Spanish Poems





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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 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 Peden

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 22:30  
1 Comments:
  • At 1 de junio de 2007, 10:42, Blogger Bishop said…

    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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