| Pablo Neruda -Oda a la cebolla- |
| lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005 |
Oda a la cebolla
Cebolla
luminosa redoma,
pétalo a pétalo
se formó tu hermosura,
escamas de cristal te acrecentaron
y en el secreto de la tierra
oscura se redondeó tu vientre
de rocío.
Bajo la tierra
fue el milagro
y cuando apareció
tu torpe tallo verde,
y nacieron
tus hojas como espadas
en el huerto,
la tierra acumuló su poderío
mostrando tu desnuda
transparencia,
y como en Afrodita
el mar remoto
duplicó la magnolia
levantando sus senos,
la tierra
así te hizo,
cebolla,
clara como un planeta,
y destinada
a relucir,
constelación constante,
redonda rosa de agua,
sobre
la mesa
de las pobres gentes.
Generosa
deshaces
tu globo de frescura
en la consumación
ferviente de la olla,
y el jirón de cristal
al calor encendido
del aceite
se transforma en rizada
pluma de oro.
También recordaré
cómo fecunda
tu influencia el amor
de la ensalada
y parece que el cielo
contribuye
dándote fina forma
de granizo
a celebrar tu claridad
picada
sobre los hemisferios
de un tomate.
Pero al alcance
de las manos del pueblo,
regada con aceite,
espolvoreada
con un poco de sal,
matas el hambre
del jornalero en el
duro camino.
Estrella de los pobres,
hada madrina
envuelta en delicado
papel, sales del suelo,
eterna, intacta, pura
como semilla de astro,
y al cortarte
el cuchillo en la cocina
sube la única lágrima
sin pena.
Nos hiciste llorar
sin afligirnos.
Yo cuanto existe celebré,
cebolla,
pero para mí eres
más hermosa que un ave
de plumas cegadoras,
eres para mis ojos
globo celeste, copa de
platino,
baile inmóvil
de anémona nevada
y vive la fragancia
de la tierra
en tu naturaleza
cristalina.
Ode to the onion
Onion,
crystalline sack,
your beauty formed,
petal after petal,
of luminous scales
that increased you
and your belly grew with dew
in the mystery of the
dark earth.
Underground
this mystery
occurred
and when your cumbersome
green stem burst forth,
and your leaves were born
like sabers
in the garden,
the earth heaped up
her power
showing your naked
transparency,
and as the withdrawn sea
lifting Aphrodite's breasts
duplicated the magnolia,
so did the earth
fashion you,
onion
clear as a planet,
and destined
to bedazzle,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the tabletops
of the poor.
Generously,
you undo
your globe of freshness
in devout consummation
of the cooking pot,
and the crystal shred
in the flaming heat
of the oil
is transformed into
a curled feather of gold.
Again, I will recall how fertile
is your influence on
the love of the salad,
and it seems that
the sky must aid
by giving you hail's
clever form
to celebrate your
chopped brightness
on the borderlands
of the tomato.
But within reach
of our communal hands
sprinkled with oil,
dusted
with a nip sea salt,
you kill the hunger
of field-laborers
on the hard road.
Star of the oppressed,
pixie godmother
wrapped
in delicate
paper, you rise from
the ground
infinite, intact, perfect
as any astral seed,
and on chopping you up
the kitchen knife
will raise one single tear
without agony.
You force us to cry
but never hurt us.
I have praised all
the world that exists,
but to me, you
onion, you are
more handsome
than any bird
of dazzling feathers,
a heavenly orb,
a platinum bowl,
an unmoving dance
of the snowy windflower
and the aroma of
wet earth burns
in your luminous being.
Translated by ZJCEtiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 22:45  |
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| 2 Comments: |
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Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell
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Ode to the Onion
Onion,
luminous globe,
petal by petal,
your splendor appeared;
crystal scales multiplied within your essence,
and beneath the secret of the rich earth,
your dewy belly grew round.
The miracle
was born underground,
and when your heavy green stem
appeared, and your leaves were born
like swords in the vegetable patch,
the earth accumulated riches,
exposing your naked transparency,
and as with Aphrodite, the remote sea
imitated the magnolia
by lifting its breasts;
likewise, the earth
created you,
onion,
clear as a planet,
and destined
to shine,
a steadfast constellation,
round sea rose
on
poverty's table.
Endowed with abundance, you break
your fresh globe
in sizzling marriage
with the stew pot;
when you touch hot oil,
crystal slivers become
curled feathers of gold.
I will also remember your abundant
and loving influence on salads;
it seems the sky also contributed,
giving you the fine form of hail
in celebration of your diced clarity
when sprinkled over the tomato's planetary halves.
But when you reach
the hands of the people,
dappled with oil,
and dusted
with a little salt,
you silence a worker's hunger
along difficult roads.
Star of the poor,
fairy godmother
sheathed
in airy
paper, you exit the earth,
eternal, untouched, pure:
a star-seed.
And when the kitchen knife
slices you,
a painless tear
is shed.
You made us cry without affliction.
Throughout my days,
I've celebrated the onion.
In my eyes
you are more lovely
than a bird with blinding feathers.
In my eyes
you are a celestial globe, a platinum cup,
the quiescent dance
of an anemone in the snow.
And the fragrance of the land lives
within your crystalline nature.
Translated by Maria Jacketti
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Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell