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Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano |
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"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 |
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| Pablo Neruda -Oda a la pantera negra- |
| lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005 |
Oda a la pantera negra
Hace treinta y un años,
no lo olvido,
en Singapore, la lluvia
caliente como sangre
caía
sobre
antiguos muros blancos
carcomidos
por la humedad que en ellos
dejó besos leprosos.
La multitud oscura
relucía
de pronto en un relámpago
los dientes
o los ojos
y el sol de hierro arriba
como
lanza implacable.
Vagué por las calles inundadas
betel, las nueces rojas
elevándose
sobre
camas de hojas fragantes,
y el fruto Dorian
pudriéndose en la siesta bochornosa.
De pronto estuve
frente a una mirada,
desde una jaula
en medio de la calle
dos círculos
de frío,
dos imanes,
dos electricidades enemigas,
dos ojos
que entraron en los míos
clavándome
a la tierra
y a la pared leprosa.
Vi entonces
el cuerpo que ondulaba
y era
sombra de terciopelo,
elástica pureza,
noche pura.
Bajo la negra piel
espolvoreados
apenas la irisaban
no supe bien
si rombos de topacio
o hexágonos de oro
que se traslucían
cuando
la presencia
delgada
se movía.
La pantera
pensando
y palpitando
era
una
reina
salvaje
en un cajón
en medio
de la calle
miserable.
(...)
Ode to a black pantheress
in Singapore
- I still remember -
blood-warm
rain
was falling
on ancient
white walls
pocked and pitted
by humid, leprous kisses.
Suddenly a flash
of teeth
or eyes
would light
the dark multitude,
while overhead
a leaden sun cast down
its inexorable spear.
I wandered teeming alleyways:
betel, the red nut,
couched on beds of
fragrant leaves,
through the sweltering siesta
the dorian fruit
decayed.
Two eyes stopped me,
a stare, a gaze,
a cage
in the middle of the street;
two icy
circles,
two magnets,
twin points
of hostile electricity,
two piercing eyes
transfixed me,
nailed me to the ground
before the leprous wall.
Then
I saw
undulating muscle,
velvet shadow,
flexed perfection,
incarnate night.
Blinking in that black pelt,
dusting it with iridescence,
either- I never knew for sure -
two topaz lozenges
or hexagons of gold
that glittered
as
the
lissome
presence
stirred.
A
pensive
pulsating
pantheress;
a
savage
queen
caged
in the middle
of the miserable
street.
(...)
Translated by Margaret Sayers PedenEtiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 22:30  |
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| 1 Comments: |
-
Ode to the Black Panther
It happened 31 years ago,
I can’t forget it,
in Singapore, the rain
falling
hot like blood
on the ancient white walls
half-eaten by the dampness
that left
leprous kisses on them.
The dark crowd
suddenly glowed
in a flash of lightning,
baring teeth
or eyes
and the steel-like sun
was an implacable sword
in the sky.
I stumbled through flooded streets,
the red Betel nuts
lifting themselves
above
the beds of fragrant leaves
and the Dorian fruit
rotted away
in the sultry afternoon.
All of a sudden
I faced a stare
coming out of a cage
in the middle of a street,
two icy circles,
two magnets,
two enemy currents,
two eyes
that penetrated my eyes
and nailed me to the earth
and to the leprous wall.
I then saw
the rippling body
and it was
a trace of velvet
flexing perfectly,
darkest night.
Under her black fur
brushed with dust
flashed topaz rhombuses,
or gold hexagons—
I’m not sure which—!
whenever her thin presence moved.
The thinking
throbbing
panther
was
only
a
savage
queen
in a box
in the middle
of a filthy street.
Out of the jungle
far away from lies,
the stolen spaces,
the bittersweet odor
of humans
and their dust-filled houses
she alone
expressed
through her gem-like
eyes
her disgust,
her burning hatred,
and those eyes
were
two
unbreakable
seals
that closed
until
eternity
a door to the wilderness.
She paced back and forth
like fire and like smoke,
and when she closed her eyes
she became invisible
distant unembraceable night.
Translated by David Unger
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Ode to the Black Panther
It happened 31 years ago,
I can’t forget it,
in Singapore, the rain
falling
hot like blood
on the ancient white walls
half-eaten by the dampness
that left
leprous kisses on them.
The dark crowd
suddenly glowed
in a flash of lightning,
baring teeth
or eyes
and the steel-like sun
was an implacable sword
in the sky.
I stumbled through flooded streets,
the red Betel nuts
lifting themselves
above
the beds of fragrant leaves
and the Dorian fruit
rotted away
in the sultry afternoon.
All of a sudden
I faced a stare
coming out of a cage
in the middle of a street,
two icy circles,
two magnets,
two enemy currents,
two eyes
that penetrated my eyes
and nailed me to the earth
and to the leprous wall.
I then saw
the rippling body
and it was
a trace of velvet
flexing perfectly,
darkest night.
Under her black fur
brushed with dust
flashed topaz rhombuses,
or gold hexagons—
I’m not sure which—!
whenever her thin presence moved.
The thinking
throbbing
panther
was
only
a
savage
queen
in a box
in the middle
of a filthy street.
Out of the jungle
far away from lies,
the stolen spaces,
the bittersweet odor
of humans
and their dust-filled houses
she alone
expressed
through her gem-like
eyes
her disgust,
her burning hatred,
and those eyes
were
two
unbreakable
seals
that closed
until
eternity
a door to the wilderness.
She paced back and forth
like fire and like smoke,
and when she closed her eyes
she became invisible
distant unembraceable night.
Translated by David Unger