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 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 ZJC

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 22:45  
2 Comments:
  • At 22 de mayo de 2007, 14:39, Blogger Bishop said…

    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

     
  • At 24 de mayo de 2007, 8:14, Blogger Bishop said…

    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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