Dedicated itself
    To trying on skirts,
    The oregano
    To perfuming the world,
    And the sweet
    Artichoke
    There in the garden,
    Dressed like a warrior,
    Burnished
    Like a proud
    Pomegrante.
    And one day
    Side by side
    In big wicker baskets
    Walking through the market
    To realize their dream
    The artichoke army
    In formation.
    Never was it so military
    Like on parade.
    The men
    In their white shirts
    Among the vegetables
    Were
    The Marshals
    Of the artichokes
    Lines in close order
    Command voices,
    And the bang
    Of a falling box.

    But
    Then
    Maria
    Comes
    With her basket
    She chooses
    An artichoke,
    She's not afraid of it.
    She examines it, she observes it
    Up against the light like it was an egg,
    She buys it,
    She mixes it up
    In her handbag
    With a pair of shoes
    With a cabbage head and a
    Bottle
    Of vinegar
    Until
    She enters the kitchen
    And submerges it in a pot.

    Thus ends
    In peace
    This career
    Of the armed vegetable
    Which is called an artichoke,
    Then
    Scale by scale,
    We strip off
    The delicacy
    And eat
    The peaceful mush
    Of its green heart.

    Translated by Jodey Bateman

     
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